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€.

View from inside.  Steamy.

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