Annie, Est-ce Que Ça Va?

I should prolly mention the reason it was so important for me to go visit Flo that weekend two posts ago.  Naturally, it was because I needed to exploit her.  Or, more precisely, her kitchen cupboards.  Hao?

            So during my tutoring session with Charlène two weeks before, we were practicing pronunciation with some reading I had brought along.  Because I like to keep the reading material interesting, I gave her some of a Ms. Paula “DJ P Tain” Davis’s (now defunct) blog to read.  In it, Paula recounts what she does while on hours-long runs with the dogs.  At one point, she mentions that she tries to sing songs.  In her attempts, she realizes that she only knows one song all the way through: “Build Me Up Buttercup” by The Foundations.  Charlène stopped reading to look at me.  “Do you know this song?” she asked.

“Of course.  Everyone knows it.”

“I don’t know it,” she responded.

I was certain she was putting me on, though.  So I sang a few lines.

She looked at me blankly and kind of frowned a bit as she shrugged her shoulders.  And I don’t think it was because of my singing.  She genuinely did not recognize the song.  STRIKE ONE for American culture’s Imperialism!

The following week, I had put together a worksheet for her.  Because I’m the awesomest tutor ever.  We were going over expressions of regret.  As I was feeling particularly homesick, I put in a sentence about cupcakes.  In fact, the sentence was “I wish I had known that my brother was coming to pick me up from school.  Then I would not have gone out for cupcakes.”  (Okay, so it was a ridiculous fill in the blank sentence, but you try making up your own worksheets!)  As we reviewed the sentences and read them aloud, Charlène paused. 

“What is this?” she said as she pointed to the word “cupcakes.”

I explained that they are magnificent person sized cakes that are almost better than cakes because they’re all yours.  Again I got the blank look.  STRIKE TWO for American culture’s imperialism.  I was scared to wait for strike three.  At the end of the lesson she told me that it was her birthday the following week.  I asked her if she was sure she wanted to have an English lesson on her birthday and she was all, “Hellz yeah.”  (More like a “yes” coming from her.)

So I set to plotting.  I put together a mix CD of American music to commence the education and decided to sort out a way to get some cupcakes in her belly.  Naturally they don’t sell box mix for cakes in this area, so I had to find a reliable recipe online.  (Please don’t knock my use of box mix.  I mean, there’s a reason their recipes were so good that they started to sell them.)  Anyway, it was scary and overwhelming so I turned to a friend from high school who is a cake snob (I am too, but her snobbism comes in terms of “from scratch.”  In this way, I am a cookie snob.)  I asked for her recipe.  She sent it to me.  The numbering in what she had sent me was a bit confusing because what I discovered in trying to sort it out was that she had copied and pasted the Hershey’s Recipe into a Facebook message but had forgotten to erase some of the sequential numbers. 

So that Friday, I set off to the Carrefour to get them ingredients.  While at Flo’s, I picked up her former Canadian au pair’s cupcake tray.  And she offered me a measuring cup.  But not just ANY measuring cup, y’all.  An imperial measuring cup!  How great is it to make a recipe without having to do conversions?  I can’t even begin to tell you.

So on Monday I asked Michele if I could use the kitchen in the internat so’s I could get to baking.  She said sure and that she’s open it around 5.  Well, when I went down a bit late (because I had been chatting with my folks as it was MLK Day), I was horrified to see that it wasn’t open.  Luckily, it was dinner time so I was able to find Michele in the cantine getting her dinner grub on.  She gave me the key, and I ran back to get to work.

Quite a massive kitchen.  I’m fairly certain that it’s where the students at the lycée pro (professional/vocational high school) have cooking class.  They also prepare meals to be sold to teachers sometimes.  Because in France, if you haven’t reached your full potential (or don’t seem like you have the potential that they think you need to go to university), you go to a lycée professionnel instead of lycée général et technologique (where I teach).  I had to make a few trips back and forth from the kitchen on the ground floor and through a locked door that doesn’t stay open to my room on the fourth floor where I had forgotten a few key ingredients (aka butter and eggs).  Eventually, I had everything together and was baking like old times. 

Oops.  Burned the first batch.  Don’t know how that happened.  But I just started scraping out everything into a plastic bag.  But then I tasted one and realized that maybe they weren’t burnt after all but that they just looked that way.  Welp, it was too late at that point, so I just hoped that the second set would come out better.  Hedging my bets, I decided to cook them for less time.  This meant that they were maybe less than fully done in the middle.  But only on some of them.  It was basically a hot mess, but I couldn’t get too crazy over it since no one would know any better. 

I then went back upstairs with the spare ingredients in my backpack.  As I was going up the stairs, I felt like I was sweating a lot on my lower back.  Nope!  It was the rest of the milk spilling out of its container and into the bottom of my backpack.  Good thing my computer was in there too.  Maybe some of you don’t know my HORRIBLE history with computers.  Let’s just say there was this one time where I spilled an entire 10oz. glass of water on my laptop.  It never was the same after that.  So I was terrified.  I said a little prayer and tenderly wiped it dry as I repeated, “Pleasepleaseplease.”  IT WORKED!  Thank goodness.  Imagining my life in Belley without a computer is actually kind of terrifying.  And you can bet your bottom dollar that there wouldn’t have been anywhere for me to get it repaired.

So that was done and the next day, I gave the CD, some microwave popcorn, and a Reese’s peanut butter cup to Charlène with 4 cupcakes.  She said they were, “Super bon!”  Success!

That weekend, I was off to Paris to visit Maryse.  So I got over to the cheese shop to get some Brillat Savarin cheese since Maryse had informed me that she wouldn’t allow me into her apartment without some in hand.  Well, of course that meant that when I went to the cheese place, the woman informed me that she didn’t have any ready.  This was the second time she’d let me down.  That’s when she let me know that she didn’t make it every week.  So I got some regular Brillat Savarin without the citrus middle and hoped Maryse would take pity on the poor country mouse. 

I was on my way to Paris because when I had been there for New Years, I had seen ads for a photo exhibit at the Jeu de Paume Museum, which is in the Tuileries.  So I made a special effort to get back in order to see it since I had FAILED the Larry Clark exhibit.  (Something for which I will probably never forgive myself.  Or Jennifer.)  So on Thursday I took the train to Bellegarde and switched to the TGV to arrive in Paris in the early evening. 

Maryse had texted me to say she was in the early stages of laryngitis, or so she thought, and could I please make my way over to her apartment solo?  Naturally, I was inclined to acquiesce.  On my way over, I picked up a baguette from the boulangerie on her street that makes awesome ones.  When I arrived at hers, she wasn’t at her best (as expected) but we just chatted as she prepared dinner.  Then she asked me if I could do her a favor and go get some honey and a galette des rois (remember the cake that has a bean in it for Three Kings Day?) and I said that I could for shiz.  She sent me to the store where all the food is frozen because she wanted a galette with a strawberry filling instead of the almond one that is customary.  I went up and down the aisles twice looking for one, but no dice.  So I asked if they had any and they said nah.  So I ended up getting both items at the regular grocery store.  

Then back up to Maryse’s.  She was making a chicken noodle soup, but we did not have a soda on the side.  Michael arrived with a salad, and we all sat down for some bread and cheese (including my non-rejected one! and some cheeses that Cécile’s parents had sent her from Strasbourg).  Then salad followed by soup.  When it came time for the galette, I warned that both times I had had galette, I had won the bean.  Then Maryse said that she was the Queen. 

As we pulled the cake from the oven, I was told to get under the table.  What?  The youngest person has to sit under the table to say who gets each piece.  That way the kid can’t cheat to get the bean.  I had heard something similar when I had been eating with the dessert club the week before (where I had won the bean), so I just asked if they srsly wanted me to get under the table.  They said yes.  And then Maryse said that I’d have to run around the block naked.  And that’s where I lost it.  I asked if that was seriously a tradition.  Cécile backed her up.  Considering that these galettes are usually eaten with families where the youngest kid is probably 4-5, I figured it didn’t really matter if they ran around naked.  So I was just super confused and didn’t know what to think.  We went back and forth with me being incredulous and them insisting that I was just silly for not knowing the French tradition until Maryse took pity on the gullible country girl and told me that running around the block naked would be a ridiculous tradition but that I seriously did have to get under the table.  So I did.  But Michael won the fèvre.  Sad.

Eventually Maryse and Cécile went to bed.  Michael and I stayed up chatting for a while until he headed out. 

The next morning, I was hoping to meet Maryse at school so that I could meet her favorite mixed students, including a little girl named Canelle (which means Cinnamon).  (Which prompted me to respond with a story of a teacher with a friend who had named her children Vanille/Vanilla and Myrtille/Blueberry.)  But, sadly, Maryse wasn’t feeling well enough to go to school so I just sat around drinking tea until about noon and then got on the metro to meet Michael at the Jeu de Paume for the photo exhibit. 

He was a bit late so I took some photos of my own.  I think I’ll be ready for my own showing pretty soon.

How Parisian.

It's all about severed arms and teamwork, mah dawg.

Michael arrived and we went through.  It was an interesting exhibit with a lot of the photos at the beginning being, legitimately, no larger than the size of the palm of my hand.  Which is saying something.  Which also made it difficult to go through the exhibit since there were lots of students going through making drawings of the photos.  In the way.  Eventually, though, Andre Kertesz’s photos got larger, and I was able to enjoy them without the riffraff getting in my way. 

Here’s the photo that was used to advertise the exposition (exhibit.  Be careful to not say exhibition because that has to do with being naked.  Learned that the embarrassing way.)

Just keep swimming..

But dis one wuz mai (and Michael's) favorite:

Well, not actually, but it's close.  And they were next to each other.

Then his photos got really weird.  He used funhouse mirrors to take nude photos of women in strange ways.  Like, there was a photo of a single leg with two feet.  Obviously an illusion, but I just wasn’t sure why you would do that.  And I couldn’t imaging someone buying the magazine in which they were published being happy with those photos.  But anyway, we finished with that and then went to meet Maryse at a vintage store.

We spent some time perusing ridiculous clothes as well as some time with Michael and Maryse trying to convince me to get a fur bomber jacket before deciding to go in search of a book that Maryse wanted to get her girlfriend for Jesselyn’s birthday.  It was some lesbian historian book for which we’d have to go to a bunch of American bookstores.  The first store we went to had typically French service upstairs and the British guy who worked there was like suuuuuuper annoyed to be helping us.  So we went to the next store, which had this American with the most horrifying French accent working there.  (He was also not that interested in helping us but was much more concerned with the French customer who was looking for some science fiction books.)  It was an overwhelming store with what seemed to be no organization but heaps and heaps of books.  All of the books were double shelved with general signs that would say behind this row was this category of books.  Really frightening.  But I got an Anais Nin book there since I know she’s important but I’ve never read anything by her.  It was 6€ so I felt pretty good about that. 

As we were going down the metro steps, Michael turned to me and asked, “Wanna take a chance?”  I was confused and then he and Maryse were like, “You should just push through instead of using your ticket.”  I was like eehhhhhh but I did it.  MISTAKE.  As soon as we got through, a police officer stopped us because that is my life. 

She asked, “Where is your ticket?”  I pulled out one of my ten and showed it to her even though I knew I had been caught because she had just watched us go through the turnstile.  She looked at me full of skepticism and said, “Why did you just push through with him?”  And I responded that I didn’t know.  Because I legitimate DIDN’T know.  I mean, I had already bought a book of ten tickets so I had already paid.  What was I doing with my life?  Flushing it down the toilet.  That’s what.

She took us over to another officer so we could pay the ticket.  She started talking to us.  At first I was responding, but then I noticed that Michael was playing the dumbest American ever and was just cocking his head back and forth and saying “What?” over and over again.  So I switched to do the same.  Then she asked if I spoke French and I said no.  So she started speaking English but I just kept acting like I didn’t know what was going on.  So then she asked Maryse if she spoke French and she explained the deal to Maryse and how I needed to pay the 50€ fine with cash or carte bleu.

But then she turned back to me and said it again (in French).  And I pulled out my wallet and said I didn’t have carte bleu and I only had 30€.  Which is true and false.  I had more money, but I don’t have carte bleu.  So then she said that since I was traveling and since I had actually bought tickets already I could just pay the 25€ fine.  So what would have happened if I had just not pulled out my wallet and been like, “I ain’t got no money, woman!”?  And what would have happened if I had just trusted my instincts and not “taken a chance” on the Paris metro?  I wouldn’t have come out looking idiot.  Needless to say my mantra as we walked to the train itself was “Never again.  Never again.”

Then we headed to BHV (a department store) to get some tea and cookies for Maryse’s birthday gift to her lady.  Michael and I perused the kitchen section.  After we left, Michael actually went back in to look for some grey suede oxfords that he had been wanting while Maryse and I went back to her place to eat some dinner before heading to this American’s surprise birthday party.

We made it to the party well after the surprise.  OH.  So Cécile works for the Wellesley Paris study abroad program.  She made the mistake of introducing some of her French friends to some of her students and one of them (Cédric) took a shining to of the filles américaine and now they’re dating.  Cédric was throwing the party for the girl.  We walked in and were offered some beers.  Since Maryse had told me she wasn’t drinking, I was like nah.  But then she said yes.  So I was looking like a dumb and I went to the kitchen to get myself a beer.  A beer I had brought in offering to the party hosts.  And it tasted disgusting.

Good thing it was time for the champagne toast!  Which was about as good as a toast that I would give at my birthday party with a bunch of strangers.  Afterwards, I found myself, as usual, near the music, chatting with this kid Matthew.  He asked me what I (an American) was doing in France.  I told him I was being an assistant.  Then I asked him what he was doing in France.  And then he told me he was French.  And I didn’t believe him.  This kid spoke perfect English and used regular slang, American intonation, the whole bit.  No way.  This was another prank to make me run around the block naked. 

I insisted he was American.  He insisted he was French.  That he’d been born in France.  NO way.  Maryse was like he’s American.  No.  He’s French.  No.  He’s American.  MAKE UP YOUR MIND.  Matthew could probably be the best prankster ever with Maryse at his side and if all of his pranks were about his nationality.  Anyway, it came out that he actually IS French.  But his family had spent some time in the Netherlands where he had gone to an American school (and Dutch people’s English is always top notch anyway) and then he had lived in Miami for a bit.  So you can see why I was supes confused. 

Anywaaaaay we danced and ate cake and sang and I was a fool.  Dancing like it was my birthday.  And then they broke it down the way Americans do to “Sweet Caroline” or “More Than a Feeling.”  Except apparently French people do it to “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” which is waaay more annoying and depressing.

Maryse, Cécile, and I left to get the last metro back to their ‘hood.  As last time I was in Paris, my carnet of 10 tickets stopped working.  So some drunk blonde French girl came up and had me push through with her.  WHEN WILL I EVER LEARN?  But this time I got away with it.  But srsly, though.  This shit’s ridiculous.

The next day, I had plans to meet up with Lili Mancini from NDA who is currently studying international politics at the American University in Paris.  So I went online to agonize over finding a restaurant.  In the end, I just asked Cécile for a recommendation and took it.  Lili and I met for some good eats and then decided to head over to Galeries Lafayette for some shopping. I had never been before so I had no idea what kind of madness I was walking into.  It was basically a madhouse as the Soldes were still going on.  Best story ever is that Lili didn’t understand what Soldes meant when she first arrived and thought that it meant that all of the stuff in the window had already been sold.  So she didn’t go in a bunch of stores thinking that “30% Soldes!” meant that 30% of the merchandise had already been sold.  Love her.

But I did not love the Galeries Lafayette.  We went in and went through the first level together before deciding to split up.  About an hour later, we were both on sensory overload and met downstairs at the Chanel counter.  Except, of course, there are two Chanel counters and we were at different ones.  We sorted it out and peaced.  It is, however, a lovely building.

After I got back to Maryse’s, Maryse and I went for a bit of a stroll.  It wasn’t aimless, though.  We were going to Thanksgiving!  The wildly overpriced American foodstore.  It’s super charming inside, though.  Maryse said that she heard that it used to be normally priced but then something changed.  There is flippin’ folklore about this store!  I came away with a box of Lucky Charms (for 13€, but it was to give as a gift to my host for the following weekend) and a box of Domino (East coast brand…) light brown sugar so’s I could fatten up all the Frenchies with chocolate chip cookies.  What’s funny about that store is that they don’t even try to hide the real prices.  Like, they were selling Rice Krispies cereal.  On the box, which was British, it said like “So much food!  Only £2.64!” but then they were selling it for 13€.  Hmmmm….. Pretty sure that’s not the exchange rate.  Anyway, the store made me happy for a while.

When we left, we stopped by a vintage store and an American bookstore all on the walk back to Maryse’s.  Ridiculous=the difference between our living situations.  After we got back to her apartment, she set to making cookies with my secret recipe.  (This recipe is not at all secret and I’ve given it away many times.)  She made them even though when I told her the ingredients she was tremendously dubious.

Then she took her cookies and left for her dinner party.  A bit later, I peaced out to meet Michael at this concert that Maryse had invited me to but then disinvited herself from.  So Michael and I didn’t have tickets to the show, but we figured we could sweet talk our way in.  We went up to the ticket window and asked for some tickets.  But the show was sold out.  Guy (who looked like James Franco) took our names and told us to come back a bit later.  So we walked aimlessly around, stopping into an international market and just going up and down streets.  When we went back to the theater, what had been an empty street was now full of hopefuls just like us.  We just got in line and when we got to the front, I told him we’d been there before and he gave us tickets.  At the student rate!  Which was great because he had asked us before if we were students and since my student ID was in my wallet, which was stolen (and which thus also stole my possibility of getting student discounts into eternity), I had to admit to not being one.  But I guess he forgot because I’m so pretty.

We went in and sat for a bit just waiting for the fun to begin.  This is a group whom Maryse had previously seen in concert.  They’re called Les Franglaises (which is like calling them The Frenglish), and they take songs sung in English and translate them, literally, into French.  It’s awesome if you know the English well enough to catch the translation.  So it was the perfect concert for an English Teaching Assistant in France. 

The concert started with an energy amper: Black Eyed Peas “Let’s Get It Started”—or, as they sang it “Il Faut Commencer.”

They sing everything from The Beach Boys to Queen to Madonna to Black Eyed Peas (as mentioned) to some songs that I’ve never heard of!  At the beginning of each song, they speak the lyrics in French so that the audience can guess which song will be sung next.  Because I’m an old soul, I managed to get two of the oldies but goodies first: “Locomotion” by Little Eva (written by Carole King when she noticed her baby sitter dancing around the living room) and “So Happy Together” by The Turtles.  Michael guessed one of them correctly, but they heard someone else over him.  Even though Michael was 100% first to say it.  I think he guessed “California Dreamin’” by The Mamas and the Papas?  But I could easily be wrong.  I wouldn’t put it past me.  They had some really good presentations and some that were forgettable.  My favorite was when they insterted part of “Smooth Criminal” into  this medley with “Hotel California.”  The repeated line (“Annie, are you okay?”) translates to “Annie, est-ce que ça va?” which I find really funny for some reason. 

At the end, we clapped and encored and they encored for us.  But then the French did what they do best, which is cheer to the tune of a normal pop song.  I’ve seen this done at the lycée’s sporting events.  They basically just sing the base line of “Seven Nation Army” by The White Stripes.  DaaaadaDAdadadaaaaadaaaaa.  Or they do “OMG” by Usher (a song for which Usher is being sued), and they sing the “OhOoOhOh” part.  It’s strange that they don’t have their own cheers, but whatevs.  So that kind of worked.  They came out and sang, Black Eyed Peas again, but this time, they sang, “Il Faut Se Terminer!”  Stuck it to us!

Then Michael and I walked back to the metro and went in opposite directions.  When I got back to Maryse’s I hopped straight into bed because I had a train to catch at 6:34 the next morning.  And that’s exactly what I did.

When I got to Lyon to make the transfer to my train to Virieu, I called a cab, but the woman was all, “Oops!  Can’t pick you up today!  I’m busy.”  Because cab companies here are usually like one person per day or something and it still doesn’t make any sense to me.  So I called my good cab driver friend from before and she gave me that hook up.  And it was back to Belley with me!

Bibbidy bobbidy boo,

Jessica

Maybe New Skin?

Why the blog overhaul? Because there aren't any windmills in Belley. I think I was giving you guys the wrong idea. Furthermore, when I was in Amsterdayumn, I realized that the windmill was in Holland. You were looking at a lie. Also, one time someone told me the blog was hard to read.

Also, I've always hated that background. But I am not attached to this, so if you hate it/me, we'll see what happens.

Why jellybeans? If I've done anything for this country, I think I've made people happier with my obnoxiously bright wardrobe. I've definitely seen some pink sweaters on students. My fault? Prolly like 100%.

Taking unnecessary credit-ly,
Jess

Look Ma! I'm Like a Real Teacher!

Yesterday wasn’t anything particularly special.  The only things I have to report back are some boring teacher moments. 

            In the morning, Muriel actually used me in a semi-productive way and had me take half of her class to work on the Obama speech (the same one she had the year below doing just a month before, but I digress).  This was the first time I was alone with any of the students in that group.  I’m sure that what she had wanted me to do was what she does in her class, which is walk around correcting people the whole time.  Not my swag, so I basically told them that I was there if they needed me but that I wouldn’t be reading over their shoulders the whole time because I didn’t think they needed a babysitter.  They laughed and we became best friends and we all sat around braiding each others’ hair for the rest of the hour.  Nah.  But they did laugh.

            It was my first time interacting with Favorite Marie’s brother, whom I had thought was the super well-adjusted exchange student.  Rememberrrr?  Anyway, towards the end of class, I told people I’d read over their work to make corrections if they wanted me to.  Since his group was, naturally, first finished, I went over.  I made a few editions (basically commas and spelling and correction of some faux amis/false cognates) and every time I said something he was like super nervous but in like a funny/happy way?  So each time, I kept saying, “It’s okay.  It’s really good.”  So I had maybe had a false idea that he and his group of friends were basically like the group of boys in my class from 5^th-8^th grade who were kind of jerks but also teacher’s favorites, but I’ll admit I prolly misjudged.  OR MAYBE I’VE BEEN DUPED LIKE THE REST OF THEM?

            Later, in the break room during the récréation (recess) at 10am, I was standing around with Muriel and Marc just having a normal teacher talk.  It was in English, in case you wanted to know.  So Marc was all, “You’ve been baking again?”

            And I said, “Not today.  But I plan on doing some more tomorrow.”

            “The Euro group told me you had brought in some cakes for them.”

            Caught in the act!  (Except not really caught because I had told him before that I was going to make them cupcakes.  And he said, “You’re going to do it for all of them?”  And I was all, “Nah, sucka.  Just for my faves.”  JOKES.)  Anyway, the reason I’ve been bringing in 5 cupcakes a week is because I’ve started to have my last classes with the students.  So it’s one last campaign to make them love America.  As if they didn’t already after having me a whopping FOUR times this year.  So I admitted that yes I was.

            He said, “They’re special.”

            And I said, “Yes.  They are.”

            And Muriel was all, “Who’s special?”

            Marc said, “The Terminale Euro group.”  (I think the conversation switched to French here.)

            And Muriel goes, no joke, “C’était la meilleure année de ma vie.” (That was the best year of my life.)

            I was all WHAAAAT.  But out loud I just said, “Vraiment?” (Really?)

            Muriel said yeah.  They’re such a special group.  Really smart yadda yadda yadda.

            Then they started name-dropping their favorites.  Muriel said that she used to call one of them “The Little Fox.”  After reflecting for a bit, she realized that it was Léo, who comes with Favorite Marie, because he used to be so small.  This is funny because it’s just super random.  But also strange because she called a student a fox.

            Then Marc said how he is a bit foxy.  Which was hilarious to me.  But he meant in terms of looks and not at all in the Jimi Hendrix way.  Still.

            Then Marc said how Hasma talks a lot.  And I said it was good because I really like Hasma.  But then he said that it’s good but that after a point she talks so much that the other students can get in a word edgewise.  Given my experience with a lot of the students in that group, I couldn’t imagine that ever being a problem, but maybe he thought it was.  Then it came out that Hasma had been selected to go to the US through either the US Embassy or the French Embassy a few years before as a candidate selected from like 400 applicants.  Muriel said that Hasma sent her a postcard while she was in the US, which I thought was darling.  Marc said that when she got back, she was a bit “self-sufficient.”  But, I mean, she is.  I don’t know.  I’ve never seen any evidence of that in my classes with her.  She’s actually really good as sharing the talking responsibility with her classmates soooooooo…..

Marc also said something about Léa and how smart she is.  And I was like, “Welp, she never talks in my class, so I really wouldn’t know.”

            He seemed genuinely shocked.  I said that maybe she doesn’t talk because Favorite Marie talks so often.

Then they switched to talk about Favorite Marie and basically it was agreed that she’s brilliant. 

Later, I had to go the Mariste for another thing with Muriel.   I walked into a silent class.  Basically some standardized testing going on.  I was in the right room, though.  So I went to the front and Muriel said they had finished the oral part already, and I could leave.  But I thought that would be wrong since I’m supposed to work there 12 WHOLE hours a week (which nearly never happens because Muriel signed up to use me 3 times each week, but generally uses me only once).  So I sat down and didn’t do anything for the whole hour except look around the room at the kids in test mode.  I also made some notes:

1)   In that group, there are 15 girls and 8 boys in the class.

2)   There are 4 lefties in the class.  (Is it just me, or does that seem high?)

I literally sat in the room for that hour and thought to myself, “Well, this is one hour of my life that I’m never getting back.”  But, then again, every hour is one like that.

Obviously,

Yessica

             

Ramblings

I never told you guys about that one time that I was having a discussion on femininity vs. masculinity in my Euro class.  Each time I would ask for an example of a perfect woman.  In one group I asked the question and do you want to know what one of the responses was?  Paris Hilton.  And that was the most pain that I've ever felt during a class period.  The response was from Charlène.  (Not the Charlène I tutor.  Don't worry.  She has more sense than that.)  I physically struggled to put her name on the board.  Luckily, the others in the class (namely favorite Marie) audibly groaned when that name was offered.  Marie's response?  Hillary Clinton.
            I just went to the market to get some stuffs.  While in the baking aisle, I was nasally accosted by some guy looking for chocolate.  He legitimately smelled homeless.  Then it occurred to me that that "eau de homeless" is that particular combination of cigs, (maybe booze), and no washing that a Frenchman would also be able to accomplish.  (This is politically incorrect, but I hope that by now no one expects anything different from this blawg.)
Awarely,
Jess

Highway Robbery and a Barnraising

The weekend after my disinvitation from Marc’s I went to Geneva with the intention of meeting Flo’s friend Mouna’s English friend, Maddy. 

            On Friday I went to the bus stop at 4:10 to wait for the 4:30 bus.  While I was waiting, I had an email conversation with my stalker (who is way less intense now, thanks!) in which she apologized for the comments of her classmates the day before.  Well, good thing she apologized because I had had no idea that they had said anything mean.  To give you some background, the comments were prompted by an activity in which I gave them objects and had them come up with a list of possible uses for them.  A basic activity that enabled them to basically goof off for the first 20 minutes of class.  But apparently it actually enabled them to develop bogus opinions about me.  Here’s what was said:

-That bitch piss me off with that stuff, how can I describe that stuff? 

-Shut up, she speak french 

-No she doesn't 

-Yes she does, she understand all 

-I don't care, she is a bitch. We'd better don't come. Why do we came ? 

-To have fun 

-How yeeeah, we really have fun. Raa it piss me off.

So, anyway, I was at the bus stop.  It was then 4:40.  4:45.  4:50.  I decided I’d wait until 4:55 for the bus before I went to the cab company.  My train was to be leaving at 5:26.  Then I got up to check the bus time again.  Not written on the schedule.  Not written on the website.  But written on a piece of paper taped to the back of the bus stop was the notice that the bus would no longer be coming at 4:30 during the week.  But that it would be coming at 4:05.  So that was a fantastic start to the weekend.

            And by fantastic, I mean typical. 

            So then I walked to the taxi stand up the street to ask the woman (Nathalie) to take me to the train station.  She said she’d had lots of people asking for her services that week.  Good to know that I wasn’t alone in being bamboozled by the bus company.

            Got the train to Geneva no problem and met up with Flo.  On the way to Coppet, I recounted the story of my awesome winter break. 

            When we arrived at Flo’s, we entered through the kitchen, as usual. Olivier had our dinner, beef tartare and potato wedges, waiting.  We went upstairs where Antoine, Flo, and I ate dinner.  Greg was at the chalet with friends for the weekend.

After dinner, we played Clue(do), which has gotten a massive facelift since the days of my youth when my friends and I would play everyday after watching the movie Clue.  Now you can draw cards that could make you lost the game earlier.  It’s something like time runs out or there’s a bomb or something.  It’s basically a completely unrelated game element.  But it didn’t end up mattering because I messed up the game by saying that my guess was correct.  Antoine was not pleased.  (Especially because my fail came after Flo had accidentally forgotten to tell Antoine that she had one of the cards with which he had hypothesized.)  So I played with Antoine again.

The next morning, at breakfast, we sat down to bread and jam.  I went for the reduced fat butter not really thinking much of it.  Then Antoine asked me, “Seriously?”  Because he said I didn’t need to lose any weight.  Darling boy.  He didn’t know about the doctor telling me to basically stop shoving sticks of butter into my gob.  After helping Antoine with his homework, Flo took me to the train station in Nyon to get to Geneva.

After I got off the train, I sauntered down to the Starbucks where Maddy and I had planned on meeting.  Even though I’m basically morally opposed to Starbucks as an option.  I think for non-Americans it’s basically the height of swag.   But I’m getting ahead of myself.  As I walked towards Starbucks, I realized I had left my camera in Belley.  Dumb.  So I took some photos of Geneva with my phone!  Enjoy!

Rock!

Gazebo?

Mistake that became a fountain!

I got to the Starbucks a bit late because of my photography time, so I didn’t get anything.  Boohoo.  Jokes.  After we chatted for a bit, we decided to move onto lunch.  So we went to this chicken place that’s super popular.  We both got salads.  Mistake.  Especially since a salad cost as much as half a chicken.  And because the salad was dumb and probs worse than something I’d have made myself.  Except for the crusty goat cheese.  That was the only thing that saved it.  In case you want to know anything about Maddy, she’s like platinum blonde with blue eyes, and she’s interning at the bank where Flo and Mouna work so that she can improve her French.  She’s also from just outside of London.  She also says that there’s not enough to do in Geneva and is basically bored with it.  Obviously I had 0 pity for her.  

I got to the Starbucks a bit late because of my photography time, so I didn’t get anything.  Boohoo.  Jokes.  After we chatted for a bit, we decided to move onto lunch.  So we went to this chicken place that’s super popular.  We both got salads.  Mistake.  Especially since a salad cost as much as half a chicken.  And because the salad was dumb and probs worse than something I’d have made myself.  Except for the crusty goat cheese.  That was the only thing that saved it.  In case you want to know anything about Maddy, she’s like platinum blonde with blue eyes, and she’s interning at the bank where Flo and Mouna work so that she can improve her French.  She’s also from just outside of London.  She also says that there’s not enough to do in Geneva and is basically bored with it.  Obviously I had 0 pity for her. 

After lunch, we went shopping for a few hours and I made my first European purchase: some carpet bag cloth floral flats from the Soldes at Zara.  Very exciting.  While out shopping, we stumbled upon a strike!  This is a big deal because they’re pretty rare in Geneva.  (They really aren’t French at all.)  Maddy said that the last strike she had seen there was about the lack of nightclubs in Geneva.  This one was about solidarity with Tunisia. 

It's nice if the biggest problem in your city is the need to have solidarity.

We wandered back to the train station, but we had some time to kill before my train back to Nyon.  So guess where we went.  Starbucks.  I got a mocha because I was feeling a bit fatigued and knew that I would be up until at least midnight because we were going to Bingo for the evening.  WHAT A MISTAKE!  Them prices be bonkers!  I got a small mocha for I think 5.80 CHF.  Highway robbery!

Chit chat chat cha-chat chat.  Back on the train.  I had to use the toilet on the train because I still can’t justify paying to use facilities.  So I went to the little cabin.  I waited for like 10 minutes for someone to come out before I looked a bit closer at the sign on the door that said to go use a toilet in another part of the train.  This “me not seeing signs” thing was getting embarrassing.

Whatevs.  Got to Nyon and got into car with Flo and Antoine to set off to Lausanne, which is where Flo’s sisters live and where the Lotto was happening.  They actually live outside of Lausanne in what Antoine described as the “hole of the world.”  I think they live in St. Barthélémy.  I mean, it literally is farms all around them.  Like, I don’t know how they found it.  But to each his/her own.  After we arrived, we almost immediately sat down to dinner.  It was Charly and Giselle (Olivier’s parents), Marionne and Véro (Flo’s sisters), Véro’s landlady, Flo, Antoine, and me.  We had a fondue dinner where you dipped the meat into oil/water with spices.  I got to have horse!  This is a big deal because when I visited Flo 2 years ago while I was living in London Antoine told me several times, “First I ride the horse, and then I eat it.”  We also had chicken and beef.  But the horse was most important.  It was good.  Really no different from beef, I’d say.  Maybe more tender?  Who knowz!? 

After dinner, Véro, Giselle, Charly, and the landlady hurried to Lotto to secure seats because this is apparently the event of the season.  It happens twice a year, and the whole town turns up.  After we cleaned up a bit, the rest of us walked over.  It was jam packed.  People were sitting on the stairs, we were smooshed together on benches, it was absolute madness.

We sat down and Flo explained the game to me and handed me my book of 24 Lotto cards.  Each card offered 2 chances to win.  Eventually, it was go time, and they opened the curtains to reveal the prizes.  On stage were baskets and baskets of sausages, cheeses, whole legs of meat.  Basically a barnyard festival!  The grand prize, though?  A sheep.  I really wanted her so that I could sell her.  But first, I would have named her America.  In the end, I didn’t win anything.  But Antoine won 3 times, and Charly won once.  The landlady also won.  The whole night was really good practice for my numbers.  Except only sort of because in Switzerland they use different words to say 70, 80, and 90.

French: 70=soixante-dix (seventy-ten), 80=quatre-vingt (four-twenty), and 90=quatre-vingt-dix (four-twenty-ten)…It clearly rewards the mathematically inclined.

Swiss French: 70=septante, 80=huitante, 90=novante.  It’s awesome and way faster to figure out.

Afterwards, we walked back to Véro and Marionne’s before getting in the car for the drive back to Geneva.

The next day, after a pancake breakfast, Flo took me to the train station.  As I rode from Geneva to Ambérieu (where I was supposed to make a connection to a train coming the opposite direction to get to Virieu so I could get the bus), high off of good weather and a great weekend, I was thinking to myself how I was really going to miss France.  When I got off at Ambérieu, I found out that the train I had been on was late (but they hadn’t made an announcement) so I missed my 6-minute window to get the other train and would have to wait 3 hours for another train to Culoz.  Not even to Virieu, because once I miss the bus, it doesn’t actually matter and I have to figure out some other way to get to Belley.  So I texted Marc, but he was in Bourdeaux.  I called Nicole, but she didn’t answer.  So I had to call, guess who!  Nathalie, the taxi driver.  Good news is that it costs twice as much to take a taxi on Sundays, so that was super awesome.

And that’s why I’m not renewing my contract here.

Definitively,

Jess

Step on Stage

                The Wednesday after classes started back up in January, we had, you guessed it, another stage! Naturally, I was super excited to make the trip to get to Bourg-en-Bresse for 8am since it takes like minimum 2 hours to get there. But I got up and got to the bus and then to the train.
              The waiting room was (SHOCK) open but my train went from the other side. So after I waited an hour after arriving with the bus, I went to the other side (which is always outside) to wait for the train. It was supposed to arrive at like 6:42 or something. At 6:46, the station operator came out and told us that the train was running late. No way, man! You’ve blown my mind. Luckily, it was only running 4 minutes late according to him. Interesting. Because there was no train pulling up as he shouted to us from across the tracks. In any event, within the next 5 minutes, the train pulled up and we all boarded. I set myself to thawing out.
              After getting to Ambérieu, I made my transfer to the bus, which wasn’t cancelled! And that was thrilling! (Because since I was without credit card, if I needed to take a cab, it was gonna be pretty rough. Even though my mom had magnanimously wired me 200€. But still, I wasn’t rollin’ in the Benjamins anymore. (I have never been rollin’ in the Benjamins.) After I arrived at the Bourg gare, I started walking with my Google walking directions.
              I turned right and gave a big ups to the place where I had gotten my naked X-Ray as I walked down the street. I was walking with a purpose and saw a group of 3 familiar looking people at the intersection up ahead. It was Mohsin, Heather, and Emily—some other assistants—also trying to use their Google directions to find the place: Rue Magenta. Thinking they knew where they were going (they didn’t), I started walking with them. The first thing I told them was that they were facing the wrong way—I was sure we needed to continue to the left. So we did. As soon as we turned around, we found Trudi, Katie, and Helen—the assistants who live in Bourg—also looking for Rue Magenta. Awesome.
The Bourg assistants were actually trying to scrape the frost off of a street map behind plexiglass casing. It wasn’t going well. So we just figured we’d walk with their Google directions. All of these directions were the same, mind you. There wasn’t any “Aha!” moment as we ran into each other. So we walked all the way down a street until we found a shop to ask for directions. The woman told us to go right at the second stoplight as we went back up the street we had just walked. So we did. Except the second streetlight was the intersection where I had found Heather, Mohsin, and Emily.
                 So we went back to the cased map and scraped until we could scrape no more. We realized we were right across the street from the street we needed. Naturally, the street name changed across the intersection, but there was no signage to note the name change. Makes sense, right? We wandered the backstreets until we found it.
              When we walked in (about 45 minutes late), Livia, Stephanie (the other assistant in Belley), and some other girl were just sitting there waiting for us. As was Jacques, one of the coordinators at Livia’s high school in Bellegarde. He looked at us as we sheepishly walked in and said, “Vous êtes en retard.” (You’re late.) Thank you, Captain Obvious.
                Mohsin had a more polite response: “On a été perdu.” (We were lost. This actually translates to “One was lost” because in French, you can use on to mean “one” or “I” or “we.” It’s weird. But means that you can get away with knowing less verb conjugations since on takes the same verb as il or elle.)
               Then they started the presentation. It was basically the most useless presentation of all! It was an hour long discussion of eTwinning, which is this website that connects students in Europe. It’s a great idea. But for most of us as assistants, it was not useful at all considering we focus on oral things. Also, the lack of technology that many of us have in our schools (me included) would make it legitimately ludicrous for me to think that I could possibly plan a lesson around a website. But anyway, we sat through the discussion.
                Later, Katelin arrived. (He did not tell her that she was late.)  She said that there was a problem with the trains. As soon as she sat down, she revealed to me that she had just overslept. So I guess the problem was that the train didn’t have her on it. After the eTwinning guy left (and he had quite a mustache on him!), Jacques took over and asked for suggestions of ways to improve the Teaching Assistant Program. He broke us into groups to discuss and then report back with results. We did as we were told.
              While in our groups, we basically all griped about common grievances and shared successful teaching strategies. When we came back, each group presented with, naturally, a lot of the same things coming up. Awesomely, though, every time that a group made a suggestion, Jacques basically said that the problem was our fault. So that was super helpful and left us all in a great mood. One idea that was suggested was that they move the stages from Bourg to Lyon or somewhere that’s more easily accessible for everyone. He basically said no because “the people who live the closest are always the latest.” Then he had the audacity to point to Stephanie and say that she works in Belley but that she had been able to arrive on time. This would have been a great point except Stephanie doesn’t live in Belley. She actually lives in Lyon and commutes to Belley every day. (Maybe now you’re all, “Dumb Jess! Why don’t you do that!?” The answer is that it’s way more expensive to have an apartment and commute every day. I’d also have to coordinate with teachers to come and pick me up from the train station every day. That just seemed like too much hair pulling. So here I am at the Internat.)
                    Blah blah blah more happened. The other girl who was there had a story similar to Stephanie’s in that she’s an Anerican student at uni in Lyon. Except she’s lived in France for so long that she has some kind of accent when she speaks English that makes her sound like a foreigner. Now, I recognize that when I speak I sound a bit affected, but if anything, there’s a little British in my American. This girl, though, people were whispering, “Where is she from?” while she was talking. Craycray!
                   Eventually, Jacques freed all of us from his pleasant grips, and we all deuced. Mohsin had plans to make it to the train straight away, but the rest of us headed out for some Thai food. Mohsin missed his train and met up with us after we’d finished. The food was so good. After lunch, Mohsin, Katelin, and Heather headed off. The rest of us decided to go for a wander around Bourg.

Inside the Concathédrale Notre-Dame-de-l'Annonciation de Bourg-en-Bresse

                 We stopped at the cathedral, which was pretty and built in the 1500s. It should be known that we went to the cathedral because I had said in our group email that I really wanted to go to there. That’s because I had been under the impression that this massive building with what looked like a golden roof was the cathedral. False, though. That’s actually the monastery that they told me was too far to go see with the amount of time left. Tant pis. So we went to look at the theatre after the cathedral, and then went to pet shop. Where they had some adorable dogs and crazy fish!

Light bright fish!  (And my dumb hands' reflection!)

               We still had time to kill, so we went for macarons. I only got one, and obvio I got the craziest flavor they had: avocado banana. It was strange, and I’m not sure who thought that those flavors needed to go together.  But eat it, I did.  Then we went to a phone store because Katie was having issues with her phone. It was basically like she had a posse. Tight.  Also waste.
              Afterwards, Emily and I headed back to the train station. Then, as always, back to Belley.
              The following weekend, I stayed in Belley. Luckily, we had beautiful weather! I went to the market and got some tomatoes, cheese, lettuce, and concombres (cucumbers) to make a delightful salad that happened a few nights that week. I also went to the library to check out a movie: Beignets de tomates verts (Fried Green Tomatoes). While I was at the market, I ran into Marc who invited me to dinner chez lui since he was having some friends over. Excited to be considered a “friend” or even someone that could be presented to his friends without mortification, I accepted and went to buy wine like a good guest.
               Then I went for a run. Never did I ever think that I would be running where I could hear/see chickens in people’s backyards. But life does funny things to/for people. Also, there are some crazy ass hills in Belley, so this was more of a “run when it’s flat and walk when it’s so steep you might die” kind of workout than a regular run kind of thing.
              When I got back to my room, I saw a text from Marc saying that dinner wasn’t going to work. Naturally, I was crushed. So I responded that I hoped everything was okay and that maybe we could do it another time. He said yes but that he had broken up with his girlfriend during the break but that they were still living together, which made things really complicated. Whoa. WAY more of an explanation than I was expecting. So that was that. And I stayed in with Towanda and my salad.
It’s over!
Jess

Woop Woop! That's the Sound of the Police!

I forgot to mention that after I tried to find a Western Union while I was in Paris, I hoped to stumble upon a police station.  Naturally, I was SOL. 

            Since I knew I needed to file a report, I waited until Tuesday to make my way to the police station, which, yes, I had seen closed before.  (I waited until Tuesday because everything is usually closed on Sundays and Mondays.  No point in walking to empty buildings, right?)  Luckily, it was open.  I told them that I needed to file a police report for stolen property.  I guess because Belley is so small and crime-free (aka Pleasantville), the officer asked me if it was stolen or had I lost it.  I was sure I had been robbed.  So, I told him.  Then he took a list of everything that was missing.  Then he told me that he couldn’t actually help me because it had been stolen in Paris, so I would have to go to the Gendarmerie, which wasn’t too far away.  (Because nothing in Belley is too far.)  I thanked him and walked to the spot.

            I walked around the parking barricade to go inside.  There wasn’t anyone sitting inside to receive me or to guide me, so I just looked around and saw that there was a button.  It said to push for service.  Like Alice in Wonderland, I did what I was told.  I pushed.  I walked in a circle and stood still and shifted my weight back and forth while I was waiting for someone to come.  No response.  Since I could hear someone in the office chatting away, I pressed again.  Almost immediately, someone came out and told me that he was busy and that since it was 11:45, I’d have to come back after 2.  Because, oh right.  Of course the Gendarmerie takes a 2-hour lunch break.  That just makes sense.  Since crime takes breaks.

            Nearly about to weep because France was getting under my skin, I walked back to the lycée until my classes ended at 5.  Then I made my way over.  Naturally, now I was 2^nd in line for the man’s services.  I just went to wait on the sidelines because no way was I gonna press that button when I got in.  Surely, the couple before me had pressed it.  Sadly, though, the man who came in after me didn’t seem to feel the same way.  He pressed the button.  No response.  Phew.  But shortly after, another woman came in for something and she pressed the button.  The same man came out and huffily said, “A chacun son tourne.”  (To each one his turn.)  Okay.  Loud and clear, dawg.

            We all just patiently waited.  Well, I waited patiently.  The others were just complaining basically nonstop.  Which is pretty typical.  Fact: the French complain a lot.  So then the guy came out and recognized the guy who had come after, and smiled and patted his back as they walked inside together.  A few minutes later, he came out to ask the couple before me what they needed.  The lady had lost their IDs.  So he went in and came back with some papers.  Then the man went back inside and maybe 30 minutes later, the two came out again.  Guy went back inside.  Then came back and called me inside.

            When we got back to his desk, I sat down and told him the story.  He then told me that I shouldn’t have waited so long to come to the police.  I told him I had assumed that they were closed.  But he informed me that the Gendarmerie is open 7 days a week.  Good to know.

            Then we went through my story and suddenly, he was not a jerk at all.  We were basically BFFLs.  I told him that we were changing at Franklin D. Roosevelt.  He laughed and I nodded.  (I thought he was laughing because of the sadness of it being taken at one of the few American stops in Paris.  Nicole’s Jean-Marie had said, “L’audacité.”)  But then he told me he was laughing because I drop the accent.  So what that sentence would look like was, “J’étais en train de changer de ligne du métro à Franklin D. Roosevelt.”  He excused himself and said he wasn’t laughing at my French but at my accent.  Every single time he started laughing when I would drop my accent.  But, I mean, if something’s American, I’m gonna claim it.  (It should probably be noted that French people pronounce Franklin Roosevelt like Fronk-leen Ruse-eh-velt.)

            When he asked me if there had been any young people next to me who looked suspicious, I said no.  He asked a few times, though.  And I kept saying no.  He really wanted there to have been some hooligans.  I think it’s because of what Nicole had been telling me about these young kids being sent to steal from people on the metro.  Maybe this officer wanted me to be his ticket to being part of a giant investigation.  No dice.

            We made a list of everything I lost, and sometimes the other officers in the room would help us muddle our way through questioning. 

            I got home around 6:45.  By the time I left, all of the officers and I were laughing and being besties.  It almost made me want to have a reason to go back.  But then I remembered that that would actually be the worst ever.

Factually,
Jess

P.S. The title is in reference to this song from the movie La Haine.