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.