Not much to report at the moment except that I'm enjoying my Toussaints vacation in Londres (aka London). I've made it alive and without too many issues. Actually, once I got out of France, my travel woes essentially ended. What could I possibly mean by that?
Well, Belley is quite far from airport (read civilization) and so I had to take a dizzying combination of planes, trains, and automobiles (not in that order)--all thoughtfully scheduled--to arrive in London last Friday afternoon. Alas. I started my day at 4:50 because I needed to catch the 6:10 bus from Belley to Virieu le Grand Belley train station since my train was to leave at 7:55. I did it without problem. Upon arrival at the train station at 6:29, I was much dismayed to see that the train station was not actually open and that I would have to wait outside in the bitter cold for my train for about an hour and a half. I started listening to back episodes of Gouda Radio. At 7:10, a man showed up to open the station and let me in so that I could get some feeling in my bod. I went inside and rested by the heater for a few minutes before queuing for the guichet. When I reached the front of the line, I asked for a ticket to Geneva airport. He immediately made a face like it was going to be an issue and consulted a timetable for the trains running during the grève and informed me that the first train going to Geneva would not leave until 9:52. That would have been fine if my plane didn't leave at 10:50. So I told him that wouldn't work for me and went outside to call a cab. The woman at "Taxi Chantal" answered quickly, told me it wouldn't be impossible to find someone to drive me, and called me back within 5 minutes to tell me she had successfully found me a female driver who would pick me up in a grey car.
Glorious. I waited outside and the woman fetched me and it was beautiful. Until I looked at signs and realized I was taking a cab from further from the airport than where I had started. Perfect. Then we arrived at the airport and I said, I hope I can pay with credit card (considering that it was a 130€ trip) and she looked at me like, "You crazy fool," and said, "I don't have a card reader."
Then I told her I could go find a cash machine and she said she'd come with me. So the taxi driver and I start walking around the Geneva airport looking for an ATM and we find one that says it wil give scrilla in euros, dollars, or CHF (Swiss francs), but by that it actually means that it will only give CHF, which she doesn't want because she lives in France. In the end she tells me to give her 150 CHF and 10€ to even out the exchange rate. Then I got on the plane and into London without issue. First stop: Borough Market. Next post will be up next week sometime. (I get back to France on Tuesday.)
Queuing with the best of them,
Yessica
P.S. On Thursday night, I went to a dégustation (food tasting) at Sabine's. Food was good. I was too nerveuse (srsly?) to speak for 90% of the time even though it was just Marc, Sabine, Sabine's hubby, and Nicole for the majority of it. But, to be fair, a significant portion was spent on nuclear energy in France. Not much to say on that subject even in English.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
En Panne
So, enough pussyfooting (6:07-6:15) around. Time for a real blog post. I honestly can’t remember the end of classes last week. I think that people didn’t send their students—it’s actually kind of a lot like this week. Except Marc. Marc is great at sending kids for their lessons. Generally what happens is that I go to the classroom, realize I don’t have a key to get into the room, go to the caisse, get the key, go back to the classroom, sit around for the hour to see if anyone’s coming, and then can’t lock the door on the way out, so I spend 10 minutes trying to do it. Then I go to the other door to see if I can just lock one from the inside and work my way out somehow and then end up with two unlocked doors that I can’t lock and then I have to go back to the caisse and tell them I’m idiot and then have someone walk with me (in silence because I’m too nervous to speak French about 70% of the time) and then have her tell me that you have to push the doorknob all the way up after you stick in the key and then turn the key so that it will actually lock and then we walk back together. (Okay, so this only happened once, but I have only taught about 5 classes in total.)
The standout moment from the end of the work week (since my weeks end on Thursdays) was when I was going to the library and accidentally walked into a funeral that was going on at the Cathedral, which is right next door. I kind of had crazy eyes and didn’t really know what to do so I waited for a bit, but then I didn’t want people to think I was being rude and fake mourning, so I tried to go around by ducking behind these flower pots, but I’m too obese and so in the end I just silently cut around the outliers. Really hope no more people die while I’m here.
Since I’m alone in this world now (pity me), I decided to be ridin’ solo on Friday night. So I got myself some 20% off 6€ wine from the Carrefour and had some ricotta and spinach ravioli for dinner. I purposely drank about half the bottle of wine before going into the night. I arrived at Bar des Aigles (the same bar that Kirsty and I went to that one night and also the one that Marc says is known for fights) around 11:30. I sat down and asked for a demi-pêche after surveying the scene, which was basically a bunch of 50+es around the bar, having a drink with the second bartender. I set to staring straight ahead of me at the wall of empty bottles because Natasha had told me that Belley was full of divorced men, if you catch my drift. And so I felt like someone was watching me and I looked to my left to see this guy with white hair with a smirk on his face and maybe staring at me? Maybe also staring at the door. He looked like a French version of the grandpa from Luck of the Irish. I kept on glancing over but his face never changed so either he had a stroke or he was really concentrating on the door. But why the smirk then? It’s a mystery for the ages since I never talked to him.
Rather, someone from his party came over. He was a brunette balding George Bluth style, but his face was more menacing. Like the evil step dancer from Luck of the Irish (who is now on Psych. Happy, SCorn?) So this dude starts talking to me and I genuinely have no idea what he’s saying. So I just keep saying, “Je ne comprends pas. Je ne comprends pas. Desolée.” (I don’t understand. I don’t understand. Desolate. JOKES. It means “Sorry.”) And then eventually he gets that I actually don’t understand what he’s saying and shrugs and goes “C’est dommage” (It’s a shame.) and goes back to his shot of 51 mixed with cloudy stuff. Sake? WHO KNOWZ!? 
Perhaps the bartender—the same guy as before—recognized my pain and sheer discomfort because he started asking where Kirsty was aka making me not just look idiot while staring at the wall instead of not talking to Scary Bluth. I said she went back to Scotland and he asked if it was for vacation and I said no and I was trying to explain how she wasn’t going back and he goes, “Elle t’as abandonnée?” And there really is no better way to express it than “She abandoned me.”
Then this short guy with salt and pepper hair comes in from outside and sits down to order a drink. He starts talking to me and since I can understand him and I don’t want the bartender to pity me into infinity, I talk to him. Then Scary Bluth kind of ignores him when Saltnpepper says hello and Snp is all, “What did I do to him? Did I do anything?” And I tell him nah nah. And then the bartender is all, dude, you’re mackin’ on his squirrel. And I’m like trying so hard to not be involved in this bedlam that I just play dumb and act like I don’t know what’s going on. While they’re involved in this foolishness, I see four (YOUNG!!!!!!) fellows come in and in my head I’m all thank god because this is a mess mess mess. So I finish my drank and Snp asks if I want another drink, and I tell him no. And then I try to wait for a natural break but he just keeps asking if I want another drink, and I’m like, “Chill out, son! I don’t want anything!” Jokes. I just say no and sidle out of my chair and they all wish me a “Bon soirée” and I fool them into thinking that I’m leaving but I really just get up and switch to the booth that is now just down to two mecs (guys) but anything is better than that which I had just been embroiled!
So I kind of hesitate but then I figure it’s not like I’m rolling in compadres right now so I plop down. “Bonsoir,” I say. They respond in like. I tell them that I’m sorry and that I don’t usually do this and normally I would have sat at the bar, but I don’t have any friends and they are the youngest people there, so I thought I’d say hello. My name’s Jessica.
Oh, they’re very nice and don’t act like a crazy predator and tell me their names are Nicolas and Dijek. Well, unfortunately, after this, I don’t really have anything to say. Because I once read that French people don’t discuss their occupations, like they’re not important or something, so I don’t want to insult them with my money-hungry Americanness. So I just kind of sit there. Hoping that they’ll be so interested in crazy people that they’ll want to know more. They don’t really so I just ask what they did earlier. They came from Macdo (McDonalds). Oh Belleyanne nightlife, right? They ask what I do (obviously whatever I read was on hallucinogens) and I say I’m a teacher at the lycée and I ask what they do. I have no idea what Dijek does, but Nicolas is a mechanic but he’s doing odd jobs now. And he dropped out of school at 16. Dijek laughed when I asked if he was from Belley. I didn’t realize it’s such an embarrassment. (Yes, I did.)
Scary Bluth comes over and starts talking to Nicolas so that he gets up and all the while he’s kind of giving me the stink eye and when Nicolas sits back down, I say that I think Scary Bluth is mad at me, but I really just couldn’t understand what he was saying. And Nicolas says not to worry about it. Dude’s just drunk. (Also, Scary Bluth was once Nicolas’s boss. Belley is baby size, yo.)
So there are spurts of conversation for about 30 minutes and then they say something and I think they’re asking if I have to go, and I tell them nono. But Nicolas says, “No, dumbo. We’re leaving.” Jokes. People are too nice to me. So they leave. (But only after he asks if I go there a lot, and when I say yes, Nicolas says they'll definitely see me again. Bff status.) I keep sitting at the now empty booth and fiddling on my phone so that it doesn’t look like I’m leaving just because I have no more reason to be there (since bars close at 1 and it’s now about 12:40) and Scary Bluth comes back over. I just look up at him with scared, apologetic smile and he just shrugs exaggeratedly and goes, “Tu es vraiement mignon.” (You’re really cute. I so am.)
Then I go home.
Since I missed the marché (market) last week, I made a specific effort to get myself to that piece on time on Saturday. Of course, as I walked up, there was a demonstration complete with bells and whistles (LOTS of whistles) with a bunch of teenagers. So, I’m unclear as to what this protest was for since all I saw written anywhere was jeunes (youths), but it was probably for the retirement issue? I will honestly never know, but there was a little car involved and lots of people, so that was neat. Anyway, I continued on my merry way and checked out the market. It’s kind of random. Of course, there are breads, cheeses, honeys, jams, and paella. But there’s also shoes and makeup and rotisserie chicken. Actually, I was kind of bummed on the food selection. Let’s just say it’s no Borough Market. I walked the entire length of the market and it was all abuzz and really great but then I remembered that I had to get to the supermarket so that I could get a pen so I could make little Halloween handouts for my students and since I didn’t want to carry fresh market produce around Belley with me, I booked it to the grocery store and figured I’d hit the outdoor market on the way back. (You with me?) So that wasn’t a problem at all. The problem was when I got back to the street with the market and in the span of about 20 minutes, it had plus or minus shut down. I hustled to the paella stand and got some since I’m going on vacation at the end of this week and have no need for a loaf of bread or goat cheese. Good to know that even though the sign on the street says market from 5 am to 3 pm on Saturdays, it means 5 am (maybe? I’ll never be up early enough to know) to 11:30 am. Enjoy my paella!
And my succès (which seems to be a little cake with mousse au chocolat inside)!
Sundays, everything is closed so I basically stayed home and froze myself since, oh yeah, there’s no heat in my building on the weekend.
Monday I had Marc’s classes, so I knew it would be a full day. I started at noon with five students from his Euro group, which is students who take 2 extra hours of English every week. I got to the classroom, which is right down the hall from Marc’s class where he was standing in the hallway with everyone as I tried to get the door open for 5 minutes because my key wasn’t working, but I knew it was the right key because I had used it last week. So I was just embarrassed in front of the youth of France while I swear that the entire Euro class was watching me make a mess of my life until Hasma (from last week. Hamburger.) came down and asked if I needed help. She got it on the first try. So I made her show me again so that I won’t be a disgrace for the rest of the year.
This week, Marc sent me Lasagna Léo, Mango Marie, Lollipop Laura, Chocolate Charlène, and “Lasagna too” Lia. We talked about globalization again and I used the same lesson plan as before only this time it didn’t take the full 50 minutes because no one wanted to talk about anything. I’m pretty sure Marie answered nearly every question. At one point, I was so desperate to get them talking that I asked each person to PLEASE just tell me something about globalization. I said, “You can say you like it or you don’t like it or it’s good or anything!” Lia said, “I don’t know!” Actually, she shrugged like she had been for the entire class period. Why is this my lot in life? Whatever, the class ended and I gave them each a candy with the “Happy Halloween!” or “Trick or Treat!” written on a piece of orange paper and taped to the back. They were appreciative, but next time, I’ll make them work for their food.
A few hours later, I had Marc’s next group, and he sent me three students: S-something Sara(h), Potatoes Pauline, and Chocolate Charlène (my first repeat student!). They were much more talkative than the group from last week had been about the three environmental cartoons I had put together so we pretty much raced through the lesson. I figured it was best to just keep them practicing, so I just asked them questions and we ended up having a discussion about school and university and life. Then I gave them candy.
I had another class right after, and I couldn’t get the door open in front of a group of students, but this time I just tried another one and went inside. Dodged a bullet. No one showed up, so after 20 minutes, I went to Madame Buër, the principal, and told her, “Personne n’est pas venue.” (No one came.)
And she just repeated it back to me in this joking tone with a big old grin and added that they preferred to go to the manifestation (demonstration), which, of course, I hadn’t realized was still going on. I was like, okay. One day for a strike. Oops. Mistaken. (Leave me alone. I don’t read the newspaper.)
Tuesday, no one showed up for any of my classes. Apparently, Nicole expected me to go to her classroom first for one of the hours, so there was some miscommunication. Then she said next time, it’s better for her to just send them down.
Today was a volleyball tournament, which meant that there wasn’t any school. (On Wednesdays, there are half days. This was taking up the full 4 hours of the morning.) So, it’s a good thing that on Monday I had this meeting with Sabine to go over everything for the week because otherwise, I’d have been waiting in not just an empty classroom, but an empty school! So, what happened was Sabine said there wouldn’t be any classes on Wednesday and asked if I had been invited to the game, and I said no. Then yesterday, I asked what time the game would be over and at what time classes would resume today, she said they wouldn’t and had I been invited to the game? I said no. (I didn’t realize it was an invitation only sort of affair. Heads up. It’s not.) She said she’d meet me in the teacher’s lounge at 7:50 and we’d go down together.
So we met and went and walking in was a bit of a scene. This volleyball day (which happens twice a year) is sort of like Notre Dame Day from my high school years. It’s essentially a spirit day where each division of the school (L=Littéraire, ES=Economic Sciences, there’s also ones for like human resources, and math? I don’t know. If you really want an in depth post about how the school system works, leave a comment and maybe I’ll write one.) has a team, and they’re further divided by year. So I walk in and it’s just a madhouse. People dressed up as psych ward patients, the 80s, jungle, Hawaiian, American gangster themed, and so many others. There were also less creative ones, like the team dressed up as a soccer team. Or Hasma’s team, which was black bottoms and white tops. But there were also some inexplicable costumes. Two that come to mind are the guy wearing a speedo, tanktop, and a sign that said “Appelle moi 06 60 55 43 73” (Call me…..) and the guy who was covered in mud. It was honestly just a lot of yelling and picture taking. But it was nice to see. (No pictures because they’re under 18. Use your imaginations!)
I left about 2 hours into it because I didn’t really have anything to do there and they had said that I could use the washing machines on Wednesday mornings, and I wasn’t about to give up free cleaning. Last week, the machines had been en panne (broken down), though, so I waited to do it this week. Welp, on my way back to my room, I stopped at the laverie and asked if I could use the machines and the ladies said yes, but they haven’t been repaired yet. Now, I don’t know if they’re putting me on, but why are the machines not fixed!? And if they’re not fixed, how are all these laundry ladies doing their jobs? Maybe they’re en grève? Who knows? All I knew was that I would have to go into town to use the lavarie because I haven’t done laundry since I arrived. Don’t worry, though. I’ve been hand-washing.
Soooo I went to the laverie and I managed to get everything done no problem. Except that it cost me 15€.
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View from inside. Steamy. |
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| Instructions on the washing machine. 1. Don't hit it with a baseball bat. 2. Don't pour wine in it when it's on fire. |
Brokely,
Jess
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Bionic Nose
Sometimes the smells here get to be too much. When I think of France, I think of freshly baked bread. Sadly, though, the smell does not match. Outside, there’s no problem. The air is fresh and crisp. Actually, now that I really reflect on it, the air doesn’t feel quite as crisp as it did when I would visit Gma and Gpa in Rumson, NJ. But maybe I’m not paying enough attention. The smell gets to be overwhelming when I walk into the lycée every morning. As soon as I tirez (the command on the door that means “pull”) the door and it closes behind me, I’m enveloped in the smell of adolescence. And I can tell you, this teen spirit does not smell so good. I can remember walking into a classroom in high school just after third period or something, after an hour when it had been full of 20 girls. Yeah, it wasn’t great, but there seemed to at least be the idea of covering up smell with perfume. Here, though, it’s just perpetually teenage boy. Then I go into the classroom, and it’s cold inside, so it must have been empty for hours yet it still reeks of “teen spirit.”
Adults, though, should be my respite right? I was in the teacher’s lounge today (just waiting around because many students haven’t been showing up thanks to the continued grève) and I was just reading some papers that had been slipped into my casier (locker) when I realized that someone around me had probably not bathed in the last week. I actually find myself smelling this smell far more often than I’d like to say. Certainly you know the smell. It’s generic body odor: nothing special about it except for its ability to make me immediately self-conscious of my proximity to the offender and my desire to hold my breath. Because I find myself sniffing out this odious odor so much more often now, I actually found myself thinking for a moment that perhaps it was me. That I was the main offender. But when it dissipated moments later, I started breathing again and sighed a sigh of relief.
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| 2 stickers from cigarette packs. "Smoking Kills" "Smoking can lead to a slow and painful death" |
As I walk through the hall throughout the day—this is the hall by my dorm room—I am overcome by the smell of cigarette smoke. (Not surprising given the number of empty cigarette packs strewn about the road. Packs with the large stickers on them that say, “Fumer tue.” Smoking kills.) There are a few ways that this can come to be. We’re essentially on the roof of the building, so maintenance workers come up here, go out onto the roof (and the door can’t shut) and take smoke breaks. This seems rarer, actually, than what I think is actually the true cause, which is Michèle, a mature short, plump woman with bright blue eyes and black eyeliner who I’m pretty sure comes up here throughout the door and goes into her room (she rents one Monday-Thursday nights) and sits out on her balcony puffing away. It’s strange only because it’s unexpected, really. Side story about Michèle. On Friday, she was getting all of her things out of her room before going home for the weekend when she popped into the kitchen to say goodbye. Everyone’s very polite here. So, she went into the toilet, which is on the way out and I heard it flush and then she just waltzed out of the building. This wouldn’t have skeeved me out except that there’s no sink in the bathroom. We only have them in our bedrooms, so it’s super inconvenient to have to use the restroom while in the kitchen. I had told my mom that the sinks were in the bedrooms and she said it was because they expect you to do most of your washing in there. (Whore’s bath, anyone?) BUT, when I went to Marc’s apartment, they didn’t have a sink in their restroom either, which made me a little suspicious, but I thought maybe they just use the kitchen sink afterwards. Welp, there go those theories because Michèle makes me think that sometimes you just don’t wash your hands at all. I will not be bringing this habit back with me.
Out damn'd spotted-ly,
Jess
P.S. I’ll post a real thing tomorrow. This is to get eager beavers off my back.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
En Grève
Day two of teaching was lovely. (As was the sunrise, which I saw. But maybe you don't want to see anymore photos of my window view of Belley? Even though it's better than your view. There. I said it.) By the by, the name of this town, Belley, is pronounced like in rock climbing: belay. When I was at girl scout camp, one of the few things I remember learning is "On belay?" "Belay on."
So, got to work and was a bit concerned that I was late because I didn't see the usual hordes of students milling about outside. Everything was really quiet. So, I went inside and Sandra said we'd go to the class but maybe there wouldn't be anyone there so we might discuss the Larry Clark art exhibit, which is the first to be censored in France. Riot! Anyway, there were three kids in the class, so I obviously didn't take any of them with me. Sandra left me to talk to them briefly, and I gave them my introduction spiel and then they told me their names: Anaïs, Tomas, and Coralie. Once Sandra got back, she asked them what they learned about me. Then we spent the whole hour talking about things to do in Lyon, things to do in Los Angeles, and the differences between France and America.
You might be wondering why no one was in school yesterday. It's because they were striking. In protest of France raising the age of retirement from 60 to 62 and changing the age at which the French become eligible for their pensions. (You can read more here.) A lot of the students were participating. Nicole told me during the break that two years ago they were protesting and they blocked the school so that people couldn't get in. (Illegal, by the way.) When I asked her what it was for, she said she couldn't remember. Imagine there being so many strikes that you can't remember which one kept you from getting to work. Sabine later told me that it was something to do with education and that some students had actually slept in the school. From what I understand from Sandra, it might have been the reform that made teachers' first years be filled with regular course loads instead of starting with just a few and observing until the second year when they have full schedules. Still, though, not sure.
Sandra said that she would have been out en grève (striking), and that she had been earlier, but that she had to finish the project that she was doing with the students. At least, that's what she told them. It seems like maybe she's substituting for someone? Unclear. Anyway, she asked the three students why they weren't outside, and they gave responses. Coralie said that she doesn't think that striking really does anything. Anaïs said that she thinks lessons are too important to miss. Tomas's reponse, though, was my favorite, "I agree with Coralie. Besides, it's too cold." Which it totes was.
I then went to my second lesson with Nicole's students. She sent me with two girls, Charlène and Anaïs, to help them practice their oral presentations of documents for their exams at the end of the year. Down we went to an absolutely massive empty classroom. They each had a cartoon to prepare and then give a ten minute discussion of each. After giving them 15 minutes to write, Charlène went first. She had a cartoon of Martin Luther King Jr. on TV giving his famous speech (the caption) and with a boy watching it. On the back of the boy's shirt, it read "Barack." Unfortunately, Charlène couldn't read the back of the boy's shirt. And when I asked her if she knew who Martin Luther the King was, she didn't. So, I kind of had to summarize all of what MLK means into one sentence. Not easy. Anaïs's was on the generation gap and technology: a joke about driving to a blog. Both were good, but only about 5 minutes each. So then we talked about ways to improve for next time. When I asked if they had any questions, Charlène excitedly said, "For you?" So I told them that if they wanted to, they could ask me questions.
They wanted to know the usual junk. Why I was there. What I do. I said, "I teach here." They asked, "You don't go to the movies or anything?" Then I realized they were asking about my social life. Which, at this moment, is kind of limited. They kind of smiled and said, "It's pretty boring, right?" I asked them about what they want to do as both girls are in términale, which means they're essentially high school seniors. Charlène wants to study human resources and Anaïs wants to go to school to improve her English and German and then go to business school. How nice to have a future planned out. During the upcoming vacations, Charlène is going to live with a host family in England and take classes to improve her English for the bac (basically the French SAT) and Anaïs is planning on working on her German. They work hard for the money.
After that, I went back to the teacher's lounge to get my coat and bounce since I had a break before my last lesson with Sabine, which I went to. But to which no students showed up. The teacher's lounge is kind of a terrifying place for me since I know hardly any of the teachers and never know if someone's going to speak to me in English or in French. Luckily, this time, Marc sat down and asked me (in English) if Kirsty was gone yet. (More about this in the next paragraph.) I said she was leaving later and that I was really scared that I'd become this total recluse and hate my year here because, oh yeah, when Marc picked me up from the train station two weeks ago he told me about the assistant from two years ago (Lee/Leigh?) who was very sad all the time and didn't get out much. Then he said that I'd be okay. "She seemed really scared of everything. She was also Scottish." Maybe there's something in Loch Ness!? (besides the monster, obvio.) Then he said like three times, "You're not like her." Which was nice of him to say because oh triste, Marc is the closest thing I have to a friend right now. (Not that there's anything wrong with Marc. He's actually very nice and I'm hoping to infiltrate his friend network. I think I already have. I ran into Séb yesterday and he recognized me! Baby steps, yo.)
So, in reference to my previous mention of the abandonment, as I'm going into the building, I see Kirsty and her mom coming out with Kirsty's suitcase. That's because I didn't tell you guys that at training last week she told me that she was 80% sure that she was going to quit the program. Because I was hoping that the 20% of her that was still going for the gusto (and being reasonable) would win out. Welp, wrong again! She's gone now.
Starting back at 1,
Yessica
So, got to work and was a bit concerned that I was late because I didn't see the usual hordes of students milling about outside. Everything was really quiet. So, I went inside and Sandra said we'd go to the class but maybe there wouldn't be anyone there so we might discuss the Larry Clark art exhibit, which is the first to be censored in France. Riot! Anyway, there were three kids in the class, so I obviously didn't take any of them with me. Sandra left me to talk to them briefly, and I gave them my introduction spiel and then they told me their names: Anaïs, Tomas, and Coralie. Once Sandra got back, she asked them what they learned about me. Then we spent the whole hour talking about things to do in Lyon, things to do in Los Angeles, and the differences between France and America.
You might be wondering why no one was in school yesterday. It's because they were striking. In protest of France raising the age of retirement from 60 to 62 and changing the age at which the French become eligible for their pensions. (You can read more here.) A lot of the students were participating. Nicole told me during the break that two years ago they were protesting and they blocked the school so that people couldn't get in. (Illegal, by the way.) When I asked her what it was for, she said she couldn't remember. Imagine there being so many strikes that you can't remember which one kept you from getting to work. Sabine later told me that it was something to do with education and that some students had actually slept in the school. From what I understand from Sandra, it might have been the reform that made teachers' first years be filled with regular course loads instead of starting with just a few and observing until the second year when they have full schedules. Still, though, not sure.
Sandra said that she would have been out en grève (striking), and that she had been earlier, but that she had to finish the project that she was doing with the students. At least, that's what she told them. It seems like maybe she's substituting for someone? Unclear. Anyway, she asked the three students why they weren't outside, and they gave responses. Coralie said that she doesn't think that striking really does anything. Anaïs said that she thinks lessons are too important to miss. Tomas's reponse, though, was my favorite, "I agree with Coralie. Besides, it's too cold." Which it totes was.
I then went to my second lesson with Nicole's students. She sent me with two girls, Charlène and Anaïs, to help them practice their oral presentations of documents for their exams at the end of the year. Down we went to an absolutely massive empty classroom. They each had a cartoon to prepare and then give a ten minute discussion of each. After giving them 15 minutes to write, Charlène went first. She had a cartoon of Martin Luther King Jr. on TV giving his famous speech (the caption) and with a boy watching it. On the back of the boy's shirt, it read "Barack." Unfortunately, Charlène couldn't read the back of the boy's shirt. And when I asked her if she knew who Martin Luther the King was, she didn't. So, I kind of had to summarize all of what MLK means into one sentence. Not easy. Anaïs's was on the generation gap and technology: a joke about driving to a blog. Both were good, but only about 5 minutes each. So then we talked about ways to improve for next time. When I asked if they had any questions, Charlène excitedly said, "For you?" So I told them that if they wanted to, they could ask me questions.
They wanted to know the usual junk. Why I was there. What I do. I said, "I teach here." They asked, "You don't go to the movies or anything?" Then I realized they were asking about my social life. Which, at this moment, is kind of limited. They kind of smiled and said, "It's pretty boring, right?" I asked them about what they want to do as both girls are in términale, which means they're essentially high school seniors. Charlène wants to study human resources and Anaïs wants to go to school to improve her English and German and then go to business school. How nice to have a future planned out. During the upcoming vacations, Charlène is going to live with a host family in England and take classes to improve her English for the bac (basically the French SAT) and Anaïs is planning on working on her German. They work hard for the money.
After that, I went back to the teacher's lounge to get my coat and bounce since I had a break before my last lesson with Sabine, which I went to. But to which no students showed up. The teacher's lounge is kind of a terrifying place for me since I know hardly any of the teachers and never know if someone's going to speak to me in English or in French. Luckily, this time, Marc sat down and asked me (in English) if Kirsty was gone yet. (More about this in the next paragraph.) I said she was leaving later and that I was really scared that I'd become this total recluse and hate my year here because, oh yeah, when Marc picked me up from the train station two weeks ago he told me about the assistant from two years ago (Lee/Leigh?) who was very sad all the time and didn't get out much. Then he said that I'd be okay. "She seemed really scared of everything. She was also Scottish." Maybe there's something in Loch Ness!? (besides the monster, obvio.) Then he said like three times, "You're not like her." Which was nice of him to say because oh triste, Marc is the closest thing I have to a friend right now. (Not that there's anything wrong with Marc. He's actually very nice and I'm hoping to infiltrate his friend network. I think I already have. I ran into Séb yesterday and he recognized me! Baby steps, yo.)
So, in reference to my previous mention of the abandonment, as I'm going into the building, I see Kirsty and her mom coming out with Kirsty's suitcase. That's because I didn't tell you guys that at training last week she told me that she was 80% sure that she was going to quit the program. Because I was hoping that the 20% of her that was still going for the gusto (and being reasonable) would win out. Welp, wrong again! She's gone now.
Starting back at 1,
Yessica
Monday, October 11, 2010
I Came, I Taught, I Dominated
I spent the weekend basically in bed. Am I allergic to French fun? Prolly. I had a sore throat all day Saturday and a headache on Sunday. On Saturday, I did go outside, though, to see if I could go to the market that’s on Saturdays. 1:00 was too late to start my day. When I went outside, everything was plus ou moins gone. So I made my way to the supermarché and got a lemon, a lime, and some honey so that I could baby my sore throat away. (It worked. But only to the extent that it was replaced by congestion on Sunday. Alas!)
I really couldn’t sleep last night. At first I thought it was punishment for a 20 minute nap earlier in the day, but then I guessed that it was because I was giddy like a little girl before her first day of school. Once I did fall asleep, I awoke 15 minutes before my alarm went off. I woke up with this song (Sorry about the video. It was the only one that wasn't a community theatre production.) stuck in my head. Fitting, right?
As usual, a beautiful view from my window:
So I went to the kitchen and read Orlando for a bit since my first class wasn’t to start until noon. Then I decided that maybe I hadn’t put enough thought into my lesson plan and started scouring the interwebs for some interesting stuff about globalization since I had put everything together on Sunday sans the information superhighway. I didn’t really get much more except for a poem from Canadian economist Gerard Helleiner:
The poor complain
They always do
But that’s just idle chatter
Our system brings rewards to all
At least to all who matter
I had it written on the board when the kiddies came in. Marc had sent me 5 students: Batiste, Hasma, Pauline, Tomas, and Anaïs. We played the food game that during Picture the Future led me to calling a girl Brandi Biscuits for a whole semester. We had Banana Split Batiste, Hamburger Hasma, Potatoes Pauline, Tomatoes Tomas, and Ananas Anaïs. (Ananas are pineapples in French.) I was Jellybeans Jessica. They didn’t know what jellybeans were. Oops. (Also, deprivation.) Then we played 2 Truths and a Lie, which was kind of silly apparently because they all know everything about each other, which I should have anticipated because they’ve probs gone to school together since who knows when. We proceeded to launch into our discussion. What do you think of when you hear globalization. The idea of a global village/marketplace. The similiarities between cultures. Who benefits from globalization. Blah blah blah. I had decided to share some music with them that samples Indian beats. (This prompted Hasma to ask if I was Indian. Shock.) Anyway, I played them “Mundian to Bach Ke” by Punjabi MC. Pauline and Tomas kind of started dancing in their seats, and everyone gasped with recognition. Then I asked if they had heard the Jay-Z song that samples it.
“Jay-Z? He’s married to Beyoncé?” Pauline asked. Really sad day for music when this is how he’s recognized. But I confirmed.
Then I played them bits from “Silsila yeh Chaahat ka” from Devdas. They hadn’t heard it, but I told them that their library has Devdas if they want to watch it. I’m expanding their minds, don’t forget. Then I played them Chase and Status’s “Eastern Jam” followed by Wyclef Jean’s and Chamillionaire’s “Hollywood Meets Bollywood” mashed up with “Eastern Jam.” Insane how much play this song has gotten. The group had been pretty sedate, though participative, thus far. As soon as I started writing down the artists for the songs on the whiteboard, though, I heard everyone scramble to get out their pens so they could write everything down. Music is the way to these people’s hearts. Solid. Consider their hearts dominated.
After that bit, I started to discuss the positive and negative effects of globalization but I really mean we only got to the positive aspects because then the bell rang. First class: DONE.
Three hours later I was to discuss any cartoon with a group Marc was sending me. When I got to the classroom, though, the door was locked and my key didn’t work. I rushed back to the main building and got back with time to spare, but I’m constantly nervous that the students will show up and I won’t be there. (Before the first class, I had to go down to the caisse, which is the school office that deals with all the money and classroom supplies, in order to get a dry erase marker that I will now be carrying around on my person. So I had a few minutes of terror.) Why am I so worried about this? Because at our training last week, one of the guys said that for the entire hour that students are meant to be in your care, you’re responsible for everything that happens to them. If you’re not there so they go outside and get hit by a car, their blood is on my hands. Literal example that he gave.
This time, Marc sent me four students: Lison, Laure, Tituon, and Marine. We played the same games, ending up with Lasagna Lison, Lollipop Laure, Tiramisu Tituon (Camille’s soul mate?), and….now that I think of it, I don’t think Marine ever came up with a food. I suggested meat, McDonalds, and one other thing. I was Juice Jessica this time since I guessed they wouldn’t know what jellybeans are. Again, they killed at 2 Truths and a Lie. I’ll have to come up with new games for tomorrow.
We talked about 3 cartoons about environmental consciousness that I had brought in. Honestly, it was kind of like pulling teeth to get some of them to respond. Tituon nearly always had the answer, but would whisper it under his breath. Laure didn’t understand what I was saying half the time and Tituon would explain it to her in French (not that this wasn’t done with any subtlety). Lison had no trouble speaking and was quite good, actually. Marine, though, seemed really put upon whenever I asked her anything and didn’t really offer anything.
After class ended, everyone peaced super quickly. Except for Lison who came up and asked what I was doing here. I told her I was here to teach English. And she didn’t really understand. I said I was helping with oral. (I had had this conversation with someone earlier in the day. But that time it was just a random girl who came up to me and asked.) When she asked if I could speak French, I said that I could a little so I was here to work on my French. Then she smiled like she understood totally. Then she kind of hesitated before saying, “I just wanted to tell you that you’re cooler than the other girls before.” Why am I so gosh darn loveable? Aka I’m so glad that I’m not the bane of their existences already.
Looking forward to a desk covered in pommes (apples),
Juice
Saturday, October 9, 2010
First Week on the Job
I expected French kids to be totally attitudimuses. Too chool for school. Or maybe like this. Needless to say, I was also expecting to be completely slaughtered by them on my first week, in which I'd be observing classes. I wasn't! This week I visited 11 classes, introduced myself to 9 of them, and answered countless questions.
I introduced myself the same way every time: "Hello. I'm Jessica. I'm 22. I'm from Los Angeles. I just finished college where I studied film, women's studies, and writing. I'm here as the language assistant."
Here is a list of questions asked:
Where did you study?
Why did you study women? (The teacher, Sabine, asked them to speculate. "Maybe because women are strange.")
Are you a capitalist?
What is it like to live in America?
Do you speak French? (This answer was tricky. In one class, Sabine emphatically shook her head no. In another, Sandra didn't do anything, so I said, "a little." In another, "Yes. But not enough to get around." So, in less than a month since my arrival, I've become a liar.)
Have you met a famous person?
Do you think French people are nice?
Are Americans nice?
Do you like the Lakers?
Do you like France?
Why are you here?
Are you married? (Some of Kirsty's classes asked if she has children!)
So that's been fun. Next week I start taking small groups for discussions and activities. My first one is with three students that Marc will send me and I'm to lead a conversation on globalization (mondialisation). That doesn't sound challenging.
On Wednesday, Kirsty and I had to go to Bourg-en-Bresse for a training session that was meant to last from 9-5. We managed to figure out an itinerary and thought that it would be best for us to take the 5:40 am bus from Belley to Virieu Le Grand. Ooops. That bus only runs on Mondays. So we had to wait and take the 6:10. The bus was a bit late, and then made a bit of a detour for some concerned travelers so that they could get off at an unscheduled stop. (This is actually the third time I've seen a bus driver go off the route for passengers. Very friendly, no?) Sadly, though, this kindness meant that we missed the train at Virieu that we had wanted to take that would have gotten us into Bourg an hour and a half early even though it was at the station when we arrived. But there were three girls in front of us (who, by the way, couldn't stop talking about dying to go outside for a smoke) and so we couldn't get to the ticket window (guichet) in time. Ain't no thang. So we waited at the train station for an hour until the next train to Ambérieu where we switched to a bus to Bourg. This layover (Is that what it's called for land travel?) offered this view:
Did I mention that while we were on the train a girl asked if we were going to Ambérieu for some training thing? That's right. MISTAKEN FOR A NATIVE.
Anyway, we got on our bus no problem. At the first stop, we were going to get off because it said "Edgar Quinet Sports Center" and our training was to be at the Edgar Quinet Lycée but we weren't sure if there was a lot of Edgar Quinet stuff in Bourg so we stayed on board. I realized our mistake as soon as we drove on because I swear we drove next to like 3 campuses right after. Oh well. We got off at the train station at 8:42 and boogied to get to the training on time. Unfortunately, none of those campuses we saw had signs so we were late. Also, when we DID find the right school, we tried a gate but it wasn't open. We walked down the street and found ourselves at the first place that the bus had stopped (arg!) and a woman came out and told us we were at the pool and sent us back to the first gate. We just had to push harder to open it--this had like crazy strength magnetic keeping it closed! Sigh. We got into the session and took our seats. Of course, it had already started. And of course it was a training of only 12 people (it was only for the collège/lycée assistants in the Ain region of Lyon) so we were totes noticed.
The training was, quite unexpectedly, run in French. Even though they were going through crazy important information like social security, finding a colocataire (roommate), medical coverage. Whatevs. Nothing you can't figure out on your own? Whatevs. When we had a break, the girl in front of us (Katelin) turned around and I said how we had hoped to come in late and unnoticed and she said not to worry. She told us that she had come in a bit late and the guy leading the session said, "You're late." Uh, thanks. Like I didn't already know that. At least they didn't call Kirsty and I out. Actually, it was funny because they started talking about transportation shortly after the two of us waltzed in and one of the side guys said it's not too hard to get places unless you're in Belley. And he looked at us and goes, "That's where the two of you came from, right?" I love his grasp of our plight. (Side note: Katelin just finished at USD where her freshman year roommate was Yesenia Barbarena with whom I went to high school. Why is the world getting smaller by the minute?!)
Then we went into the second part of the session where they talked about the importance of cultural immersion and everything. Joining clubs and how to work with students and balancing your relationships with the students so that they're comfortable but respectful. Pretty basic stuff. Then we broke for lunch, which was FO FREE! (Though each of us had to hop/limbo the turnstile to make it so.) We went to the lycée's cantine and one of the girls, Livia from Australia, stopped to take pictures of everything. No joke. Pictures of the signs, of the food, of the conveyor belt for the trays. Crazy! She majored in photography, which I guessed considering she had a massive camera around her neck. As usual, the food was great. (The day before, I ate at teh cantine in Belley. Cous cous. COUS COUS. At a high school cafeteria. And it was delicious. Sadly, though, I also picked up a container of what I thought was yogurt, but it was actually what tasted like softened cream cheese. Fromage blanc n'est pas délicieux.) I put together a salad of beets (for ma sœur), hearts of palm, artichoke hearts, and cous cous. They also had broccoli and chicken. I got mine sans poulet, so the chef gave me a bona fide mountain of broccoli. I also got a morceau (slice) of brie and a chocolate thing. I've learned that the French eat really large lunches and then smaller breakfasts and lunches.
Kirsty and I were at the end of the line so there wasn't space for us and another girl, Heather, at the large table, so the three of us sat separately. Heather's from Manchester but goes to uni in Newcastle. Pretty sure we saw one of the lycée profs drinking wine at lunch. Actually, am positive. Love it. I downed a cup of coffee with Daddy sugar cube in it. (Get it? Sugar Daddy. So darling. With really the hippest packaging. I tried to find a picture and typed in "daddy sugar" for the Google search. MISTAKE.) It's all colorful. Bright colors! Not enough of those here. Did I already say how everyone in France wears black?
Anyway, after lunch we went back to the room. They asked if we had any questions, and when we said no they released us! It was an unexpected treat considering that we had all expected to be in that room until 5 pm! So we all went to an outdoor café (we've been very lucky with weather) and had some wine or café au laits. (Except Livia who had to leave with her ride--the dude who knew about the transportation woes of Belley.) Bourg is really lovely. Such a shame that the people who are teaching there complain about it being so small and everything. They've never been to Belley.
I honestly just love the architecture in France. Everything is just so beautiful all the time. It's either incredibly quaint and endearing or utterly majestic. I can understand why so many defect. (But you needn't worry about me....yet.)
Anyway, we all chatted for about 3 hours. There's Mohsin from Manchester, who's studying at Oxford. Katelin from above. Moira from Halifax, Canada who's teaching in kind of a medieval town with, surprise surprise, beautiful architecture. She studied philosophy at uni and is kind of a hipster/hippie. Katie from Canada who still has one semester left but this is a year off for her. She says she never wants to finish college. Helen from Britain. Becky (who I mentioned in my last post as the girl whose mum gave her directions that led her to the motorway) from Britain. Trudi from Jamaica who's kind of crazy and has only had one semester of French. She memorized responses to expected questions and is just here, it seems, to fall in love. She also taught us to say raas (I don't know if this is how it's spelled, but it's pronounced just like the Indian dance. What up Diwali?), which means merde. She says her mom will let her say "shit" around her. But not raas. She also said, "You should meet my cousins. They're rastas. And their dreads. You know how they say 'Be fruitful?' They got six kids." There were a few others, too. But these were the ones with whom I spoke.
Then we walked back to the train station and managed to get on a bus 2 minutes before it was leaving for Ambérieu. Really just lucky timing since we were meant to be on a much later bus. We got back to Ambérieu to switch to the train and the same girl who mistook me for a native was there and we smiled the smile of natives to one another. And it felt AWESOME.
The next day I went in for classes again and in this one, it was a bit different. Since Sabine's class had been discussing stereotypes, she asked me what are some stereotypes of French people. I told her people (aka only Jimmy) has asked me if I've stopped shaving and bathing. So here's the list:
No shaving
No bathing
Smelly
Always on strike
Don't like Americans (One student said immediately, "Oui. C'est vrai!" And he said something abotu politics and everyone groaned. When Sabine asked who would like to go to the US, only three people raised their hands. She assumed that they hadn't understood the question, and so she asked again. This time everyone understood and everyone except the voice of discord raised his/her hand.)
They all smoke
More vacation
Good food ["Ouais, bien sur." (Yeah. Of course.) from one student.]
All are attractive (Surprisingly, no response to this one.)
Then they told me their stereotypes of Americans: We're fat and eat Macdo all the time. I told them I couldn't remember the last time that I ate at McDonalds (Macdo here) because I wasn't including my cappuccino. Funnily, the girl who said we eat there all the time eats at Macdo 3 times/month, which is way more than nearly everyone I know. When I brought it up with Kirsty, she certainly didn't deny that this is a stereotype that everyone has of Americans. Triste.
Kirsty and I went for lunch at the newly opened crêperie because I realized I had been in France for too long without having a crêpe prepared just for me. I got one with jambon (ham), fromage rapé (grated cheese), and pommes (apples--there was something special about their preparation, but I can't recall it just now). It was really good. The salad that it came with, though. The dressing tasted like mayo and mustard mixed together. Kirsty called this salad cream? Not sure. Dislike, though. I wished I had gotten a sweet one, though. I saw someone do it after I had placed my order. I had thought that I would be looked down upon for getting a dessert crêpe in the middle of the day, though. Never again will I let that mess keep me from an afternoon of caramel and chocolate in a thin pancake.
Friday was a glorious day. I had to be in for classes at 8, but I didn't mind. I got to see the sunrise. (Sorry that this blog is kind of a folder of the view from my window, but every day I just can't believe it.)
Afterwards, Kirsty told me that she was in town and there was a market, so I decided to go. I was hoping for Borough Market's Belleyanne cousin. In vain. I ended up with some olive tapenade made with chataignes (chestnuts). So delicious.
When we came back, I had some actual lunch and then went for a run because I knew I was going to live obesely (as is the supposed American way) in the evening.
Kirsty hadn't gotten tickets for the event because we both thought that it was on Saturday and her mum was coming into town. So when Marc asked if I was going and informed me that it was later on Friday, I was eternally grateful. Unfortunately, there weren't any tickets left when Kirsty went to the Tourist Office, but she came along anyway to mooch. We went into city centre about 8:00 to meet Marc. As soon as I walked up he said, "Ca va? Tu as commencé de boire?" which means "How are you? Have you started drinking?" Fool of fools. I hadn't. Because the meal ticket had 4 glasses of wine included. Oh well. Although, it would have been better because studies show having some drinks in you makes you more comfortable speaking an acquired language. Maybe I should do shots before Monday?
Anyway, we went to meet up with some of Marc and his girlfriend's, Isabelle, friends: Sandrine, Nadia, Sébastian, Michael (Séb's brother), Jean Claude (who invited himself to visit my parents' house in Los Angeles), Ton Ton (Séb's uncle), and Booch (TonTon's wife). SO many two cheek bisous.
Sébastian is a mess. Just in general. He speaks crazy quickly (Marc says Sébastian even speaks too quickly for him to understand sometimes. And when he's drunk, he's totally fou/crazy.) and found it impossible to say Kirsty's name. All night he would say, "Jessica! And Rolalala" or something like that to refer to me and Kirsty.
[Related story. There's this other Marc who lives at the school and when I first met him he asked for my name.
Me: Jessica.
Him: Comment?
Me: Jessica.
Him: Pardon?
Me: Djesseeka.
Him: Ah. Bon.
The pronunciation of my name in French apparently changes ability to understand it. Anyway, Sébastian obviously says my name Djesseeka.]
Sébastian is also learning Spanish and would often start speaking it (see what I said about being more comfortable?). He asked for besos, and since I spent my summer at The 2-9, I knew exactly how to respond appropriately and en espagnol.
Well, needless to say there was a lot of drinking involved. Almost immediately after meeting Marc's friends, Kirsty and I went to get some wine--the sparkling kind that's Belley's specialty. I asked if Kirsty could pay for a glass with money and the dude said no but when he asked if we only had one ticket, I said yes. (I'm no fool.) So he gave us the two glasses for frizzle. Kirsty promptly spilled her entire glass on the counter between us and the server. He kind of laughed and then re-poured it. That's right, suckas. Three glasses of wine for the price of one. Gettin' slizzered. Anyway, we went over to talk to Marc et al and he explained that in Belley everyone drinks a lot and then eats. In Lyon, they eat and drink at the same time. So when I went back for a second glass of wine (this time red), Marc said I was like a native of Belley. (Count it. TWO native compliments in one week.) Then some of us put together our tickets to get a bottle of wine.
We managed to find a table, even though it was SUPREMELY crowded--literally crawling with people, which was quite different from every other time I've been about town. So, this meant it was time to get to grubbin. Before I forget, this dégustation (tasting) was being held because Belley is the birthplace of Brillat-Savarin so these people take their food very seriously. The first course was quite good. Unfortunately, I can't recall the names of anything. Anyway, I took a bite and insisted Kirsty try it. She didn't like it at all since it was covered in egg. I didn't know that Kirsty doesn't like egg. Oops. Anyway, Marc asked if I knew what it was, and I didn't. He said he wouldn't tell me until he had finished. He said, "Like if I were in Scotland, I'd try haggis (which Kirsty's never tried), it's important for you to have this here." Once I had finished it, he asked if I liked it. I did. He said it's made out of sang bouillé. Boiled blood. Of a pig. Regardless, it was delicious. Too bad pork is bad for my blood type (and actually all blood types). Surely, though, the blood is an exception? (Sorry no photo!)
When Isa and Nadia go outside to smoke, Kirsty and I talk with Marc for a bit, but then I say it's time to go home since it's after 3 and I'm a tired turkey. And so we do.
Sleeping like a baby,
Jess
I introduced myself the same way every time: "Hello. I'm Jessica. I'm 22. I'm from Los Angeles. I just finished college where I studied film, women's studies, and writing. I'm here as the language assistant."
Here is a list of questions asked:
Where did you study?
Why did you study women? (The teacher, Sabine, asked them to speculate. "Maybe because women are strange.")
Are you a capitalist?
What is it like to live in America?
Do you speak French? (This answer was tricky. In one class, Sabine emphatically shook her head no. In another, Sandra didn't do anything, so I said, "a little." In another, "Yes. But not enough to get around." So, in less than a month since my arrival, I've become a liar.)
Have you met a famous person?
Do you think French people are nice?
Are Americans nice?
Do you like the Lakers?
Do you like France?
Why are you here?
Are you married? (Some of Kirsty's classes asked if she has children!)
So that's been fun. Next week I start taking small groups for discussions and activities. My first one is with three students that Marc will send me and I'm to lead a conversation on globalization (mondialisation). That doesn't sound challenging.
Did I mention that while we were on the train a girl asked if we were going to Ambérieu for some training thing? That's right. MISTAKEN FOR A NATIVE.
Anyway, we got on our bus no problem. At the first stop, we were going to get off because it said "Edgar Quinet Sports Center" and our training was to be at the Edgar Quinet Lycée but we weren't sure if there was a lot of Edgar Quinet stuff in Bourg so we stayed on board. I realized our mistake as soon as we drove on because I swear we drove next to like 3 campuses right after. Oh well. We got off at the train station at 8:42 and boogied to get to the training on time. Unfortunately, none of those campuses we saw had signs so we were late. Also, when we DID find the right school, we tried a gate but it wasn't open. We walked down the street and found ourselves at the first place that the bus had stopped (arg!) and a woman came out and told us we were at the pool and sent us back to the first gate. We just had to push harder to open it--this had like crazy strength magnetic keeping it closed! Sigh. We got into the session and took our seats. Of course, it had already started. And of course it was a training of only 12 people (it was only for the collège/lycée assistants in the Ain region of Lyon) so we were totes noticed.
The training was, quite unexpectedly, run in French. Even though they were going through crazy important information like social security, finding a colocataire (roommate), medical coverage. Whatevs. Nothing you can't figure out on your own? Whatevs. When we had a break, the girl in front of us (Katelin) turned around and I said how we had hoped to come in late and unnoticed and she said not to worry. She told us that she had come in a bit late and the guy leading the session said, "You're late." Uh, thanks. Like I didn't already know that. At least they didn't call Kirsty and I out. Actually, it was funny because they started talking about transportation shortly after the two of us waltzed in and one of the side guys said it's not too hard to get places unless you're in Belley. And he looked at us and goes, "That's where the two of you came from, right?" I love his grasp of our plight. (Side note: Katelin just finished at USD where her freshman year roommate was Yesenia Barbarena with whom I went to high school. Why is the world getting smaller by the minute?!)
Then we went into the second part of the session where they talked about the importance of cultural immersion and everything. Joining clubs and how to work with students and balancing your relationships with the students so that they're comfortable but respectful. Pretty basic stuff. Then we broke for lunch, which was FO FREE! (Though each of us had to hop/limbo the turnstile to make it so.) We went to the lycée's cantine and one of the girls, Livia from Australia, stopped to take pictures of everything. No joke. Pictures of the signs, of the food, of the conveyor belt for the trays. Crazy! She majored in photography, which I guessed considering she had a massive camera around her neck. As usual, the food was great. (The day before, I ate at teh cantine in Belley. Cous cous. COUS COUS. At a high school cafeteria. And it was delicious. Sadly, though, I also picked up a container of what I thought was yogurt, but it was actually what tasted like softened cream cheese. Fromage blanc n'est pas délicieux.) I put together a salad of beets (for ma sœur), hearts of palm, artichoke hearts, and cous cous. They also had broccoli and chicken. I got mine sans poulet, so the chef gave me a bona fide mountain of broccoli. I also got a morceau (slice) of brie and a chocolate thing. I've learned that the French eat really large lunches and then smaller breakfasts and lunches.
Kirsty and I were at the end of the line so there wasn't space for us and another girl, Heather, at the large table, so the three of us sat separately. Heather's from Manchester but goes to uni in Newcastle. Pretty sure we saw one of the lycée profs drinking wine at lunch. Actually, am positive. Love it. I downed a cup of coffee with Daddy sugar cube in it. (Get it? Sugar Daddy. So darling. With really the hippest packaging. I tried to find a picture and typed in "daddy sugar" for the Google search. MISTAKE.) It's all colorful. Bright colors! Not enough of those here. Did I already say how everyone in France wears black?
Anyway, after lunch we went back to the room. They asked if we had any questions, and when we said no they released us! It was an unexpected treat considering that we had all expected to be in that room until 5 pm! So we all went to an outdoor café (we've been very lucky with weather) and had some wine or café au laits. (Except Livia who had to leave with her ride--the dude who knew about the transportation woes of Belley.) Bourg is really lovely. Such a shame that the people who are teaching there complain about it being so small and everything. They've never been to Belley.
I honestly just love the architecture in France. Everything is just so beautiful all the time. It's either incredibly quaint and endearing or utterly majestic. I can understand why so many defect. (But you needn't worry about me....yet.)
Anyway, we all chatted for about 3 hours. There's Mohsin from Manchester, who's studying at Oxford. Katelin from above. Moira from Halifax, Canada who's teaching in kind of a medieval town with, surprise surprise, beautiful architecture. She studied philosophy at uni and is kind of a hipster/hippie. Katie from Canada who still has one semester left but this is a year off for her. She says she never wants to finish college. Helen from Britain. Becky (who I mentioned in my last post as the girl whose mum gave her directions that led her to the motorway) from Britain. Trudi from Jamaica who's kind of crazy and has only had one semester of French. She memorized responses to expected questions and is just here, it seems, to fall in love. She also taught us to say raas (I don't know if this is how it's spelled, but it's pronounced just like the Indian dance. What up Diwali?), which means merde. She says her mom will let her say "shit" around her. But not raas. She also said, "You should meet my cousins. They're rastas. And their dreads. You know how they say 'Be fruitful?' They got six kids." There were a few others, too. But these were the ones with whom I spoke.
Then we walked back to the train station and managed to get on a bus 2 minutes before it was leaving for Ambérieu. Really just lucky timing since we were meant to be on a much later bus. We got back to Ambérieu to switch to the train and the same girl who mistook me for a native was there and we smiled the smile of natives to one another. And it felt AWESOME.
The next day I went in for classes again and in this one, it was a bit different. Since Sabine's class had been discussing stereotypes, she asked me what are some stereotypes of French people. I told her people (aka only Jimmy) has asked me if I've stopped shaving and bathing. So here's the list:
No shaving
No bathing
Smelly
Always on strike
Don't like Americans (One student said immediately, "Oui. C'est vrai!" And he said something abotu politics and everyone groaned. When Sabine asked who would like to go to the US, only three people raised their hands. She assumed that they hadn't understood the question, and so she asked again. This time everyone understood and everyone except the voice of discord raised his/her hand.)
They all smoke
More vacation
Good food ["Ouais, bien sur." (Yeah. Of course.) from one student.]
All are attractive (Surprisingly, no response to this one.)
Then they told me their stereotypes of Americans: We're fat and eat Macdo all the time. I told them I couldn't remember the last time that I ate at McDonalds (Macdo here) because I wasn't including my cappuccino. Funnily, the girl who said we eat there all the time eats at Macdo 3 times/month, which is way more than nearly everyone I know. When I brought it up with Kirsty, she certainly didn't deny that this is a stereotype that everyone has of Americans. Triste.
Kirsty and I went for lunch at the newly opened crêperie because I realized I had been in France for too long without having a crêpe prepared just for me. I got one with jambon (ham), fromage rapé (grated cheese), and pommes (apples--there was something special about their preparation, but I can't recall it just now). It was really good. The salad that it came with, though. The dressing tasted like mayo and mustard mixed together. Kirsty called this salad cream? Not sure. Dislike, though. I wished I had gotten a sweet one, though. I saw someone do it after I had placed my order. I had thought that I would be looked down upon for getting a dessert crêpe in the middle of the day, though. Never again will I let that mess keep me from an afternoon of caramel and chocolate in a thin pancake.
The classes I went to were fine. One of them is studying Jack the Ripper. And I'm pretty sure that they have an American exchange student, but I will report back with details as they become apparent. Marc invited me to go to the food festival, which is the biggest event of Belley, with him and his friends, so I was super happy! Even if he only invited me out of pity, which surely he didn't because I'm so lovable?
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| Market during the day. Aka empty/vide. |
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| Um... Freshest honey ever? Yes. |
Afterwards, Kirsty told me that she was in town and there was a market, so I decided to go. I was hoping for Borough Market's Belleyanne cousin. In vain. I ended up with some olive tapenade made with chataignes (chestnuts). So delicious.
When we came back, I had some actual lunch and then went for a run because I knew I was going to live obesely (as is the supposed American way) in the evening.
Kirsty hadn't gotten tickets for the event because we both thought that it was on Saturday and her mum was coming into town. So when Marc asked if I was going and informed me that it was later on Friday, I was eternally grateful. Unfortunately, there weren't any tickets left when Kirsty went to the Tourist Office, but she came along anyway to mooch. We went into city centre about 8:00 to meet Marc. As soon as I walked up he said, "Ca va? Tu as commencé de boire?" which means "How are you? Have you started drinking?" Fool of fools. I hadn't. Because the meal ticket had 4 glasses of wine included. Oh well. Although, it would have been better because studies show having some drinks in you makes you more comfortable speaking an acquired language. Maybe I should do shots before Monday?
Anyway, we went to meet up with some of Marc and his girlfriend's, Isabelle, friends: Sandrine, Nadia, Sébastian, Michael (Séb's brother), Jean Claude (who invited himself to visit my parents' house in Los Angeles), Ton Ton (Séb's uncle), and Booch (TonTon's wife). SO many two cheek bisous.
Sébastian is a mess. Just in general. He speaks crazy quickly (Marc says Sébastian even speaks too quickly for him to understand sometimes. And when he's drunk, he's totally fou/crazy.) and found it impossible to say Kirsty's name. All night he would say, "Jessica! And Rolalala" or something like that to refer to me and Kirsty.
[Related story. There's this other Marc who lives at the school and when I first met him he asked for my name.
Me: Jessica.
Me: Jessica.
Him: Pardon?
Me: Djesseeka.
Him: Ah. Bon.
The pronunciation of my name in French apparently changes ability to understand it. Anyway, Sébastian obviously says my name Djesseeka.]
Sébastian is also learning Spanish and would often start speaking it (see what I said about being more comfortable?). He asked for besos, and since I spent my summer at The 2-9, I knew exactly how to respond appropriately and en espagnol.
Well, needless to say there was a lot of drinking involved. Almost immediately after meeting Marc's friends, Kirsty and I went to get some wine--the sparkling kind that's Belley's specialty. I asked if Kirsty could pay for a glass with money and the dude said no but when he asked if we only had one ticket, I said yes. (I'm no fool.) So he gave us the two glasses for frizzle. Kirsty promptly spilled her entire glass on the counter between us and the server. He kind of laughed and then re-poured it. That's right, suckas. Three glasses of wine for the price of one. Gettin' slizzered. Anyway, we went over to talk to Marc et al and he explained that in Belley everyone drinks a lot and then eats. In Lyon, they eat and drink at the same time. So when I went back for a second glass of wine (this time red), Marc said I was like a native of Belley. (Count it. TWO native compliments in one week.) Then some of us put together our tickets to get a bottle of wine.
We managed to find a table, even though it was SUPREMELY crowded--literally crawling with people, which was quite different from every other time I've been about town. So, this meant it was time to get to grubbin. Before I forget, this dégustation (tasting) was being held because Belley is the birthplace of Brillat-Savarin so these people take their food very seriously. The first course was quite good. Unfortunately, I can't recall the names of anything. Anyway, I took a bite and insisted Kirsty try it. She didn't like it at all since it was covered in egg. I didn't know that Kirsty doesn't like egg. Oops. Anyway, Marc asked if I knew what it was, and I didn't. He said he wouldn't tell me until he had finished. He said, "Like if I were in Scotland, I'd try haggis (which Kirsty's never tried), it's important for you to have this here." Once I had finished it, he asked if I liked it. I did. He said it's made out of sang bouillé. Boiled blood. Of a pig. Regardless, it was delicious. Too bad pork is bad for my blood type (and actually all blood types). Surely, though, the blood is an exception? (Sorry no photo!)
The next course was ginger rice with pintade (guinea fowl) in a soy sauce. It was good, but the rice looked like mashed potatoes--probs because we didn't start eating until like 9:30.
Then, of course, as it's France, we had a fromage course. The cheese was Brillat-Savarin. Dude was so epic that they named a cheese after him. It's quite creamy and had like a citrus bit in the middle. Kirsty doesn't like citrus. But she liked the rest of the cheese.
The second to last course was dessert. (Last was coffee, which I didn't take.) There were two choices: chocolat noir or chocolat blanc. Because I'm not generally a fan of white chocolate, I went for the dark (on the left). Mistake as it was clearly inferior to the other one. Luckily, Marc let us try his, though. At least I know what the possibilities are. Both kinds of chocolate were combined with raspberry: the dark with a rasperry sauce on the side, and the white with kind of a fluffy raspberry concoction. As you can see in the above left photo, some people couldn't get enough cheese. Sébastian and his friends kept on going back for more and loaded our table with it.
(I hope that you've read the above menu and realized just why I am a flexitarian and not a strict vegetarian.)
Then they started to clean up the spread. Sébastian is in fine form now and starts walking around and joking with everyone. At one point, he picks up a bullhorn and starts singing/taunting all of the bargoers. Everyone is actually really enjoyable. It's all quite funny because Sébastian's pop is a policeman, so there's this public drunkenness that is totally acceptable even though you'd think he'd have to keep his stuff together. He says to me, "Je vais t'épouser." I tell him okay, but not now. Later. So, guys if I don't come home in May, it's because I'm époused.
After Marc and Isabelle go to the hospital where Isa works to get a cup of coffee while Nadia, Booch, Kirsty and I have some drinks at Le Télégraphe (the first bar Kirsty and I went to last Friday). I had a demi-pêche, which is beer mixed with peach syrup. It was top drawer, really! All these European countries (aka England and France) have mixed their beers with something actually good tasting, and always come out with a winner. I loves it. When that bar closes, we continue onto the next bar down the street and Nadia tries to get something to drink, but it's already closed even though there's a bunch of people hanging out inside. This is apparently the wino bar where weirdos go. I'm glad to know it. Marc and Isa return and we make our way down the street to Marc and Isa's apartment. We all sit down. Nadia and TonTon have beers. Booch has a tea. Marc and Isa have Chartreuse. Nadia later had some and offered me a sip. As I don't generally enjoy drinking straight booze, I wanted to decline. But, for you, dear readers, I said yes. It was...let's just say "not good." It tasted like nature with mint. Or like a pine tree. But it's made by monks, so there's that.
Isa asks Marc to put on some music but they ask if anyone can play the piano. Actually, they specifically ask Kirsty and me if either of us can play. I say I can play like 2 songs (gross exaggeration) and they insist that I do. Well, too bad that for some reason, the keys don't sound quite right so I flail around on the ebony and ivory in less than perfect harmony for five minutes before saying "Desolée" and going to my seat. Then Marc goes to sit down and just whips out "Comptine d'un autre été" like it ain't no thang but a chicken wang. I'm embarrassed.
We all sit around chewing the fat for a bit and the Séb arrives and sits on a chair before passing out. Snoring. Shortly after, his aunt and uncle leave. It's nearly 2:00 now, so I'm super impressed with their stamina. I know my parents peace out pretty early. So Nadia starts looking for the camera and laughing about Séb when I say that in the US if someone falls asleep before everyone else, they get written on, which is actually something that I've never personally done, but I know its possibilities. So Nadia thinks it's just the best idea ever and they go to town on Séb. They start slowly with an earring, a belly button ring, and a wedding ring. But as it continues, Isa and Marc get in on the action. They write fake phone numbers all over: his arm, his leg, his back. I dare to participate, writing "con besitos" on his back.
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| It says, "Chartreuse?" |
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| That's Isa with the glasses and Nadia looking on. |
Jess
Monday, October 4, 2010
Ducks are native to Africa, aren’t they?
To everyone who checked this blog on Sunday, I’m terribly sorry. I know that I had promised a Sunday reading section, but since I just found out definitively that we don’t have the interwebs on Sunday, it really prohibited any such post.
Yesterday (Saturday as I write this), Kirsty and I got up at 6:45 to be at the bus stop (for there’s only one in Belley) at 8:15 so that we could be in Lyon at noon for a picnic for all of the Lyon assistants. I was up early enough to see the sunrise. 
We walk for about 25 minutes, and come into an entrance and look at the map of the parc. Of course, we’ve come through the gates on the opposite side of the parc from where all of the other assistants were meeting. We keep walking. At one point, we see a large group of people on the grass and start walking towards them—tentatively, of course. We stop about 15 feet away when we realize that they’re speaking French. Not our group. We keep going towards the intended entrance and come upon another mass of people. We hesitate to make sure they’re speaking English, which they are. I am suddenly unsure of what to do and feel awkward walking up to these people nearly an hour late and can’t decide which group to sit with. Luckily, a girl with dreadlocks, two small arm tattoos, and three lip rings beckons us with both arms to sit in her group. We sit down and a blonde girl, Sophie, asks us our names, where we’re from, and where we’re teaching. We tell her and she responds with her information. She goes to Oxford but is studying abroad here, is teaching near Lyon’s center, and is studying French and German. 
In case you’re wondering, we do make it to the zoo. Bo is mightily disappointed by the size of all of the animals at the Lyon zoo. This is her first time at a zoo because her parents are Buddhist and don’t believe in the caging of animals. I agree that the animals are puny (they must all be babies, or something), but am not as bothered by it as she is. (I’ve been to many zoos. Thank you, parents, for a fulfilling childhood.) “The destruction of a childhood dream” is what she terms this afternoon. As we walk, though, Bo has tons of facts about the zoo animals. Nearly Bert Bernacchi status. (Bert and her family are wonks when it comes to animals. Srsly, though. Ask her about any of them.)
Today (Sunday) the weather was beautiful, and I spent it sitting outside eating my first pre-prepared meal (a pizza chèvre/goat cheese pizza. Sorry, Katelyn.) from the only boulangerie open on Sunday and reading. (And then writing this inside.)
A LOT has happened since my last post. We’ll start with the other assistant who arrived on Wednesday. Kirsty Campbell is from outside of Glasgow, Scotland. She is in her third year of uni at University of Glasgow and this is essentially her study abroad. She could have gone to uni in France or taught and who’s not up for making some cash money? Since she has been living at home and going to university, this is Kirsty’s first time being away from home for more than a week. I will report back on Thursday what it has really been like for her. She studies Geography and French (which she has been learning for 9 years), watches American television, and is frightened of dogs and spiders. She also doesn’t like peanut butter (which doesn’t make a lick of sense. But people have had to deal with shams of peanut butter, so I’ll allow it… but still be confounded by it.). Kirsty will be working at the lycée professionnel and the collège, which means she’s working at the vocational-focused school and the middle school. Sorry I can’t be more specific about how the French school system works; even though we spent at least a week on it in my “How Does One Be French: Communication, Conversation, and Culture” class at Wash U, I have no idea how everything functions.
So Kirsty and I went for a walk about Belley, which was nice. We went to library, which was closed as usual. So we went to the Macdo (McDonald’s) to get some interwebs. I had looked at my map and discovered that the Macdo is by the Carrefour. But, since it’s on the other side of the roundabout, one has to strangely walk along the side of a highway-ish street and roundabout to reach it. (The things I go through for Facebook…) We made it and it is the fanciest McDonald’s I have ever seen. None of the painfully bright reds and yellows of America. It was all natural colors with low, hanging overhead lighting. Not industrial white lights. Since we were there to scam on the information superhighway, Kirsty and I both got coffees. I got a cappuccino for 1.70, and it wasn’t half bad. (I am in no position to pass judgment on coffee as I don’t particularly care for it, and so I will leave it to the experts.) Before we left, I stopped in at the toilet and in the handicapped stall they had the TINIEST toilet I have ever seen. I was super bummed that I had left my camera at home because I SO wanted to show all of you how ridiculous it was. It was like a training toilet. (Please realize that this was in addition to the regular sized toilet. I wasn’t squatting over a half-pint sized toilet.)
That night Kirsty, Carine, and I watched The Mentalist in French (what's actually crazy is that that is the exact episode that I watched), which was tough, but I did my very best to keep up. Kirsty watches it regularly and had seen those episodes in English, so I had thought she was totally getting what was going on. She later divulged her secret to me. Carine was complaining about the publicités/commercials, which I thought was funny because they only had 1 break. Or maybe they were all shown at the end? In any event, there were hardly any, and she said it was dégeulasse that we had so many per hour. Also, I realized that The Mentalist is just like Psych only not funny. (Big ups to Idil for making me watch Psych.)
On Friday, I was to go to the lycée to get my observation schedule for this week, and I was able to carry on 3 conversations in French without feeling like a ridiculous poseur. I talked to Marc about the bank accounts we’ll be opening on Tuesday. I talked to Sabine about women’s rights and the recent resurgence of feminists in the youth of France (but who hate to be called the F word—it’s not a bad thing! As Sarah would say, “I don’t hate it”) Then I went to the principal’s office, and I really do thing that she will be my PAL. Madame Buer talked to me about renting a car, internet, Belley vs. Los Angeles vs. San Francisco. I left on such a crazy French high!
In other news, before we switched to French, Sabine asked what my heritage is. The night before, Carine had said that my parents must be foreign, and I said, “No. They were both born in the United States.” She seemed confused and asked when my parents were. I said, “My mom is Irish and Scottish.” And she seemed to understand from there. I couldn’t get out what Dad is. I mean that I couldn’t get it out in two ways: 1) She didn’t ask me to continue. 2) I don’t actually know how to say Dad’s ethnic makeup in French. Moving on, though, Sabine asked about my background. “Is there any Asian in your heritage?” No. My mom is white and my dad is Native American and black. (Remember this is Sabine and we’re in English.) “Oh? I thought maybe you were Indian.” Yeah. That happens a lot. “It’s so funny to hear about the racial difficulties in America and then you come here…” And then she didn’t finish her sentence! I have NO idea what she was going to say or what she was talking about… So, it’s a mystery to perhaps be solved a different day.
Later, Kirsty and I went for yet another walk about town. We had actually gone out with the express purpose of finding the market to which Kirsty’s contact had taken her after she arrived at the Lyon airport. We walked up and down hills backwards and forwards and everywhere in between because she couldn’t recall where it was. Meanwhile, every market that we passed, I would go inside to see if they had peanut butter—I’m concerned about getting my protein. When we passed a bio (organic) store, Kirsty said we should go inside because maybe they’d have it. No offense to organic stuff, but your peanut butter is wack. Since I kind of like the Trader Joe’s organic peanut butter (even though it’s crazy sweet), I went inside hoping to get lucky. And, would you believe it, they did have some. It’s Rapunzel peanut butter, which should have tipped me off straight away. Rapunzel has no connection to peanuts or butter. She has ties to hair. So I wasn’t going to get it at all but then I thought maybe I’d better get used to something new. And so I dropped the 3.71 for a baby sized jar of peanut butter. We continued on our market tour of Belley until we found the Simply to which Kirsty had gone. We went inside and I started walking around and, without thinking about it, I found myself in the Nutella aisle. (Because without peanut butter, all France sells in these sections is the cookie spread, Nutella and its imposters, and jelly.) But, WOULD YOU BELIEVE IT!? They had Skippy peanut butter. Now, I have done a fair amount of peanut butter taste testing in my day, and Skippy is just inferior to Jif. No offense to anyone who is a staunch supporter of Skippy, but you’re just wrong. But, for some reason, Skippy seems to be all that is sold abroad of American brands. I don’t know why. Maybe this is why Kirsty doesn’t like peanut butter. (She calls it “dry.”) I was all a dither to find it and so wanted to purchase it. But since it was the exact same size and same price as the other jar I had just purchased (which, I’ll mention is way less than it goes for in Britain), I couldn’t justify it. I decided that as soon as I finish my organic tripe, I’ll go back for it. And tripe it is, my friends. Because the German company that manufactures Rapunzel uses whatever the original recipe was for peanut butter (so the jar says), and let me tell you that evolution happened for a reason!
After we came home for lunch, Kirsty and I went to the library because we felt certain that it would be open. Third try’s a charm! We went in and perused the shelves for a bit and I was about to check out a book when I decided to venture into an adjacent room, and lo and behold, they have a section in English! It’s quite an odd collection, actually. With Virginia Woolf alongside Bridget Jones’s Diary. So, I took out Orlando, which I’m sure will not be as good as the movie. I’m going to work my way up to reading in French. I also looked at the library’s DVD and CD collection and am veritably impressed. It has Wong Kar-Wai’s In the Mood for Love AND 2046. Wash U’s Olin library couldn’t even be bothered to get 2046, which is the sequel to the former. On top of that, though, the Belley library also has the soundtrack to In the Mood for Love (which one of my professors called “objectively, the most beautiful film ever made”), Amélie, My Fair Lady, and so many others. Not to mention Ennio Morricone! I already have a bunch of these soundtracks (I had a radio show to do!), but it really spoke to the quality of the library. So much of what I just said goes out to Stephi. Respect. Anyway, I joined the library so that I can check stuff out nonstop. What’s annoying, though, is that it costs to be a member. 13€/year! Which isn’t that bad considering one book costs about 20€ for keepsies. It says that I can check out 6 books and 2 CDs or something like that. I read this as that’s all I can do for the whole year, but Kirsty thinks it’s at a time. I hope it’s the former because 6 books/year is a crime.
Friday night, Kirsty and I went out to some bars. I asked Natasha (who did the program last year in Belley—did I mention her before?) for some recommendations. And she mentioned all three bars in Belley. We went to Le Télégraphe, which, as she predicted, is a student bar. We had some of the sparkling wine for which Belley is known (at least, what we guessed its famous wine is) and then sat around for a bit before going to Bar des Aigles. They were playing crazy techno music when we went in—kind of like THIS. We were speaking English, so the bartender knew that we were the new assistants. (I guess Belley isn’t as big as I had thought..) Anyway, we were enjoying the tunes (“Like a G6” came on and I went Cataracs crazy for a minute) and drinking some white wine. Then this animated fellow next to us turned to us and started asking what we were doing in Belley. (This conversation goes down in French.) I told him we were teaching at the high school using the verb enseigner, which means to teach. He kept on saying apprendre in response, which made me think that he thought that we were learning English. I kept on trying to explain that we were doing the opposite. But since I don’t know the word for opposite, it took about 15 minutes to understand that we were actually saying the same thing. He was just using a different meaning of apprendre. Then he said that he is a paysagiste. Having never heard the word before (and not really being sure which word he had even said), he took at least 5 minutes to explain that he’s a gardener. Then he stepped outside for a smoke, which is when Kirsty and I decided we had better get going because it was nearly midnight and we had to be on a bus at 8 a.m. Anyway, the bartender at Bar des Aigles was really nice and gave us free refills. We left him 2€ and he said, “Qu’est que c’est ça?” (A.k.a. “What’s that?”) I told him it was for him and he said no but we left it there anyway. He’ll surely remember us when we go back.
Yesterday (Saturday as I write this), Kirsty and I got up at 6:45 to be at the bus stop (for there’s only one in Belley) at 8:15 so that we could be in Lyon at noon for a picnic for all of the Lyon assistants. I was up early enough to see the sunrise. We made it to Chambéry at 9:00. There was a train leaving for Lyon at 9:01, but since we didn’t already have our tickets, we had to wait in line and missed it. Since the next train to Lyon was at 10:01 (and this was the one that we had planned on taking anyway as it would get us to the city at 11:16), we had an hour to kill. We had our photos taken so that we could get the 12-25 discount card for the train system. We then got on the train and waited for the next leg of our adventure. Then there was an announcement that the train would be 5 minutes late. Since we were already going to be arriving 45 minutes early, I didn’t mind. Then it was 10 minutes. Then 15. Then 30. Then 50. Then they told us to get on a different train. But as we were getting of, another announcement said to stay on the train. At this point, this blonde girl hears Kirsty and me talking confusedly and starts kind of hanging around but not saying anything. Kirsty asks me what’s going on and I say I don’t know and go ask the SNCF (French trains) guy what’s up en français, bien sur. He says to go to the other platform. The blonde girl continues with us and then starts talking to us in English. She’s here from Nebraska spending a year in a French high school. She sits with us on the train and then when we arrive in Lyon at 12:22, she says, “Au revoir.”
When Kirsty and I get off the train, I realize that we didn’t know where the parc actually is in relation to the train station and that I didn’t recall what time we needed to be back at the train to get back to Chambéry for our bus (because, naturally, the last bus to Belley leaves at 5:30 p.m. And there is no bus service on Sundays. And Kirsty has a class at 9:00 a.m. on Monday.). So Kirsty goes to the toilet and I look at the map outside of the station and see that the Parc Tête d’Or is not on the map. Awesome. I wait for Kirsty to get back because I can’t go anywhere or I’d lose her. When she gets back I ask her if she knows when we need to be back at the station. She didn’t note it either. So we go to the info desk and when I tell her to get in line while I go look for the train schedule, she gets panicked and says, “Shouldn’t you? Since you’ll be the one talking anyway..” The line is practically out the door, so I tell her to just wait in line because I can search fast enough to still make it back in time to talk to the person behind the desk as well, which I do. Because I can’t find a map of Lyon. There’s a map of Paris in the Lyon train station. But none of Lyon. Makes sense. (I know I sound really bossy right now. But, I’d been doing nearly all of the talking for Kirsty and I since she arrived. Including talking to her teller while she was buying her 12-25 SNCF card. So, at this point, I kind of am the boss? Sorry, Tony Danza.) The woman at the desk says to get a bus from out front to the parc. She can’t be more helpful than that. When we get outside, I start looking at the public transit maps to figure out how to get there. It seems to be about 2 stops away but I’m all a dither because we’re already so late at this point, and Kirsty wants to walk. So, I ask an older, jolly woman who’s waiting at the bus stop where the parc is and she says it’s 20 minutes away. And to just stay à droit à droit à droit (to the right to the right to the right). When she asks if we’re walking, I say yes and she makes a face like, “Okay. You crazy,” but repeats her directions. And we’re off!
We walk for about 25 minutes, and come into an entrance and look at the map of the parc. Of course, we’ve come through the gates on the opposite side of the parc from where all of the other assistants were meeting. We keep walking. At one point, we see a large group of people on the grass and start walking towards them—tentatively, of course. We stop about 15 feet away when we realize that they’re speaking French. Not our group. We keep going towards the intended entrance and come upon another mass of people. We hesitate to make sure they’re speaking English, which they are. I am suddenly unsure of what to do and feel awkward walking up to these people nearly an hour late and can’t decide which group to sit with. Luckily, a girl with dreadlocks, two small arm tattoos, and three lip rings beckons us with both arms to sit in her group. We sit down and a blonde girl, Sophie, asks us our names, where we’re from, and where we’re teaching. We tell her and she responds with her information. She goes to Oxford but is studying abroad here, is teaching near Lyon’s center, and is studying French and German. The conversation continues and Sophie starts talking about how the climate has been wreaking havoc on her hair: “It’s been quite tuggy."
That’s when the girl with the dreadlocks says of her inability to contribute to the conversation, “I haven’t combed my hair in four years.” And that, essentially, is my introduction to Bo. She is also here for study abroad. Living in Lyon proper. Is from Scotland, though I can’t recall her university. Bo apologizes for being so loopy but she was pumped full of morphine the day before. (The title of this post comes from her reaction to seeing ducks swimming in the water around flamingos while we were in the African Plain section of the zoo.) Honestly, I’m not sure why she was morphined the day before, but I think it made for excellent hijinx. Near the park’s lake, there is a woman feeding the geese and Bo asks if anyone wants to feed them with her. I say I’ll do it because prête à tout means “up for anything,” and this was really the first test, wasn’t it? So we go over and feed them. She offers me her loaf of bread and I tear off a hunk and actually eat some of it because Kirsty and I didn’t have time to get any food for this picnic before throwing it to the geese. In case you’re wondering, feeding geese is kind of terrifying. Bo had said she wanted to be bitten by one and I told her that dreams can come true. As we start feeding them, it kind of becomes overwhelming and they all swarm you and they stare you in the eye kind of menacingly. Suddenly Bo doesn’t want any of it and she throws the loaf of bread, nearly taking out a pigeon, and turns and runs back to the group. I don’t take any animals down, but I do go back.
That’s when the girl with the dreadlocks says of her inability to contribute to the conversation, “I haven’t combed my hair in four years.” And that, essentially, is my introduction to Bo. She is also here for study abroad. Living in Lyon proper. Is from Scotland, though I can’t recall her university. Bo apologizes for being so loopy but she was pumped full of morphine the day before. (The title of this post comes from her reaction to seeing ducks swimming in the water around flamingos while we were in the African Plain section of the zoo.) Honestly, I’m not sure why she was morphined the day before, but I think it made for excellent hijinx. Near the park’s lake, there is a woman feeding the geese and Bo asks if anyone wants to feed them with her. I say I’ll do it because prête à tout means “up for anything,” and this was really the first test, wasn’t it? So we go over and feed them. She offers me her loaf of bread and I tear off a hunk and actually eat some of it because Kirsty and I didn’t have time to get any food for this picnic before throwing it to the geese. In case you’re wondering, feeding geese is kind of terrifying. Bo had said she wanted to be bitten by one and I told her that dreams can come true. As we start feeding them, it kind of becomes overwhelming and they all swarm you and they stare you in the eye kind of menacingly. Suddenly Bo doesn’t want any of it and she throws the loaf of bread, nearly taking out a pigeon, and turns and runs back to the group. I don’t take any animals down, but I do go back.
When we’re seated again she says, “Feeding an animal gives you like 12000 wondrous lives in Buddhism, so I’ll probably be a god or something.” I ask if that happens even if you nearly kill a pigeon. And she says, “I would never mean to hurt them. I’m vegan.” Bo then starts getting impatient about going to the zoo. “I want to see some giraffes!”
Eventually, we all start moseying along the path, and Bo starts rhapsodizing about how beautiful everything is. Another girl, Emily, says, “It is beautiful. But I bet it’s even better for you since you’re high.”
The walk along the lake.
This reminded me of Ferngully. I didn't touch it, but I felt like I could feel its pain.
In case you’re wondering, we do make it to the zoo. Bo is mightily disappointed by the size of all of the animals at the Lyon zoo. This is her first time at a zoo because her parents are Buddhist and don’t believe in the caging of animals. I agree that the animals are puny (they must all be babies, or something), but am not as bothered by it as she is. (I’ve been to many zoos. Thank you, parents, for a fulfilling childhood.) “The destruction of a childhood dream” is what she terms this afternoon. As we walk, though, Bo has tons of facts about the zoo animals. Nearly Bert Bernacchi status. (Bert and her family are wonks when it comes to animals. Srsly, though. Ask her about any of them.)We walk back and sit down with some people who came even later than we did, including Becky from Britain who got so lost meeting up with Trudi from Jamaica that she had to call her mom back home to get her directions on GoogleMaps. Unfortunately, though, Becky’s mom was giving her driving directions so she ended up walking along a motorway and then had to restart. Leila from Ireland was there as well. They seemed very friendly, but since it was already 3:00, Kirsty and I could only spend a few minutes with them before we left again. We had to be back at the train station at 3:41 in order to make it on time for our bus.
As we were walking, there was a group of Frenchmen. One was in a pink tutu and a blonde wig. The others were all in sombreros. I turned to take a picture and, because I’m so devastatingly gorgeous (hai, sarcasm), this man on a bicycle fell over his daughter on her bike. It was a really awful collision, and so I have no photo. And we couldn’t help because we were running late. I felt ghastly.
We made it back to Belley without issue.
Today (Sunday) the weather was beautiful, and I spent it sitting outside eating my first pre-prepared meal (a pizza chèvre/goat cheese pizza. Sorry, Katelyn.) from the only boulangerie open on Sunday and reading. (And then writing this inside.)
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| This is on the lycée campus. What I looked at while eating my lunch. |
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| Pizza from the boulangerie |
Nom noms,
Jessica
P.S. Sorry this post is so long.
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