Vivent les Vacances

Tomorrow I'm leaving the land of bread and cheese to spend two weeks chez moi in the land of ice cubes and free refills.  "Excited" is a bit of an understatement.

Miscommunication is something of a national sport in France

Which is precisely why I spent 9 hours in Blaye today, but only spent ONE of those hours teaching.  And when I say "teaching," I really mean playing hangman with students.  Good times.

Les Gros Mots

Yesterday I taught one of my favorite classes, and when my lesson plan ended a full 15 minutes before the bell rang, I asked them if they had any general questions or anything they wanted to talk about for the final few minutes.  One kid raised his hand. 

“Are there gangs in New York?” 

“Well, yes, they exist.”

“Do you have any friends in a gang?”

Once I stopped laughing at the image of any of my friends partaking in any gang-related activity whatsoever, I explained to him that generally to be initiated into a gang you have to actually murder someone, so no…I don’t think any of my friends are Bloods on the sly.

Maybe I should have known better, but they were actively participating and speaking pretty decent English so I decided to try my luck.  “Any…other questions?”

Same kid raises his hand.  I brace myself.

“Can you tell us the…gros mots?”  For those of you reading this Stateside, “gros mots” is the French equivalent for curse words.  Not wanting to downright reject this kid’s question (they were participating!...and that’s sort of rare in my school), I instead said:

“Well…I’m sure you already know them.” 

It was at this moment that my students shed their timidity to shout vulgarities at me.

One girl went straight up Tourette’s and started shouting, “FUCK! MOTHERFUCKER!”  Other kids chimed in with “Shit!” “Damn!” “Bitch!”…My students usually won’t even go so far as to tell me their name and hobbies without turning red and mumbling, but when it comes to cursing they’re all of a sudden fluent in English, yelling obscenities loud and proud?  Kids these days.

Bonnes Fêtes

This Friday a whole bunch of language assistants got into the holiday spirit..quite enthusiastically.  We took Christmas cheer to a whole new level at the Ugly Holiday Sweater Party. France can't even handle this level of style and sophistication:

You should have seen the looks those antlers got on the tram.

So many snowflake sweaters

The Levain ladies

Why, yes, those ARE holiday leggings

While waiting for the tram to get to the nightclub - -  in retrospect, a large group of  anglophones showing up to a French nightclub in holiday attire must have been a sight to behold.

Nerd Alert

I’ve recently started re-reading Harry Potter, but here’s the catch: I’m doing it in French.  I’m working on an application for a graduate program in Translation and Interpretation, and on their website they suggested reading as much as possible in your foreign language in order to improve your vocabulary and fluency.  Fair enough, but I wanted to start out with a book I was already familiar with – which is why I went to the bookstore and purchased “Harry Potter à l’école des sorciers.”  This is an interesting coincidence because I literally cannot imagine any book being more of a nightmare to translate, seeing as how approximately 105% of the words in Harry Potter are actually made up.  Thus in addition to the regular list of vocabulary I keep while reading (I told you, nerd alert – I actually underline and look up all the words I don’t know) I have to keep a list in my head of all the strange translations – for instance, Hogwarts was somehow translated to “Poudlard.”  In any case, I read a chapter or two every night before bed and it is actually helping me to think more in French, which is helpful because I live in France and as it turns out they speak that a lot here.  

Another Good Day

Sometimes working with adolescents means that you have moments that redefine the word "frustration."  When a class goes badly, it can really be bad.  Happily, the opposite is also true: when things are good, they're really good.  Today was really good.  My classes were talkative and curious and they seemed to actually enjoy the lesson I'd planned.  This whole week, actually, was a pretty good one.  For the most part all of my classes went well enough, and even the students who didn't understand a word I said were friendly and polite.  Yesterday, a few students came into my classroom during their break because they were bored and wanted to chat.  Three times this week, students have come to me after class to ask more questions or talk a little more.  Twice, classes actually expressed disappointment when the bell rang and they had to go back to regular classes.  These are the moments when I really love my job and they make all the other, frustrating moments completely worth it.  I can only hope next week goes just as well - I'll be keeping my fingers crossed all weekend.

Adventures in Immigration

According to the French government, I am an immigrant.  I guess technically that's true, since I live and work and pay taxes here, but it's not like I'm going to live here forever.  Still, all newcomers to France have to go through the immigration process, and I am no exception.  This started in August when I applied for my visa at the French embassy in New York.  A week after my trip to the embassy, my visa was in my passport and I was ready to go to France.  Easy peasy, right? OF COURSE NOT.  Sometimes it seems like France complicates things just to fuck with the rest of us.  Upon my arrival in France, I had to fill in 12356342 forms (maybe that's an exaggeration) and send in copies of my birth certificate, passport, work contract, etc and send it all to the Office of French Immigration and Integration.  Then I had to wait for them to get back to me with the date of my "medical visit," during which an x-ray would be taken of my chest to ensure that I did not bring tuberculosis with me when I "immigrated" to France.  After the medical visit, the Immigration Office puts a special sticker in my passport that validates the visa I've already had since before I even left the United States.  Without this sticker in my passport, it would be illegal for me to stay in France longer than 90 days.  With the sticker in my passport, I can stay until my visa ends in May.  Does this sound complicated enough?  It gets worse.  Without this sticker in my passport, I cannot apply for my French Social Security (health insurance) or my CAF (housing assistance aka welfare) - two things which I really need.  This being the case for all foreigners in France, you'd think that this would all get taken care of relatively quickly after your arrival in the country.  You'd be wrong.  Although European bureaucracy is known the world over for being speedy and effective, it took approximately 3 months for the French immigration office to contact me regarding my medical visit.  If I did have tuberculosis, I could have infected half the country by now.  Way to be proactive about that, France.  In any case, I found out today at my medical visit that I do not have tuberculosis and am thus allowed to remain in France until May.  I even got to keep my x-rays as a souvenir.  Good day?  You bet.

Getting a haircut in a foreign country is the hardest language exam you will ever take.

Not only because you have to make sure to articulate exactly what you want or else risk looking ridiculous for the 6-8 weeks following your mistake, but also because generally salons are places abundant with chatter and gossip and it's not always easy to keep up.  My friend Emily and I took this haircut-in-a-foreign-language "exam" this afternoon, and in retrospect I'd say we both aced it.  We went to a French beauty school because it's way cheaper if you're willing to let a student cut your hair, and now we both know why.  Here's the deal: my student hairdresser is by no means going to be valedictorian, if you catch my drift.  This was proven by the fact that she shampooed the back of my neck and also half my forehead.  This was further proven when her instructor, who was observing from across the room, literally RAN over yelling "Stop!" and then proceeded to grab at the back of my head and say, "What is this?!"  By the time the instructor had finished correcting the haircut already given to me by my student hairdresser, my hair was a full 2-3 inches shorter than I'd expected.  Emily's hairdresser didn't make any major mistakes, but she did make Emily stand up for the entire 30 minutes she was cutting, a sight that had me laughing until I was nearly in tears.  Though the near-tears could have also had something to do with the fact that half my hair was falling to the floor around me.  I was going to post a picture, but decided against it so that I can see my parents faces when they pick me up at the airport in a couple weeks.  So I'll say only this: it is the most drastic haircut I've ever gotten.  It's the shortest my hair has ever been.  And I'll say this, too: I think I really like it.

There are good days and there are bad days.

And then there are days like today, which entirely defy description.  There were elements of the good and the bad, but mostly it was brutally long.  I woke up at 4:45 am and was on the tram before 6am, so by the time class started at 8 I was ready for my nap.  My first two classes were mildly enthusiastic and even understood a majority of what I said.  At the end of  the second class we even continued our conversation for a few minutes in French, since the students had plenty of things they wanted to say but couldn't articulate in English.  I was excited that they wanted to keep talking no matter what language it was in, and they were excited that I was willing to let them do it in French.  I was tired but pleased with how my first two hours went.  And then came hour number three, in which one girl actually cried when I asked her to read something in English.  Not good.  Today was in fact one of the first times I truly felt like a teacher (generally I feel like some sort of jester hired to mime things emphatically in front of apathetic French teenagers), and I suppose it's because today was the first time something actually really went wrong.   After that class finally ended, I happily went into town to get lunch, and at least 5 different students greeted me enthusiastically as I passed, saying things like "Bonjour Catherine!" and, "How are you today?" - which helped brighten my mood considerably.  Then it was back to class, and this time I was thrilled because it was with my favorite group.  We discussed immigration in France and the US, a topic that I certainly couldn't hope to talk about with any of my other classes, but these kids are both interested in politics AND really good at English - double whammy.  That was my last class of the day, so all's well that end's well I guess.  I made it back to Bordeaux in time for dinner with friends, and now I'm going to revel in the fact that I have a four-day weekend starting tomorrow.  Bonne nuit, tout le monde!

Not too much news to report...

...so here are a few pictures, instead.

We celebrated Thanksgiving 3 times here in France. Here's celebration #1, where we made a bunch of French people draw hand turkeys and say what they were thankful for.

Prepping for a French Thanksgiving

Marche de Noel a Bordeaux

Festive lights all over the city

Christmas tree at Hotel de Ville

Group shot after Thanksgiving Celebration #3, stolen from Kristina's Facebook

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Now that Thanksgiving has come and gone (not that the French took notice anyway), it's officially the holiday season.  It's getting cold in Bordeaux, and people are beginning to bundle up in their coziest scarves and hats and mittens.  Holiday lights are popping up all over the city, the Christmas market opens today, and there's now a Christmas tree up in front of Hotel de Ville.  There's a general feeling of Christmas in the air, and I love love love it.   Most exciting of all, I'm preparing my holiday music playlist so I can spread cheer and merriment to anyone within hearing distance.  My neighbors, I'm sure, will be delighted.  It's the most wonderful time of the year and I'm thrilled that I get to spend it in both France AND New York.  I guess I was on Santa's good list this year :)

Turkey Day in France

Happy Thanksgiving!  I have a lot to be thankful for this year, but today I'm missing home nonetheless.  In a few hours I'm headed to an Irish pub to watch the football game, and later tonight I'll Skype my family and eat lots of pie vicariously through them.   In the meantime, in the holiday spirit, here's a brief list of what I'm thankful for right now:
-  the fact that I'm going home to see my fabulous family and friends for Christmas in just 3 1/2 weeks
- Nyquil, miracle drug and the only reason I've gotten any sleep this week
- a wonderful and exciting new life in Bordeaux/Blaye
- Nutella. On anything.
- the fact that tomorrow I can officially watch Love Actually to ring in the holiday season

There's more, but I said I'd keep it brief.  Enjoy your turkey, and be sure to eat a little extra for me!

This Gem Came from a Taboo Game Last Week

The name on the card was "Thomas Edison."  The student giving the clues said, "This man gave us a lot...thanks to him we have light when it is dark."  Which, you know, that's not a bad description.  The class was generally full of students who actually understand and speak English well.  One kid thought he knew the answer, so what did he shout?

"MICHAEL JACKSON!!"

...Well, that gets an A for enthusiasm, at least.

Busy Busy Bee

This past week and a half has been a little crazy, since most days "sleeping in" means I get to wake up at 630.  In the morning.  I only work 12 hours a week, but my commute is a bitch and sometimes I have only a couple classes spread over an entire day - so I often leave work before it's light out and come home after dark.  Luckily, I enjoy what I do here and it doesn't usually feel like work.  Yesterday, for instance, I expanded my games-as-learning-tools horizons and made my students play Scattergories.  This proved to be a good move when one kid made my day by accidentally writing "children" instead of "chicken" for the Food category.  I'm glad my students don't get offended when I laugh at them, which is turning out to be quite often.  Today they got me back though, when a group of students bombarded me after class and made me (try to) repeat French tongue-twisters - and I assure you, they laughed at me plenty.

French People Don’t Dance, Americans are Crazy: A Weekend in Cultural Stereotypes

French people don’t dance, and in fact they seem perplexed by people who do.  Friday night started innocently enough, and it was my intention to be home by midnight.  I met up with some other assistants and a couple Frenchies at an English pub, where I was outraged to spend 6 euros on a pint of beer.  To avoid paying exorbitant amounts of money on mediocre drinks, we went to a sketchy all-night supermarket, bought a bottle of the second-cheapest vodka there, and went to an apartment to drink.  From there it became clear that I would not be home by midnight.  Instead we went dancing.  In Bordeaux, bars are generally open until 2am, and nightclubs run from 2-5am.  Which means that if you want to dance, you have to commit to spending the whole night out…and we wanted to dance.  We were committed to the idea.  And when I say we danced, I mean we really broke it down.  At the first place we were, which was only for a few minutes because they closed at 2am and we arrived at quarter-to, we were actually surrounded by a circle of people staring and literally saying “I’ve never seen anything like this.”  This is because, to use an unfair generalization, French people don’t dance much.  Obviously French people must dance, or else their country would not be quite so stocked with discotheques.  But they were seemingly unaccustomed to any dancing that progressed further than a faint bobbing from foot to foot.  And certainly they thought we were lunatics for dancing as we were, though in this case I fear they may have been justified.  Just after 2am, which is a full two hours after I expected to be in bed, we left for one of these said discotheques ready to groove some more.  And groove we did.  After sweet-talking the bouncers to let us in despite the fact that we didn’t have enough money to pay the cover charge, we got inside and let ourselves loose on the dance floor.  Finally at 4 am I returned home, where I promptly took off my high heels and hobbled to bed, which is where I remained until (I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit this) the next afternoon. 

Saturday night I was certainly not planning to go wild.  After all, Friday had already been more than I’d bargained for.  I’d spent most of Saturday afternoon in bed and/or watching episodes of Grey’s Anatomy.  I was not exactly up for a night on the town.  A couple friends came over to make Mexican food for dinner, and afterwards we went out for a drink intending to make it our first and last of the evening.  Instead we ended up at a jazz-club type bar, the kind of place that makes you think of a 1920’s speakeasy.  It was actually super cool, with live music and squishy couches and cheap pitchers of sangria.  At 2am we called it a night, which is to say we went for 2 euro kebabs and ate them happily in the street before walking home in the rain. 

It was a good (and busy-ish) weekend, and a good end to my two-week vacation.  Tomorrow I return to work, which means today I am planning lessons and complaining about how early I’m waking up to get to class on time (530! In the morning! Positively ungodly.)  To be fair though, I’m only working four days this week, to be followed by a four-day weekend.  Life isn’t so bad here in France.  In fact I think it suits me quite well. 

(Almost) Back to the Salt Mines

After two weeks of vacation, it’s nearly time to go back...for six weeks, after which comes my next two-week break.  Isn't France fun?  In any case, on Monday I return to my grueling 12-hour workweek.  Although my past two weeks of nothingness (and, you know, that six-day trip to London) have been lovely, I’m actually quite excited to go back to school.  I’ve even almost forgotten how grating it is to hear the words “Qu’est-ce qu’elle a dit? J’ai pas compris,” (“What did she say? I didn’t understand.”) over and over again, despite the fact that I had been speaking slowly and using caveman-basic vocabulary.  But I digress.  Despite the shortcomings of my students’ English comprehension, I enjoy teaching them and will be happy to see and laugh at them next week.  Maybe it’s mean, but I love it when their French accents turn “I am fifteen years old” into “I am fifty year hold.”  Also, I really love to get paid to play Taboo. 

An Open Letter to Motorized Scooter Drivers

I understand that your motorized scooter is technically small enough to fit on the sidewalk.  I understand that sometimes traffic sucks and you just want to bypass all those pesky, law-abiding vehicles.  But I must say...what in the fuck?!  While I was walking on the sidewalk, as pedestrians are wont to do, did I hear you...honk at me?  To move out of the way?  You would be right to do so if I was walking down the middle of the street, which is indeed where you are supposed to be driving.  But no.  I'm not walking in the middle of the street.  I'm walking exactly where I'm supposed to be walking.  So then, why aren't you driving exactly where you are supposed to be driving?  I'm sorry, sir, but I feel it my duty to tell you that you relinquish any right to angry honking the very moment you begin DRVING ON THE SIDEWALK.  Maybe try the road next time, and you can honk to your heart's content while simultaneously avoiding killing me.  Everybody wins, no?

Everything in France is Different

When I studied abroad in Paris two years ago, my program director advised us all to remind ourselves each morning that, “Everything in France is different.”  At first I thought it was sort of stupid advice, but eventually I came around to realizing that it’s sort of brilliant.  It’s important to remind yourself every day that it’s okay to feel a little out of sorts sometimes.  Because really, life in France is quite different.  I mean, obviously.  But what I’m saying is, living in France means that my daily life has changed quite a bit, and my habits have changed as well.  Living in France means that I usually have 3-4 kinds of cheese in my fridge and 2-3 kinds of bread on my shelf at any given time.  Living in France means that nearly 50% of my salary goes directly to rent.  It also means that I qualify for welfare and eventually will receive checks from the French government to alleviate the pressure of paying rent in a European city on a teaching assistant’s salary.  Living in France means that I have to think long and hard about verb conjugations before launching into a story or asking a question.  It means that I no longer inherently understand how to work a stovetop or oven, for they have different (read: confusing) buttons and temperatures in Celsius.  Living in France means that sometimes I second-guess myself on even the most basic things, like a train schedule or what kind of yogurt I’m buying. It means I can buy a decent bottle of wine for approximately the same price as a case of bottled water.  It means I get to talk to and become friends with people who have had completely different experiences than the ones I have had in the United States.  It means some days I get home entirely exhausted, cursing my students in not one, but two languages.  It means sometimes I ache for my Blackberry with the same longing I imagine of someone who is missing a limb.  It means pain au chocolat for breakfast on the weekends.  It means a massive drain on my savings account.  It means every time I laugh I am conscious of how American I am.  Living in France means I get to do something exciting and new and fun.  I recently read a book called Anthropology of an American Girl, which seemed fitting since I too am an American girl, though in actual fact I spent most of the book trying to decide whether or not I should even keep reading.  There was one passage, though, that I thought really aptly described the feeling I got when I first got to France.  Since I could certainly not describe such a feeling any better, here it is in the words of author Hilary Thayer Hamann: “I remember feeling sort of tired, sort of electric and free…like there was nothing in the world that could possibly bind me.  Like I belonged nowhere and everywhere.”  Tired and electric and free – living in France is just like that.

Pictures from London

Now that I'm back in Bordeaux with another full week off before gong back to teaching (isn't France the best?) I can update the blog.  I adored London and had a wonderful time with Lucy, but since we saw/did/ate a lot, I'll just post photos rather than explaining it all in detail.  Here goes:

Lucy and I at the Tower of London

The Tower Bridge

Traditional "In a Phone Booth" picture

Guard at my future residence, Buckingham Palace

Westminster Abbey

Outside Westminster Abbey

Big Ben

St. Paul's...can't figure out how to rotate it

Luce and I on the London Eye

Occupy London outside St. Paul's

A British Birthday with an American Friend

Today I turned 22, which is by no means a milestone birthday and so it ordinarily would have felt just like any other day.  But today I also happened to be in London visiting a friend from college, and so it was not, in fact, just like any other day.  I spent my late morning/afternoon in the National Gallery, which is one of the most impressive museums I've ever been in.  I happily spent hours and hours there, then wandered around Trafalgar Square, grabbed a coffee at an outdoor cafe, people-watched.  Later my friend and I went to a delicious dinner at a Lebanese restaurant, then to a cafe for tea and dessert.  It was a low-key but wonderful birthday spent in a beautiful city with one of my closest friends, and I couldn't have asked for a better way to ring in 22.  I can hardly believe the life I've been living these past few weeks, and I've got a feeling that 22 is going to be one hell of a good year.

Getting there is half the fun

I've made it to London!  What's more, I made it here without any major issues.  This is a triumph because generally when I travel, chaos ensues.  For instance, in Morocco two years ago, a friend and I spent 4 hours on the wrong train and consequently nearly missed our flight back to France.  Yesterday, however, was a relaxed day in Bordeaux.  I set off for the airport in the late afternoon, after packing and grabbing coffee with a friend.  In order to save myself the exorbitant taxi fare, I decided to take the airport shuttle from Gare St. Jean.  I navigated the tram with a suitcase during rush hour, which let me tell you is no mean feat.  I arrived at the Gare with plenty of time.  The only problem was, the shuttle stop was nowhere to be found.  Bus stops a plenty and trains galore, but not an airport shuttle in sight.  I went inside the station to ask.  The lady at the information desk looked impatient and said, "But it's just outside!"  So that's where I went, only it wasn't there.  I walked around a bit, looking.  By this time, the shuttle was supposed to be leaving, and the police officers nearby were looking at me curiously,  as if the girl wandering around the station in leggings and wheeling a houndstooth print carry-on could potentially be a security threat.  Defeated, I decided to suck it up and pay for the taxi, or else risk missing my flight.  As it turns out, though, the shuttle was pulling out from exactly where I had been standing in the first place.  I flagged him down, which I can imagine made me look truly ridiculous.  I ran over and boarded the shuttle, a little out of breath.

Since in France people under 26 years old get a discount on transportation, the driver asked me how old I am.  Since sometimes it turns out I really don't speak French, I told him what time it was.  He shrugged and charged me full price.  It was still at least 20 euros cheaper than taking a taxi, so I couldn't be bothered to be too embarrassed by my abysmal flag-down-the-driver-like-a-lunatic-then-tell-him-the-time-though-he-didn't-ask-for-it episode.  I made it to the airport on time, and even made it through security quickly and with minimal groping. A few hours later, I landed in London.  Easy as pie.

First Month in France

I’ve been in France for pretty much exactly a month now, and I still have a hard time believing I’m here.  Every once in a while, I have a moment where I realize exactly how far from home I am, and it hits me: “Holy shit, I live in France now.”  This happens somewhat often - like every night when I realize that the make-up remover towels I bought here smell different than the ones from CVS, or when I go to the supermarket and have a hard time differentiating between laundry detergent and fabric softener, or when I walk down the street, or down the hallway at school, or into the kitchen in my building, and not a single person is speaking English.  Still, the thought that I live here hasn’t really sunk in.  The fact that I’m getting paid to live here is particularly hard to believe.  I feel infinitely lucky to have an opportunity like this one, and I have been enjoying myself more than I can express in a blog post.  That said, every day is something of a challenge, and it can be exhausting to live in another language.  A month into my experience here, I find myself feeling the first twinges of homesickness.  Maybe “homesick” isn’t exactly the right word…the fact that I miss my friends and family goes without saying, and I’m also missing the comfort and familiarity of certain other things, too; but “homesick” has a particularly negative connotation, I think, and I don’t think that fits my situation.  I don’t feel negative in the least.  On the contrary, I am content to be here.  I often feel quite in my element despite being quite outside my comfort zone.  I’ve also been away from home for far longer than this before, and so these feelings are not exactly new.  There are some things, though, that I will be glad to return to when I’m home for Christmas.  More specifically:

-       Ice cubes

-       Jeopardy (whatever, I’m a nerd and I love trivia)

-       My Blackberry

-       Netflix

-       The District of Columbia (I began missing DC as soon as I left in August, so this one really doesn’t have much to do with me being here – especially since going home no longer means going to DC – but I miss it nonetheless)

-       Big-ass cups of American coffee (they call it coffee, but what they drink here is really espresso)

-       Temperatures in Fahrenheit (In Celsius, 30 degrees means it’s really hot.  Wtf?!)

-       Oatmeal (my favorite breakfast/snack/comfort food, and completely impossible to find in this country)

These are all actually pretty minor things (except for the friends and family part, but modern technology means I can keep in pretty close contact) and for that I am grateful.  I love home, but I am also loving Bordeaux.  I guess the thing about loving more than one place is that wherever you are, you’re always missing somewhere else.  And I love a lot of places.  I try to put it out of my mind so that I can truly enjoy the time I have here, and I have been.  This is a beautiful city (the park I go running in has PALM TREES) and I am meeting wonderful people from all over the United States, France, and the world.  I am lucky to have places I miss while I am here, and I feel luckier still knowing I love it here enough that one day, Bordeaux will be the city I am missing. 

Les Vacances!

My last class on Friday had something of a troublemaker, sitting in the back of the room and making wise-ass comments to test my French comprehension level.  He disrupted the class more than once and seemed absolutely uninterested in learning anything from me, but still I walked out of school with a smile.  Why is that, you ask?  Because I don’t have to go back for two whole weeks.  Just to clarify, I arrived in France a month ago but I’ve only been working for three weeks.  And now I’ve got two weeks off.  Not bad, I think.  

In order to celebrate the beginning of our first paid vacation (though it could be argued that since I am in France and by contract only work 12 hours a week, my whole seven months here are something of a paid vacation) a friend and I spent Saturday afternoon wandering around the outdoor market, drinking sweet wine, and napping in the park.  Then we made a Latin-American-themed dinner, complete with burritos and nachos and guacamole and flan all while listening to Shakira and drinking Sangria-flavored diet Coke (weird, I know, but they sell it here).  I didn’t go out Saturday night; partly because of the food coma I was falling into and partly because I wanted to be well rested in order to wake up early Sunday morning to get to the bar.  I can imagine what you’re thinking: A bar?!  On a Sunday morning?!  Whatever happened to going to church?  Kids these days…  But I assure you, it was with good reason: France was playing New Zealand in the Rugby World Cup Final.  And so along with a group of friends, I walked into a bar at 9:30 on a Sunday morning, ordered a beer, and watched my very first rugby game.  The place was packed with the most enthusiastic French people I have ever seen, and everyone was singing and cheering despite the fact that France trailed the entire match.  New Zealand ended up winning 8-7, but don’t ask me to explain why because rugby is confusing as hell.  It was fun anyway, and afterwards we got lunch and actually ended up running into one of my students, who I’m pretty sure was drunk.  I ended up going home and spending my afternoon quite lazily; two weeks of vacation are stretched out before me, and so I’m in no hurry to get work done.  On Tuesday I’m leaving for London, where I will celebrate my 22^nd birthday (on Thursday) with one of my best friends from AU.  I’ve never been to London, and I am absolutely thrilled to see it.  Also thrilling is the idea that I will speak nothing but English for an entire 5 days.  When I return to Bordeaux, I’ll still have a full week to plan lessons and continue exploring the city.  Saying that “life is good” seems like an understatement. 

Photos of Bordeaux

Here are some more photos, this time of my new life after moving from Blaye!

About to try my very first Cannele, the specialty dessert of Bordeaux

Les Boxers de Bordeaux

Potentially unsafe ride at the fair, oddly named "Sexy Dance" instead of "Maybe you'll die right now thanks to a complete lack of safety regulations."

The Kooks in concert!

At an outdoor market

Drinking sweet wine at an outdoor cafe

A beautiful day for a nap in the park

Check out the palm trees

A Mexican feast!

Early morning view from my room

Rugby World Cup Final: France vs. New Zealand

A Very Kooky Day

One of my favorite games in the world is Taboo, and I wasn't disappointed yesterday when I made my classes play despite the fact that they barely speak English.  I wanted my students to really participate - and apparently although they are very shy, they are also quite competitive.  The class of all boys was the best -  I was crying from laughing at the ridiculous ways they tried to overcome the language barrier.  Their team names were also fantastic: The Yankees and The Jonas Brothers.  I was glad to get my classes actually speaking English, even if playing Taboo half in English and half in French swear words isn't really a "lesson" for them.  In any case, it was a good day at "work" for me, and I'm sure they enjoyed it more than their regular English classes.

After I was done teaching, I met up with a friend and a few of her students for a concert - The Kooks are somewhat past their prime, which means they came to play in Bordeaux.  They actually put on a great concert, and we drank and danced and had a generally amazing night.  Since we were with French students, we all got to practice our French/English.  Someone recently asked me if my French has improved a lot since being here.  Maybe it has, but I know for sure that my Franglais, at least, has become impeccable.

Maybe I'm a little crazy...

I just spent over 2 euros on a loaf of "American Sandwich Bread."  This is ridiculous when you consider that a freshly made baguette costs 85 cents.  It's less ridiculous when you consider how many people I would kill for a decent peanut butter and jelly sandwich (not THAT many).  Good thing I foresaw this craving and actually brought a jar of peanut butter from home., or else we'd have a REAL problem on our hands.

A Franco-American Weekend

My first weekend as a resident of Bordeaux was fabulous, and also, at some points, decidedly…American.  It started with Mexican food for lunch, which was delightful because it’s pretty hard to find a decent burrito in France and somehow we managed to do just that.  Then we went to a hockey game (“Les Boxers de Bordeaux” won 11-2), which was very fun but who knew French people play hockey?  Then we went to a fair, and who knew French people have fairs, complete with candy apples (in French they’re called les Pommes d’Amour – Apples of Love) and ferris wheels and sketchy rides off of trucks?  Apparently they do.  It was loads of fun – we ate lots of bad food and rode the bumper cars and a very unsafe ride called “Sexy Dance,” then went to the steps of the Grand Theatre to split a couple bottles of wine before going out dancing.  It was a great start to my life here in the city, but oddly enough was not unlike any Saturday in the summertime in the US.

After such an American Saturday, it only makes sense that my Sunday would be very French.  Not much is open on Sundays here, so it really is a day of rest.  And after coming home at 5 in the morning, I really needed a day of rest.  I literally did nothing.  All day.  I lounged.  I rented a movie on iTunes.  I watched it in bed.  Finally, after an afternoon that redefined lazy, I ended up meeting up with another assistant for a very French dinner of crepes and cider.  It was delicious, and I was content to walk the long way home.  My first weekend as a Bordelaise couldn’t have been any better. 

Movin' on up

Although Blaye is a thrilling city, a bustling metropolis, an invigorating world capital...I have moved into the city of Bordeaux and I couldn't be happier to be here.  I lasted approximately three weeks in solitary confinement in the French countryside - a triumph.  I'm now living in a dormitory-type place for girls, but it's not associated with any university here; in fact most of the girls here work, and there are several other assistants who live here, too.  It's located right in the center of the city, on a small street that also has a sex shop, sushi restaurant, Moroccan takeout, guitar repair shop, and the "Crazy Tattoo Shop."  So far, I am loving it here.  The only drawback I can think of is that I live on the top floor of a building with no elevator, and my legs scream in protest any time I've forgotten something upstairs and have to do the four winding staircases again.  Nonetheless, I am happy to officially be a Bordelaise.

A picture is worth a thousand words.

Finally, some photos of the Blaye Citadel and my apartment at the Lycee.  Enjoy! (Especially the lovely decorations in my apartment)

My Cover is Blown

As I've written before, I've been forced to make my students believe that I don't speak any French.  Some of them believe me, but many of them have caught me red-handed.  The other day I was surrounded by students while waiting on line at the bakery, when the wife of one of the English teachers spotted me.  She popped into the bakery and kissed me hello, and I spoke for a few minutes in French with her and her young daughter.  The students stared the entire time.  Then, yesterday, a man came into one of my classes to ask for the attendance list.  The class had literally JUST asked me, "So...do you speak any French?" and I had JUST responded, "No...not really.  A little bit."  But this man interrupted my class, speaking French, and I had no choice but to respond. In French.  I tried to whisper, but when I turned back to the class they were all giving me the stink eye and going "MmmHMMMM."  One kid goes, "...a little bit?!"  Well, shit.  My cover is totally blown.

I thought 8am classes were bad as a student...

...but I assure you they're even worse when you're the teacher, because you don't have the option of sitting in the back of class and refusing to participate. Despite early classes, I've survived and even enjoyed my first week teaching solo.  My students are, in general, very shy.  One of my classes this week preferred to sit in almost complete silence rather than speak English to me, which made it particularly difficult to avoid the sound of the two pigeons having sex and/or dying outside the window of my classroom.  Most of my classes warmed up eventually though, and when they did they were hilarious.  In most cases, I am the only American these students have ever met, and all they know about America is what they've seen in the movies.  Because of this, they have a lot of questions for me.  Some of them so far:
- Do you watch Nascar?
- Do a lot of your friends have guns?
- Is school really like in American Pie?
- How do you feel about the death penalty?  What about separation of Church and State?
- Are there really McDonalds' everywhere?

On more than one occasion, my students have burst into song.  At one point, one of my classes had me laughing so hard that I thought I would have to leave the room to regain composure.  Other times, I have been supremely frustrated with the students who sit around looking bored, speaking to each other in French, refusing to participate.  Surely, an hour with a young American is better than spending class time actually sitting in class...no?  I guess 14 year-olds are obnoxious no matter what country you're in.

Liar Liar, Pants on Fire

Although I don’t officially start teaching until Monday, I’ve spent the last week introducing myself to all the English classes and meeting some of my students.  And it’s safe to say…they think I’m stupid and/or crazy.  You may think this is warranted, and sometimes I would even agree.  But this time, it’s not really my fault.  The problem is, my relationship with my students is based on a lie.  I’ve told them, again and again, that I speak absolutely no French.  I’ve had to do this so that they’ll believe they really must speak only English with me – they can’t know that they have a French safety net for when they don’t know how to express themselves.  Most of the students believed me.  Because of this, I’m sure they now also believe that I’m mildly retarded.  Why?  Because no person with more than a few brain cells would ever relocate to the countryside of a foreign country without learning at least a LITTLE BIT of the language spoken there.  But I’ve told my students that I’ve done just that.  And the questions they ask me lead me to believe that they think I’m a lunatic.  Questions such as, “But isn’t that…very hard?”  and “How will you integrate into French society if you don’t speak any French?”  The looks on their faces say it all: “What were you thinking?!”  Although I have asked that question of myself, I take comfort in knowing that I do actually speak French, and I’m not quite as stupid as they must believe of me.  In any case, my cover has already been blown.  The history teacher was doing a lesson on American politics this week, and he asked me to come to the class to answer questions and talk about the 2012 election, the role of the president, etc.  Although I answered the questions they asked in English, the students absolutely saw and heard the teacher and I speaking in French both before and after class.  Since this is a rather small high school, some of the students in the history class will undoubtedly have English classes with me.  And they’ll know my secret: I’m not really a stupid American.  I just act like it most of the time.

A Language Barrier, Breaking

When I went to open my bank account the other day, the teller couldn’t speak English – but he insisted on trying to do so anyway.  Maybe he did this for my benefit, or maybe he wanted the practice, but in the end we were both just confused.  His sentences trailed off self-consciously, much in the way mine do sometimes, when I’m searching for the right words and hoping someone else will find them for me.  I wished he would just stick to his own language, so that I’d have a better chance at understanding him.  I wonder if people here feel the same way about me, and maybe they do, but I am nonetheless convinced that my French is light-years ahead of this guy’s English.  When I left the bank, I was slightly less than 100% sure that I’d successfully opened an account.  I’ll be relieved when my debit card arrives in the mail.

In any case, I can tell that my French is improving even if it doesn’t always feel that way.  A few days ago, I struggled to buy toothpaste, my tongue stumbling over the wrong words and eventually apologizing, “Je suis pas francaise.”  Then the following day, I had a lengthy conversation with the history teacher about American politics, and my French was confident and fluid, though obviously not without a few errors.  I’m not sure if “practice makes perfect” applies to languages, but I’ll keep working on it and let you know.

To Absolutely No One's Surprise, Catherine Does Something Very Stupid

It was bound to happen eventually. And this time I really went all out.  I'm in Bordeaux (the city!) for the weekend to meet up with other assistants and go to orientation on Monday.  While I'm here, I'm staying at a lovely little hotel in the middle of town.  When I arrived, I noticed that the room was pretty warm, as it was 85 degrees throughout most of France today.  I remembered that the hotel had advertised air conditioning, and so before I left to meet up with people for the evening, I switched it on.  Then I left for 6 hours.  When I came back, tired and tipsy at 1am, I walked into what had become a sauna.  Do you want to know why?

It was because I hadn't turned on the air conditioning. I had turned on the heat.  The heat.  THE HEAT.  I'll say again that today was 85 degrees in Bordeaux.  And I HEATED MY ROOM.  For SIX hours.  And boy, was it hot.

Sometimes I astound myself.

Everything is Relative

You could say that I have a problem with perspective.  Here's what I mean: I make a bigger deal about a paper cut than a surgery.  I am thoroughly revolted by a sprinkle of pee on the toilet seat at a movie theater, but happily squat over a hole in the ground in Morocco.  For me, and maybe even for most people, reactions are situational.  The difference between inconvenience and adventure is attitude.  Catch me at the right moment and I won't care that I have to walk half a mile to a Porta-Potty with no toilet paper.  Catch me at the wrong moment and I'll get teary-eyed because I've run out of coffee creamer.

At times, here, I have felt frustrated and overwhelmed - fair, I think, for someone who has just moved to a foreign country.  But I hope I'm not forgetting that this is also a great adventure, and that sometimes you need to take a deep breath and roll with the punches.  I am, after all, in a part of the world where pastries (and wine!) are readily available for no more than a couple dollars.  I have electricity, fresh fruits and veggies, water that flows warm and with plenty of pressure.  I'm not exactly roughing it.

Le Pain Quotidien

Yesterday I bought a baguette so good it made every frustration and hardship of the last week worth it. It was flour-dusted, hand-made perfection, and a great reminder that it's important to savor the little things. Then, I spent 14 euros on a fash wash whose main ingredient is water - which I'm pretty sure is free. Oh, well. Ups and downs, I guess.

I swear I'm happy to be here...

...but yesterday really threw me for a loop.  In honor of my first few days in my apartment:

Things My Apartment Does Not Have
- A working internet connection
- A working television
- An oven or a microwave
-A comfortable bed
- A couch
- Ice cube trays
- A shower curtain
- A bathmat
- Any rugs or carpeting, so that when I sneeze it echoes a little

Things My Apartment Does Have
- An internet box that is, as of yet, useless
- A television that is, as of yet, useless
- A two burner stovetop, a toaster, a small fridge
- A mop, a broom, a few sponges
- Three beds
- Six or seven folding chairs
- A bicycle
- A shower and bath
- A bidet
- Inexplicably, above the stovetop, a magazine cutout of a bunny's head
- Also inexplicably, a bag of rocks
- EXTREMELY inexplicably, a picture of fish and flowers that spell out the name Raul
- Blinds that are in fact OUTSIDE the windows, and which have a crank for opening and closing
- These blinds are actually just large metal sheets with a fez holes punctured in them
- Ample closet space
- A few pieces of furniture reminiscent of what you might expect to find in the bedroom at an orphanage

I shit you not. I couldn't make this up if I tried.  Just after I moved in and saw all this, a Taylor Swift song came on my iTunes and made me cry, which I think serves as an indicator of how I was feeling.  Later, though, I cried from laughing so hard while telling my family all the strqnge little details, because what else can you do?  A BUNNY HEAD is the only decoration in this apartment, save for the dust and the sign spelling out the name Raul.  Eventually I'll post pictures, but since I have no internet I'm currently using the faculty computer lab at the lycée.  Not sure they'd take too kindly to me sitting here, uploading photos of the apart,ent they graciously provided for my use. In any case, I'm trying to get Wifi sorted out in the apartment, and then I'll upload all sorts of pictures.

La Vie Blayaise: A Few First Impressions

I arrived here in Blaye yesterday, and it is absolutely beautiful here.  I'll post photos as soon as I take some, but in the meantime here's a link to a site about the citadelle, which is stunning: http://www.cheminsdememoire.gouv.fr/page/affichelieu.php?idLang=en&idLieu=521

Tomorrow I am moving into my apartment across the street from the high school, but for this weekend I'm staying with one of the English teachers and his family.  They've done their best to make me feel at home, and it's excellent to be around a family with kids and pets and excitement all around.  Yesterday we went for a walk around Blaye, which is tiny so it didn't take long.  Everyone here knows each other.  Everyone stops to say hello and chat.  It's a very friendly place, which definitely helps when adjusting to being somewhere new.

So far, Blaye seems lovely but it's clear that there isn't much going on.  There are no other teaching assistants here, so in terms of that I am alone.  This week I'm gong into Bordeaux to meet up with some of the assistants there, and perhaps in the coming weeks I will decide to look for a place to stay in the city.  I'm not sure what I will choose, because I can see pretty clear advantages to either.  Here in Blaye, life would be quiet but peaceful and relaxed (not to mention cheaper).  In Bordeaux, I would have more options for meeting people and going out.  We'll see what the future holds...

A Year in Rural France?

I grew up in a small town, but what I really love is a great big city.  I love cities.  My small town is only an hour away from New York, which, you know.  Good city.  I spent three of my college years in Washington, DC, one of the only places I have ever loved as much as my own home.  I studied for one semester as an exchange student in Paris, one of the most beautiful cities I've ever been lucky enough to know.  I have visited and subsequently fallen in love with many other cities, too: Barcelona, Istanbul, Montreal, Rome, and others.  I am in Bordeaux for the evening, and as I explained in my last post, I am already falling in love with it.  The tram here, in particular, is fantastic.  I have a passionate and inexplicable love for public transportation.  In any case, I am a city girl at heart.

Here's the thing, though: tomorrow I am moving to Blaye, France, population 5000.  Definitely not a city.  And yet, I'm excited.  Thrilled, even.  Maybe I'll end up moving to Bordeaux and commuting to work in Blaye, but I'm excited even for the chance to get to know a little pocket of France that even many French people have never heard of.

More to come!

Let's Consider Today a Success...

...because I am in the right city, in the right country, and nothing so far has gone terribly wrong.  If you remember the last time I came to this country (France, two years ago) you may also remember that my first day was the opposite of a success.  On that first day, I had no place to live and my luggage had been lost and my bank account had been frozen.  Today, luckily, involved none of those traumas.  However, it was not a day without adventure.

Today started with what is now yesterday, at JFK airport in New York.  After waiting on line behind 134120398 people at various AirFrance kiosks, and then behind 130972817  more to get through security, I made it to my gate just as my flight was boarding.  As I walked past First Class on my way to the very back of the plane, I noticed the bed-like seats and lots of calm, happy faces.  People flying First Class have it made.  Meanwhile, in Economy, I was seated next to an aggressive armchair hog who smelled as if she had spilled her perfume on herself rather than spritzing it.  I spent the first few hours of the flight watching movies (Bridesmaids, and some weird French movie with an ambiguous ending) and eating airplane food ("Mustard Chicken"?!)  Eventually I swaddled myself in an AirFrance blanket, took a deep breath of heavily-perfumed, recirculated air, and tried to get some sleep.  No dice.  Not a wink.  At about the same time I would have been going to bed in New York, I was "waking up" in Paris.  And I had another flight to catch.  Ouch.

This is where my day went through a "barely successful and potentially horrific" phase.  AirFrance told me on several occasions (because I asked many times) that I would not have to go through customs in Paris, but would instead do so upon my arrival at the Bordeaux airport.  I was relieved, since our first flight came in late, leaving me only 40 minutes to get to my connecting gate across the airport.  Unfortunately, AirFrance's claim that I wouldn't have to go through customs or security before my connecting flight was a work of pure fiction.  I ran through the airport, following signs for my gate.  These signs brought me to the customs line, which I was told I would have to wait on in order to get to my connecting flight.  Then I found myself on a line to get through security.  This was all going down AS MY FLIGHT WAS BOARDING.  Naturally, I was selected for a "random search" at security, adding extra time and panic to my trek to the right gate.  I made it, panting and sweating and ready to cry tears of pure exhaustion, just as they were announcing "Last call for boarding."

I made it to Bordeaux by 9am and had arrived at my hotel by 10.  I couldn't check in until 3, though, so I left my luggage and set out to explore the city.  I bought the essentials while I was out (cell phone, hair dryer and straightener) and spent most of my 5 free hours people-watching and counting down until nap time.  I sat at a cafe, and on a bench, and on the steps of the Grand Theatre.  I figured out the tram system.  I walked down streets with no plans or directions.  I had a map but didn't use it.  I wandered.  I didn't mind being alone or not knowing exactly where I was.  I saw some of Bordeaux and I began to fall in love with it. I am happy and excited to be here, feelings which I imagine will only grow stronger once I actually get some rest.  All in all, a successful and promising first day.