Well, is it about time that I updated this thing, or what?? Unfortunately, the internet connection in my apartment was more of a myth than a reality until very recently, and that made me particularly lazy about getting stuff posted. But, I finally got hooked up, so here we are!
OK, I think the first subject to tackle is my teaching. As I described before, I have two sets of students, most easily differentiated as “Beginners” and “Advanced”. To be honest, I’ve really hardly taught them at all due to the school vacation in October/November, but I have had some good (and not so good) experiences I can relate.
So, the first students I met were the advanced ones. It was the day before my orientation, and I honestly wasn’t expecting to have to meet them until the following week. It was all a bit of a surprise for me, but I had no choice but to roll with the punches because the other teacher is, in fact, the head of the whole program (Mr. Duchet). Actually, I didn’t need to prepare anything for them; it was just a chance for me to meet them and observe Mr. Duchet in action.
OK…“in action” might be a bit of a stretch for the elderly Mr. Duchet. He should, by all rights, be retired. Why he’s still working is beyond me (and most others), but oh well! So, I showed up 10 minutes early for class. At first, only 3 students were there. Eventually, Mr. Duchet showed up 5 minutes late for class. Still just 3 students. Mr. Duchet showed me the new computer lab setup where we’ll be taking turns working with the students. (It’s very cool, actually…each student has a computer equipped with an enormous pair of airplane pilot headphones that have a mic attached. The teacher has a computer that he/she can use to monitor what each student is doing and communicate with them via microphone. Cool.) Mr. Duchet had no real idea how to use these new computers as it was the first day of class, so it was lucky that my tech-savvy ass was there to figure it out for him.
Eventually, after about 15 minutes, the rest of the students showed up. Turns out they had a class immediately prior and they aren’t given a passing time to get to the next class. Once they got in there, I was made to stand up and present myself. I was pretty nervous about this, but it turns out that they were very friendly and seemed to take to me right away. I made them laugh…whew!
So, I hung out and watched how Mr. Duchet handled class. He had a copy of the T.S. Eliot poem (the title of which I can never remember) upon which the musical “Cats” is based. Now, Mr. Duchet has an incredibly thick British accent. I would never think that he was French, actually. He sounds like he’s from Bristol or something. So, he’s got this Shakespearean actor thing going on as he reads the poem for them as an example. The only problem was that he would start out each line very loud and strong and then, by the end of it, his voice would be nothing but a quiet mumble. How the students understood him, I have no idea; it was a struggle for me!
Another thing about Mr. Duchet is that he constantly talks to the students in French, which led to him speaking constantly to me in French. Naturally, I could only understand him about 45% of the time. Needless to say, I found myself doing a lot of head nodding and saying, “Uhh…oui!” without having any idea what I had agreed to. I had assumed that, like in my French classes in America, the teacher would speak to the students exclusively in English. Otherwise, what’s the fucking point? But no, not here! So, this will remain an issue for me, I’m sure.
The funny thing is that by the time I had the second lab class with these students and Mr. Duchet, I had had them by myself for the casual Tuesday morning class, and I mentioned to them that I could rarely understand Mr. Duchet. So, during the second lab class, whenever Mr. Duchet talked to me in French, they would all crack up as I nodded and kept saying “Oui!”. Then, after we split the class and I took my half to another classroom, I had them translate what Mr. Duchet had been rambling on about. Very amusing.
I really love these students. They’re so much fun to teach because they’re almost fluent (so I don’t really have to “grade” my language with them) and they’re studying for an incredibly hard exam in order to become English teachers, so they’re quite motivated to learn. Excellent combo! Plus, they’re very nice people, too. Several volunteered to call the asshole internet company here on my behalf. A girl named Alice has been especially helpful, calling places for me and even translating my birth certificate into French!
I particularly enjoy the Tuesday morning class with these students. One week, I brought in an article from the International Herald Tribune about an alternative fuel road race in Berkeley, California. We read the article together, then I broke them up into three teams and had them design an alternative fuel vehicle of their own, which they would then present to the class. They worked really hard on it, with lots of debate on the design and drawing of the vehicle, and the results were hilarious. One of the cars ran on “flower petals, perfume, and horse or camel shit”. This was presented by the team of dainty girls, so it was particularly amusing. I saved all of their drawings because they were so great.
Just before the Toussaints school break at the end of October, they had a class outing to a local Irish pub, and they invited me to come with them. What a great time! I think they were a bit surprised when I showed up with my hair down (for the first time) and makeup on, but they quickly recovered themselves and we set about the very important business of getting schnockered.
The best part about that night, aside from it being my first night on the town since I got here, was that they taught me quite a few naughty (but oh-so-useful) French phrases that you just never learn in school. Among these were several ways of saying “I’m drunk”, “I’ve got a hangover” (my favorite of those is “Je suis dans le paté” which means “I’m in the paté”, paté being a fancy type of processed meat mixture, of course), and naturally, many variations on “Fuck you” and how to call someone a bitch or bastard. Here are a couple good ones–bitch: “poufiasse” which sounds like “poofy ass”; blonde bitch: “blondasse”; bastard: “con”. Alice wrote them all down for me so that I could study later (when I would have a better chance of remembering them). Oh, another good one! For something very expensive: “ça coute la peau de cul!” (It costs the skin of an ass!) And something that’s cheesy: “C’est cul cul la praline.” (It’s ass ass the praline.) LOL
At first, my beginning students provided very few experiences as entertaining as this. In fact, the first class I was supposed to have with them ended up being cancelled, although no one thought to inform me of that fact. So, all revved up and sitting there, waiting…not even the other teacher showed up. In the end, I had to ask at the office. I felt like such a dope! Still, my job requirements don’t include being psychic, so everyone was very apologetic, especially Michel (my supervising teacher).
Once I finally got around to teaching these guys, it turned out to be not nearly as bad as I had feared. In fact, we usually laugh a lot and have a good time, in general. The level of English varies wildly between them, which makes for interesting classes, to be sure. Since Michel takes half for the first hour and then we switch, and the students are allowed from week to week to decide on their own how they will divide themselves up, it can often mean that one half will be all intermediate-level kids who love to chat my ear off, and the other half will sit in stony, false-beginner silence, hoping I won’t call on them, requiring me to drag the participation out of them. It’s no wonder that after my second round of classes with them, I nearly lost my voice.
Still, there are a few gems among these students, the ones I look forward to seeing. Mostly these are boys, as the girls seem to be, in general, much less apt to be the ones to speak up. Fred, Charles, Alexandre, Denis, Sylvain, Nicholas, Thomas, Stephane, and a few others whose names I haven’t yet memorized. These guys are really funny or really charming or really sweet. They make the day go faster, to be sure!
The most fun I’ve ever (inadvertently) had with the beginning students happened just this week, in fact. It all started because I had been a lazy ass over the Thanksgiving weekend, and didn’t feel like preparing their class material ahead of time. Since the prep only involves making photocopies of an article and then writing up a few questions about it that we can discuss in class, I decided just to come in a bit early on Tuesday morning to get it handled. The article that I chose came from a group that Michel had given me that were apparently tried and tested. “Don’t reinvent the wheel” he told me when he gave them to me. Nice and easy, just like I like it. So, I looked through them Tuesday morning, chose one more or less at random, and went on about my day.
Well, my mistake was that I didn’t read it out loud before class. I have to read the article out loud during class, so the students can hear my pronunciation before they take a turn with it themselves. Usually, I read through it once beforehand just to see if there are any words I need to emphasize, etc. Of all the times for me to slack off…
So. There I am, casually reading this boring article out loud (on the subject of declining reading scores in Great Britain’s primary schools) when I get to a quote from the Education Secretary, Ed Balls. That’s right. Ed Balls.
I think you imagine my surprise at suddenly finding myself saying the name “Ed Balls” out loud in front of my students, so then it is no great leap to imagine me immediately starting to giggle like a Beavis and Butthead extra. I took a deep breath, apologized to my students, and soldiered on. Until the beginning of the next paragraph which began with the phrase, “Mr. Balls stated that…”
Frankly, at that point, I just burst out laughing like a lunatic. My students (a particularly low level group to start off the day) looked at me like I had three heads. And the thing was, once I started laughing, I couldn’t stop! I just kept thinking about how horrible it was that I was laughing in the first place, and then I’d think about the horrible name, and I was off again! The giggle loop in action (for any “Coupling” fans out there)! It took many deep breaths, four or five tries, and pinching my hand as hard as possible to sober me up enough to finish reading the article.
After I was done, I tried to explain to the students that the name was very funny in English, and please forgive me for being such an idiot. Well, they were laughing at me quite a bit by then, so it was no big deal. At the end of class, however, one of the higher level students asked me, “What this name Mr. Balls means in English?” I happened to have a dictionary at hand, and no remaining dignity, so I looked it up and told him. They were all most amused.
For the next class, I decided that there was absolutely no fucking way I was going to read that name out loud again. In the interim, I had spoken to my friend Jennifer over Skype, and in telling the story to her, I started laughing so much that I couldn’t breathe. I could barely get through the story at all! I mean, Mr. Balls has to be absolutely the worst name in the history of the world!! I defy you to come up with one that can compare. So, yeah, no way I’m reading that again.
I decided to just fess up before I read the article. I explained to them that the name was very funny in English, and that I wouldn’t read it because otherwise I would laugh like crazy. I also explained what it meant, so that they would understand my reasoning. They all thought it was funny, and so the class passed with little to no drama. Sylvain suggested that I say “Mr. B” instead, and used that name himself when writing up his summary. Very cute. Also cute was in the next class when Fred, one of my best students (and a very-nearly-Brad Pitt look alike) was unable to complete his summary as he wanted because, as he said, “I was searching a word play for Mr. Balls, but I was unable to find it.”
The last class of the day, with a couple of the loud-mouth boys who love to go back and forth with me, was really a lot of fun. As they were silently reading the article to themselves at the beginning of class, I noticed that Charles and Alexandre started laughing. So, they were already ahead of the game. When it came time for me to read, I gave my little “It’s a funny name” speech and said that I wouldn’t be reading it out loud. Charles volunteered to read it for me! Ok, no problem. I started reading and then paused for Charles to say the name. He said, “ED BALLS” with a deep, resounding voice…much like you would say “JAMES BOND”. Well, we all died laughing. More of the same on “MR.BALLS”. Then, when they had to write up their summaries, both Alexandre and Charles naturally managed to work in the name “Mr. Balls”. Oh, the little joys of teaching!
And thus ends the blog on my students. In general, school things these days are clicking along with very few issues, but if anything along the lines of Mr. Balls happens again, I’ll be sure to fill you in!
In the next update, look for stories about my first trip to La Rochelle. Holiday blogs to follow!
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
A bit cheesy...
OK, where did we leave off? Ah yes…amusing or interesting stories. I think I’ll just write these up in a random fashion, if you don’t mind.
First, let me just say that in a land which is home to over 400 different cheeses, it has been a real bitch to find some cheddar. American supermarket aisles are clogged with every possible incarnation of cheddar cheese, but at the two markets I frequent, there is only one piece of cheddar cheese on offer at each. At LeClerc (the ungodly huge grocery store with 100+ yogurt choices) there is one package of pre-packed white cheddar, a chunk of “Sharp Scottish Cheddar” that weighs about 8 ounces and costs about $4. At Monoprix, the grocery store in the center of town that is relatively small (compared to LeClerc, anyway) but oh-so-convenient, there is a large block of white cheddar at the cheese counter. 18.50 Euros per kilo, which works out to about $11.50/pound. The unfortunate thing is that the most popular cheese here is emmentaler (a basic swiss style cheese), and it just does not work as a substitute for cheddar. C’est tragique.
Another food item that is abundant in America and mysteriously absent here is pepperoni. When I was living in Korea, just getting a pizza was an ordeal, so I’m not bitching too much here. But still, pepperoni is my favorite topping, and it’s practically nowhere to be found. Eggs, however, are a common and quite popular pizza topping, so it’s no wonder that I’m getting screwed on the pepperoni (I hate eggs).
At any rate, there is a Dominos Pizza here, and, as you all know, they are required by law to offer pepperoni as a topping. :-) So, when I received their flier advertising “Crazy Week!” wherein they were offering any sized pizza with any combination of toppings for only 6.99 Euros (about $9, carry-out only), I decided that the time was ripe for my first pizza here in France. Tragically, I neglected to remember that my life’s story is filled with heartbreak and unfulfilled longing.
So, it was with a hopeful heart and growling stomach that I impetuously lept off the bus one drizzly school night at the stop just across from the Dominos. It was 5:45, which meant that I had 15 minutes to sit at the bus stop, staring longingly at the Dominos until the doors were unlocked. Once 6 o’clock hit, I casually strolled inside. I explained in bad French that I was American and in desperate need of a pepperoni infusion. The man was friendly and happy to take my order for the largest pizza possible with a mountain of pepperoni and cheese. For only 6.99, it was going to be a pizza miracle. Until I went to pay, and his motherfucking credit machine would only take French credit cards. I could have thrown that machine through the fucking window and then set the place on fire. And of course, I only had 4 Euros cash on me, so I was basically totally fucked. The man smirkingly suggested going to the ATM at the very bottom of the hill, which I was not keen to do in the increasingly vigorous rain. At this point, the man became a bit too smarmy, so I huffed my way out of there, muttering various curses against the man, specifically, and France, in general.
Remembering that there was a pizza place just down the street, I walked until I came to the “Pizza Box” (I forget the French spelling). The boy who helped me there was exceptionally nice and even spoke some English. No pepperoni, but they did have chorizo. Much more expensive, but they were doing a two-for-one special on carry-out orders. So, for $20 I got two small pizzas and a carton of Ben & Jerry’s to mend my wounded soul.
But let us not forget that I still had to get home. In the rain. Carrying two pizza boxes and a sack of ice cream, in addition to my purse, computer bag, and umbrella. It was way too far to walk, even if it wasn’t raining, so I waited at the nearest bus stop. When the bus finally did arrive, it was packed to the rafters, so I literally stood at the very front, hip to hip with the driver, my pizzas basically resting on the dashboard, trying not to fall over with every sudden braking or turn. It was a misery.
By the time I walked home from the bus stop by my apartment, a pool of water had collected on the topmost pizza box. But they must really know how to make a pizza box here, because not only wasn’t my pizza soaking wet, it was still mostly hot and definitely delicious. The chorizo wasn’t like at home; it looked and tasted almost exactly like large pepperoni pieces. Perfection!
What wasn’t perfection was the night I decided to phone up this same pizza place to have a pie delivered. I’ll admit I was nervous to place an order over the phone, but I had practiced what I was going to say and studied up on the relevant vocab from a flier of theirs I got in the mail. But, naturally, the man who answered the phone had an accent that I could not understand for the life of me. I tried to tell him what I wanted, but every time he asked me a question (presumably the typical things like address, phone number, pizza choice) it was like he was speaking in some sort of Martian dialect; I was at a total loss. Eventually, he got fed up with me and passed the phone to a fellow employee, who, I am proud to say, I was able to understand with absolutely no issues. (I’d like to think that he hung up the phone and said, “I don’t know what the fuck your problem was, but she seemed fine to me!”) The whole thing just reminded me of every time I’ve heard a fellow call center employee bitch about a customer whose accent they couldn’t understand, and they’d say something along the lines of “Fucking foreigners…learn some fucking English.” Since I’m not one of those people (and I was really trying my best to both speak and understand the native language) I don’t feel I should be getting stuck with their bad karma, but what are you going to do? At any rate, I don’t think I’ll be going through that experience again in a hurry.
Another thing which I will not be doing again in a hurry is having my mother ship me stuff via DHL (or really any private shipper, for that matter). The day I left for France, I stupidly forgot my brand new coat at my mother’s. Since it was an insulated raincoat that I planned to wear during the late fall/winter season, and we were running late to the airport, I decided to just have my mom ship it to me. Never again. First of all, my mother didn’t know how much the coat cost, and not wanting to undervalue it in case it was damaged or lost during shipment, she put on the customs declaration that it cost $200 (it was really only half that expensive). I can hear the more internationally experienced among you groaning right now. Yes, that’s right, I had to pay a duty on the package. Plus, unbelievably, I also had to pay a private shipping fee for using DHL. ??? So, when the DHL delivery guy showed up at my door, he required a payment of—get this—60 Euros!! before I could have my fucking package. I, of course, don’t keep this kind of cash on hand, so I had to tell him to bring it back the next day. Unbelievable.
First, let me just say that in a land which is home to over 400 different cheeses, it has been a real bitch to find some cheddar. American supermarket aisles are clogged with every possible incarnation of cheddar cheese, but at the two markets I frequent, there is only one piece of cheddar cheese on offer at each. At LeClerc (the ungodly huge grocery store with 100+ yogurt choices) there is one package of pre-packed white cheddar, a chunk of “Sharp Scottish Cheddar” that weighs about 8 ounces and costs about $4. At Monoprix, the grocery store in the center of town that is relatively small (compared to LeClerc, anyway) but oh-so-convenient, there is a large block of white cheddar at the cheese counter. 18.50 Euros per kilo, which works out to about $11.50/pound. The unfortunate thing is that the most popular cheese here is emmentaler (a basic swiss style cheese), and it just does not work as a substitute for cheddar. C’est tragique.
Another food item that is abundant in America and mysteriously absent here is pepperoni. When I was living in Korea, just getting a pizza was an ordeal, so I’m not bitching too much here. But still, pepperoni is my favorite topping, and it’s practically nowhere to be found. Eggs, however, are a common and quite popular pizza topping, so it’s no wonder that I’m getting screwed on the pepperoni (I hate eggs).
At any rate, there is a Dominos Pizza here, and, as you all know, they are required by law to offer pepperoni as a topping. :-) So, when I received their flier advertising “Crazy Week!” wherein they were offering any sized pizza with any combination of toppings for only 6.99 Euros (about $9, carry-out only), I decided that the time was ripe for my first pizza here in France. Tragically, I neglected to remember that my life’s story is filled with heartbreak and unfulfilled longing.
So, it was with a hopeful heart and growling stomach that I impetuously lept off the bus one drizzly school night at the stop just across from the Dominos. It was 5:45, which meant that I had 15 minutes to sit at the bus stop, staring longingly at the Dominos until the doors were unlocked. Once 6 o’clock hit, I casually strolled inside. I explained in bad French that I was American and in desperate need of a pepperoni infusion. The man was friendly and happy to take my order for the largest pizza possible with a mountain of pepperoni and cheese. For only 6.99, it was going to be a pizza miracle. Until I went to pay, and his motherfucking credit machine would only take French credit cards. I could have thrown that machine through the fucking window and then set the place on fire. And of course, I only had 4 Euros cash on me, so I was basically totally fucked. The man smirkingly suggested going to the ATM at the very bottom of the hill, which I was not keen to do in the increasingly vigorous rain. At this point, the man became a bit too smarmy, so I huffed my way out of there, muttering various curses against the man, specifically, and France, in general.
Remembering that there was a pizza place just down the street, I walked until I came to the “Pizza Box” (I forget the French spelling). The boy who helped me there was exceptionally nice and even spoke some English. No pepperoni, but they did have chorizo. Much more expensive, but they were doing a two-for-one special on carry-out orders. So, for $20 I got two small pizzas and a carton of Ben & Jerry’s to mend my wounded soul.
But let us not forget that I still had to get home. In the rain. Carrying two pizza boxes and a sack of ice cream, in addition to my purse, computer bag, and umbrella. It was way too far to walk, even if it wasn’t raining, so I waited at the nearest bus stop. When the bus finally did arrive, it was packed to the rafters, so I literally stood at the very front, hip to hip with the driver, my pizzas basically resting on the dashboard, trying not to fall over with every sudden braking or turn. It was a misery.
By the time I walked home from the bus stop by my apartment, a pool of water had collected on the topmost pizza box. But they must really know how to make a pizza box here, because not only wasn’t my pizza soaking wet, it was still mostly hot and definitely delicious. The chorizo wasn’t like at home; it looked and tasted almost exactly like large pepperoni pieces. Perfection!
What wasn’t perfection was the night I decided to phone up this same pizza place to have a pie delivered. I’ll admit I was nervous to place an order over the phone, but I had practiced what I was going to say and studied up on the relevant vocab from a flier of theirs I got in the mail. But, naturally, the man who answered the phone had an accent that I could not understand for the life of me. I tried to tell him what I wanted, but every time he asked me a question (presumably the typical things like address, phone number, pizza choice) it was like he was speaking in some sort of Martian dialect; I was at a total loss. Eventually, he got fed up with me and passed the phone to a fellow employee, who, I am proud to say, I was able to understand with absolutely no issues. (I’d like to think that he hung up the phone and said, “I don’t know what the fuck your problem was, but she seemed fine to me!”) The whole thing just reminded me of every time I’ve heard a fellow call center employee bitch about a customer whose accent they couldn’t understand, and they’d say something along the lines of “Fucking foreigners…learn some fucking English.” Since I’m not one of those people (and I was really trying my best to both speak and understand the native language) I don’t feel I should be getting stuck with their bad karma, but what are you going to do? At any rate, I don’t think I’ll be going through that experience again in a hurry.
Another thing which I will not be doing again in a hurry is having my mother ship me stuff via DHL (or really any private shipper, for that matter). The day I left for France, I stupidly forgot my brand new coat at my mother’s. Since it was an insulated raincoat that I planned to wear during the late fall/winter season, and we were running late to the airport, I decided to just have my mom ship it to me. Never again. First of all, my mother didn’t know how much the coat cost, and not wanting to undervalue it in case it was damaged or lost during shipment, she put on the customs declaration that it cost $200 (it was really only half that expensive). I can hear the more internationally experienced among you groaning right now. Yes, that’s right, I had to pay a duty on the package. Plus, unbelievably, I also had to pay a private shipping fee for using DHL. ??? So, when the DHL delivery guy showed up at my door, he required a payment of—get this—60 Euros!! before I could have my fucking package. I, of course, don’t keep this kind of cash on hand, so I had to tell him to bring it back the next day. Unbelievable.
A long-overdue update
There could have been no finer day for a stroll along a medieval river than this past late-autumn Sunday in Poitiers. The sun, streaming brightly through yellow and russet leaves, was warm enough to chase off the late afternoon chill, while the slight breeze carried a hint of wood smoke in the distance.
The constant tinkling of the petite rivière beneath my balcony reminded me of the time I had walked along the river Clain a few weeks ago. I had it almost entirely to myself, and it was an exceptionally beautiful and peaceful experience.
So, feeling cooped up in my studio, and with nothing much to occupy my time (having beat every possible piece of laundry against a rock yesterday) I decided to buy a sandwich at the bakery around the corner and then enjoy it while sitting on one of the many benches along the river, throwing the occasional piece of crust to my Mallard friends. (I refer to them as my friends, of course, because they have taken to napping every afternoon on the bank of the petite rivière, just across from my balcony. I quack hello to them when I open up my balcony door.)
As always goes the story of my life, I had the inevitably embarrassing moment at the bakery, during which my credit card wouldn’t work because their machine was only for French cards. This was only revealed after my entire order had been prepared and bagged up, naturally. I was reduced to scrounging through my purse for enough coins to barely cover the cost of the specially-prepared sandwich, and was therefore forced to leave behind the bottle of water and the croissants for tomorrow’s breakfast. The woman behind the counter was no friend of mine by the time I hightailed it out of there, let me tell you. Still, what kind of establishment doesn’t have a credit card machine that will allow you to swipe a card? These French cards have a “plus” sign (pronounced “ploose”, of course) that allows the card to just be inserted into the machine. Most credit machines have the option to either insert or swipe, so this has only happened to me twice: at this bakery and at a Domino’s Pizza [story to follow].
After taking my sandwich of shame and getting the hell out of there, I headed toward the river, keen to repeat my peaceful and isolated experience. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one with the idea to walk along the river on such a gorgeous day; I would have realized that had I given it about half a minute’s thought. Still, it wasn’t quite overrun with squealing brats or yipping dogs, so it was satisfyingly peaceful and inviting. The river was calm, glassy, tinged green like an old Coke bottle. The gravel path snaking alongside the river was dotted with white wooden benches, the best ones already taken by elderly couples (the rest mysteriously not even facing in the direction of the river). All sorts were out for a stroll, including families, couples, men with dogs, women with babies, and one little girl trying to rollerblade through the gravel with very little success. It was lovely.
I know I’ve been slacking these past couple weeks, in regards to keeping this page updated. Please accept my most sincere apologies. Having very little to do in the way of actual work, I should have been posting something every day, but it never really seems to work out that way. When I’m somewhere with internet access (such as my school), I tend to want to goof around online and not do any actual work. I’ve discovered that unless I have 24/7 access to the internet, my productivity once actually connected to it is significantly diminished. I guess I just need to get that goofing-around time out of the way before I can really get down to business. Thankfully, I have at last been able to submit the order for internet in my apartment, and I should be online full time by mid-November. God willing, of course.
Speaking of business, I do have several stories I’d like to share in order to get you all up to date. There’s a lot to report, so I’ll do it in two separate postings. Let us go forth chronologically…
October 1st was a day of orientation for the assistants in my school district, conveniently held right here in Poitiers. I was nervous that the whole day would be in French, and I would be lost for most of it. Of course, it turned out to be mostly French, with brief interludes in English. I got by alright, but not without sounding like an idiot on several occasions which I want to forget and so won’t be repeating here.
I was also nervous that I would be like a grandmother (age-wise) compared to all the other assistants, and I wasn’t far off on that, either. Most of them were clearly in their early or mid twenties. I felt ancient, which was worse than not understanding the French, to be frank. I did make a few “friends”, so at least I had someone to eat lunch with and stand next to at the post-orientation reception.
At this reception, the man in charge of our whole region gave a little speech, and then circulated throughout the crowd, chatting in French with lots of my fellow assistants. Yours truly saw what was going on, and in a desperate bid to save herself from a surely-humiliating scenario, kept one eye on him and the other on various escape routes. Unfortunately, during the one second my eyes wandered over to the drinks table, the man was suddenly at my side and reaching out to shake my hand. Accepting my fate, I plunged in headfirst, speaking very bad French and bringing shame upon not only my ancestors but also all of my fellow countrymen. When did I end up living in a horribly trite American sitcom? *sigh*
At any rate, now orientated, I was ready to begin teaching. My first week only consisted of teaching a small group of advanced students (about 20 in total). Let me tell you a bit about them:
First of all, they already have an undergrad degree in English and some experience living in an English-speaking country. What they’re doing now is studying to become middle or high school-level English teachers, so they must pass a comprehensive and frankly terrifying exam at the end of this school year, called the CAPES (pronounced “Cap-ez”). My job is to help them prepare for the oral section of the exam, wherein they will be graded on the authenticity and consistency of their accent, as well as on their ability to extemporaneously synthesize written and visual material into an oral presentation. It’s nowhere in the same ballpark as easy, and if they don’t pass, they have to wait another year to take it again. It’s also a nationally competitive exam, so it’s all about what percentile you fall into, not about passing with a B+ or some such system. In short, it’s hard as hell, and they need a lot of oral practice.
So, I’m there to give them practice speaking, basically. On Tuesdays, from 9-11am, I get to do fun activities with them, entirely of my choosing, where the goal is to get them to use advanced vocab and to correct them every time they make a mistake. On Wednesday afternoons from 5-7, they have a language lab, where half the time is spent with the other teacher (Mr. Duchet) using computers to record themselves speaking, and the other half with me, using examples from last year’s exam in order to practice their accents and their ability to answer questions about the material.
I like these guys a lot because they’re mostly fluent in English, and I can speak to them pretty much like I’d speak to anyone back home. Some of them have been very nice to me, inviting me to go out for drinks or helping me call the internet company to find out why I’m getting screwed over. I really enjoy my time with them, even though I was warned by my supervising teacher that last year, the CAPES students rarely showed up for class (they’re not actually required to be there, as this is just seen as exam prep), so I shouldn’t put any energy or thought into what I prepare for them.
Of course, this was said by the supervising teacher of my *other* set of students. His name is Michel (pronounced Mee-chelle), and he’s a great guy. Very friendly, very welcoming, very gay (or at least that’s what my gay-dar is telling me). I like him quite a bit, but he does seem to be very prejudiced against the CAPES students (or possibly he just has a personal conflict with my CAPES supervising teacher, Pierre…I can’t quite tell). At any rate, I’m sure I’m going to enjoy my time with him, if not his students.
Unlike the CAPES crew, these students (about 120 in total) have not decided to dedicate their lives to teaching English. In point of fact, they seem to hate English, and only speak it because it’s required in class, and often not even then. Why are they studying English? Well, apparently the French government passed a law a few years ago saying roughly that all primary school teachers must be able to teach basic English to their students (I’m not an expert on French law, so I’m just repeating what’s been vaguely explained to me). These students are required to pass an exam to become primary school teachers, and part of the exam covers their knowledge of English. The portion of the exam which I help them prepare consists of reading through a short text, summarizing it, and then being able to answer questions about it.
I would frankly be shocked if the majority of these students could read an entire English text aloud in an intelligible accent; I would probably fall over dead if they were able to *comprehend* what they were reading and then spend 10 minutes adroitly answering questions on the topic. Now, if I were able to teach these students for several hours every week for the next 5 months, I think we would see a definite improvement; however, I am scheduled to teach these students approximately once per month. For an hour. In December and March I meet with them twice. Oh yeah, they’re gonna do great on that exam! Michel and I have had several discussions on the absolute futility and ridiculousness of this situation, but the fact remains that the French government, while increasing expectations of the students, has simultaneously cut down on school funding. So, not enough teachers, and definitely not enough time. It’s crazy.
Anyway, these are the general descriptions of my students; I’ll relate personal experiences of my teaching later on. I think this is a good place to end my update for right now, don’t you? Seems like a good time to make a cup of tea, enjoy a small snack of some variety, and pick up with some random stories in, shall we say, 20 minutes? Lovely!
The constant tinkling of the petite rivière beneath my balcony reminded me of the time I had walked along the river Clain a few weeks ago. I had it almost entirely to myself, and it was an exceptionally beautiful and peaceful experience.
So, feeling cooped up in my studio, and with nothing much to occupy my time (having beat every possible piece of laundry against a rock yesterday) I decided to buy a sandwich at the bakery around the corner and then enjoy it while sitting on one of the many benches along the river, throwing the occasional piece of crust to my Mallard friends. (I refer to them as my friends, of course, because they have taken to napping every afternoon on the bank of the petite rivière, just across from my balcony. I quack hello to them when I open up my balcony door.)
As always goes the story of my life, I had the inevitably embarrassing moment at the bakery, during which my credit card wouldn’t work because their machine was only for French cards. This was only revealed after my entire order had been prepared and bagged up, naturally. I was reduced to scrounging through my purse for enough coins to barely cover the cost of the specially-prepared sandwich, and was therefore forced to leave behind the bottle of water and the croissants for tomorrow’s breakfast. The woman behind the counter was no friend of mine by the time I hightailed it out of there, let me tell you. Still, what kind of establishment doesn’t have a credit card machine that will allow you to swipe a card? These French cards have a “plus” sign (pronounced “ploose”, of course) that allows the card to just be inserted into the machine. Most credit machines have the option to either insert or swipe, so this has only happened to me twice: at this bakery and at a Domino’s Pizza [story to follow].
After taking my sandwich of shame and getting the hell out of there, I headed toward the river, keen to repeat my peaceful and isolated experience. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one with the idea to walk along the river on such a gorgeous day; I would have realized that had I given it about half a minute’s thought. Still, it wasn’t quite overrun with squealing brats or yipping dogs, so it was satisfyingly peaceful and inviting. The river was calm, glassy, tinged green like an old Coke bottle. The gravel path snaking alongside the river was dotted with white wooden benches, the best ones already taken by elderly couples (the rest mysteriously not even facing in the direction of the river). All sorts were out for a stroll, including families, couples, men with dogs, women with babies, and one little girl trying to rollerblade through the gravel with very little success. It was lovely.
I know I’ve been slacking these past couple weeks, in regards to keeping this page updated. Please accept my most sincere apologies. Having very little to do in the way of actual work, I should have been posting something every day, but it never really seems to work out that way. When I’m somewhere with internet access (such as my school), I tend to want to goof around online and not do any actual work. I’ve discovered that unless I have 24/7 access to the internet, my productivity once actually connected to it is significantly diminished. I guess I just need to get that goofing-around time out of the way before I can really get down to business. Thankfully, I have at last been able to submit the order for internet in my apartment, and I should be online full time by mid-November. God willing, of course.
Speaking of business, I do have several stories I’d like to share in order to get you all up to date. There’s a lot to report, so I’ll do it in two separate postings. Let us go forth chronologically…
October 1st was a day of orientation for the assistants in my school district, conveniently held right here in Poitiers. I was nervous that the whole day would be in French, and I would be lost for most of it. Of course, it turned out to be mostly French, with brief interludes in English. I got by alright, but not without sounding like an idiot on several occasions which I want to forget and so won’t be repeating here.
I was also nervous that I would be like a grandmother (age-wise) compared to all the other assistants, and I wasn’t far off on that, either. Most of them were clearly in their early or mid twenties. I felt ancient, which was worse than not understanding the French, to be frank. I did make a few “friends”, so at least I had someone to eat lunch with and stand next to at the post-orientation reception.
At this reception, the man in charge of our whole region gave a little speech, and then circulated throughout the crowd, chatting in French with lots of my fellow assistants. Yours truly saw what was going on, and in a desperate bid to save herself from a surely-humiliating scenario, kept one eye on him and the other on various escape routes. Unfortunately, during the one second my eyes wandered over to the drinks table, the man was suddenly at my side and reaching out to shake my hand. Accepting my fate, I plunged in headfirst, speaking very bad French and bringing shame upon not only my ancestors but also all of my fellow countrymen. When did I end up living in a horribly trite American sitcom? *sigh*
At any rate, now orientated, I was ready to begin teaching. My first week only consisted of teaching a small group of advanced students (about 20 in total). Let me tell you a bit about them:
First of all, they already have an undergrad degree in English and some experience living in an English-speaking country. What they’re doing now is studying to become middle or high school-level English teachers, so they must pass a comprehensive and frankly terrifying exam at the end of this school year, called the CAPES (pronounced “Cap-ez”). My job is to help them prepare for the oral section of the exam, wherein they will be graded on the authenticity and consistency of their accent, as well as on their ability to extemporaneously synthesize written and visual material into an oral presentation. It’s nowhere in the same ballpark as easy, and if they don’t pass, they have to wait another year to take it again. It’s also a nationally competitive exam, so it’s all about what percentile you fall into, not about passing with a B+ or some such system. In short, it’s hard as hell, and they need a lot of oral practice.
So, I’m there to give them practice speaking, basically. On Tuesdays, from 9-11am, I get to do fun activities with them, entirely of my choosing, where the goal is to get them to use advanced vocab and to correct them every time they make a mistake. On Wednesday afternoons from 5-7, they have a language lab, where half the time is spent with the other teacher (Mr. Duchet) using computers to record themselves speaking, and the other half with me, using examples from last year’s exam in order to practice their accents and their ability to answer questions about the material.
I like these guys a lot because they’re mostly fluent in English, and I can speak to them pretty much like I’d speak to anyone back home. Some of them have been very nice to me, inviting me to go out for drinks or helping me call the internet company to find out why I’m getting screwed over. I really enjoy my time with them, even though I was warned by my supervising teacher that last year, the CAPES students rarely showed up for class (they’re not actually required to be there, as this is just seen as exam prep), so I shouldn’t put any energy or thought into what I prepare for them.
Of course, this was said by the supervising teacher of my *other* set of students. His name is Michel (pronounced Mee-chelle), and he’s a great guy. Very friendly, very welcoming, very gay (or at least that’s what my gay-dar is telling me). I like him quite a bit, but he does seem to be very prejudiced against the CAPES students (or possibly he just has a personal conflict with my CAPES supervising teacher, Pierre…I can’t quite tell). At any rate, I’m sure I’m going to enjoy my time with him, if not his students.
Unlike the CAPES crew, these students (about 120 in total) have not decided to dedicate their lives to teaching English. In point of fact, they seem to hate English, and only speak it because it’s required in class, and often not even then. Why are they studying English? Well, apparently the French government passed a law a few years ago saying roughly that all primary school teachers must be able to teach basic English to their students (I’m not an expert on French law, so I’m just repeating what’s been vaguely explained to me). These students are required to pass an exam to become primary school teachers, and part of the exam covers their knowledge of English. The portion of the exam which I help them prepare consists of reading through a short text, summarizing it, and then being able to answer questions about it.
I would frankly be shocked if the majority of these students could read an entire English text aloud in an intelligible accent; I would probably fall over dead if they were able to *comprehend* what they were reading and then spend 10 minutes adroitly answering questions on the topic. Now, if I were able to teach these students for several hours every week for the next 5 months, I think we would see a definite improvement; however, I am scheduled to teach these students approximately once per month. For an hour. In December and March I meet with them twice. Oh yeah, they’re gonna do great on that exam! Michel and I have had several discussions on the absolute futility and ridiculousness of this situation, but the fact remains that the French government, while increasing expectations of the students, has simultaneously cut down on school funding. So, not enough teachers, and definitely not enough time. It’s crazy.
Anyway, these are the general descriptions of my students; I’ll relate personal experiences of my teaching later on. I think this is a good place to end my update for right now, don’t you? Seems like a good time to make a cup of tea, enjoy a small snack of some variety, and pick up with some random stories in, shall we say, 20 minutes? Lovely!
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Happy happy, joy joy!
Let the word ring forth from the mountain tops…I have secured an apartment! In fact, I moved in yesterday and am all unpacked. But before you begin to think that I arrived at this point with the greatest of ease, let’s back up a couple days and review the contortions I performed in order to swing things my way.
As you’ll recall, I had found an apartment through a real estate agency and the good grace of an English-speaking agent named Sylvie. At that point, an unfortunate and inevitable problem reared its ugly head: I had to have a guarantor, a co-signer of sorts. Someone who would promise to pay the rent in the event I decided to scarper. If I were under 30, the bank would gladly help me out with this, but as I’m now apparently in “Older Than Dirt” demographic, I was out of luck.
My bank agent, an absolutely wonderful chick named Emilie, advised me to ask for help at one of the administrative offices of my school. This seemed perfectly reasonable to me, as it was the school which got me into this mess in the first place (no room at the inn, if you’ll recall). Oh, if only it were that easy… With that simple advice from Emilie, I embarked upon a Sisyphean struggle [yes, I’m aware you might have to look it up, but I guess I just don’t care] that was eventually resolved only through the luck of the devil, I assure you.
As you’ll again recall, the first office I went to was closed (but the woman there gave me a phone number to call to make an appointment). The second office I went to was also no use because the woman I wanted to see (the one who had told me there were no rooms for me at the university) had already gone home. So, I was screwed for that day and the following, as government workers don’t have to be in on Wednesdays, apparently.
So, Thursday morning, I was up with the dawn and out to the nearest internet café. No response to my desperate email from the chica at the IUFM, so I decided just to call her. Oh joy, her secretary told me that she wasn’t there, but would be in tomorrow. At this point, I started to freak out, I don’t mind telling you. I emailed every administrative person at the university with whom I had had contact previously, and a couple I hadn’t.
[I would like to state here, for the record, that I am as far from impressed as one can possibly be with the University of Poitiers in regards to their handling of me as the new Assistante d’Anglais. You’d think that I was the first one they’d ever had, when in fact this program has been in place for *decades*. At this point, all I should have to do is show up to one particular office, speak to one particular person who is in charge of me, and receive a detailed packet of information that includes a comprehensive list of everything that I need to do in order to function here as a teacher and resident. I know that I am far from the über-regulated business mindset of the United States, but fuck! Get it together people! At this point, I have no idea which of the approximately 15 different offices around town I should be going to, and even less of an idea who I need to speak to, or even who is directly in charge of me. Argh! Thinking about this makes me want to pull my hair out, so I shall cease this bitching immediately.]
Anyway, not getting any emails back in a hurry, I decided to call Sylvie the real estate agent to advise her of my predicament. She was understandably concerned, but I told her that I would call her before she left work in order to let her know the outcome of my struggle.
I called one of the school’s offices (the one that had been closing up when I went on Tuesday), and the secretary there gave me a couple phone numbers to try that were for social agencies designed to help poor people who needed a guarantor, one of which was particularly for government employees such as myself. Terrified to call them on my own, I decided to first try the bank again. It had occurred to me that when I was at the bank, I had said that I needed a “caution”, which is like a deposit, when in fact Sylvie had just said “un garant”, which is a co-signer of sorts. Thinking that I had perhaps not communicated my needs correctly, I rushed across the plaza to speak with Emilie again.
Well, much to my disappointment, Emilie explained to me that a caution and a garant are basically the same thing in France—a promise to pay if the person skips out on rent. Damn. Sensing my impending insanity, and perhaps not wanting me to start crying right there in her office, the incomparable Emilie then offered to call all of the phone numbers I had been given in an attempt to fix this problem for me. What unexpected service from a bank employee!! :-)
She called and called, and explained the situation over and over again, but it seemed that no one could help me. Eventually, as it was now noon and people just weren’t in their offices, she made a last ditch effort and called a lady she knew in the international student department at the university. This Maryvonne had the unenviable task of finding housing for international students and dealing with their various issues. In short, someone perfectly suited to helping me! Emilie told me that Maryvonne should be able to help me find an apartment, but maybe I wouldn’t be able to get the one I already wanted because of the caution requirement (apparently, some apartments don’t have that requirement).
So, to kill time until my 2 o’clock appointment with Maryvonne, I decided to drown my sorrows at my favorite café, Le Gil. I had just placed my order when suddenly I realized that my mobile phone was ringing. It was Sylvie! She had discussed my situation with her boss, and they decided that it would be safe to rent me the apartment without a caution, but just until the end of my contract. If I wanted to keep the apartment after that, it would be on me to find someone to be my “garant”. In fact, this arrangement is quite perfect, as it relieves me of needing to use my psychic skills to figure out in January if I want to keep the apartment past March. (You have to give 3 months notice to vacate an apartment here.)
Needless to say, after hearing this news, I did a little happy dance right there in my seat at Le Gil! I even celebrated with a dish of ice cream (I originally thought I would get one of the enormous sundae creations I saw others eating, until I reviewed the menu and saw the prices were $9-$12!) When I ordered the salted butter caramel ice cream [a revelation!], I told the ever-hustling waiter that I was celebrating because I had found an apartment that day. He seemed as happy for me as a stranger could possibly be. ;-) After lunch, I hurried back to Emilie’s office to tell her of my good luck, and she seemed equally happy for me (or possibly just happy that I wouldn’t be having any more breakdowns in her office for the foreseeable future).
I decided to celebrate my unbelievable luck by going shopping for a bed. After all, I might be lucky enough to have gotten the apartment, but it was unfurnished, and I wasn’t about to spend my first night there on the fucking floor!
The cheapest store in these parts is called “Conforama”, and it clearly fancies itself a French Ikea. But it is not as cheap as Ikea, and the woman who “helped” me was a total bitch, so it’s definitely down a peg or two in my book from the Swedish superstore. In any event, it’s a long bus ride away from the city, but probably worth it if you’re looking to furnish a house on the cheap, as I am. The one thing they have on Ikea is that they deliver; however, this advantage is totally negated by the fact that they currently have a delivery delay of 15 days, of which the bitch in the bed department was all too happy to inform me.
So, in the end, I went with my second choice of the inflatable mattress. Please stop groaning…I can hear you all the way over here in France! Un matelas gonflable. Yes, it’s true. But, it’s like an automatically-inflating Aerobed that actually comes up about two feet off the floor. And it’s queen-sized. And it was only $120. And I could take it home right then on the fucking bus. Deal with it.
In fact, because the mattress looks really awesome, I almost busted it out for my last night at the hostel. The beds here are truly awful, and I was on my own for my last night. Still, the idea of having to wrestle the bed back into its little bag come the morning was more than I could handle. So, since it will be my only furniture for the immediate future, I hope it works when I get to the apartment this afternoon!
After dealing with the bed situation, I had an appointment with the previous apartment dweller to see about buying his washing machine off him. Turns out it’s the tiniest washing machine I’ve ever seen in my life, possibly designed to be used only by midgets or supermodels. But it’s typical for France, and it’s a Bosch, so I went for it. $150 bucks (100 Euros). Literally, I think I’ll be able to wash one pair of jeans and maybe two shirts at the same time…unbelievable. But I had scoped out washing machines at the Conforama, and they were about the same size for twice the price. So, good deal. Plus, Julian told me that it was “15 minutes by foot” to the nearest laundromat, and no way was I about to lug my dirty linens halfway across town “by foot”.
Also for sale by Julian was his portable heater. He explained to me that electricity is really expensive in France, and as the apartment uses electric radiators, I would be advised to find another solution, preferably the one he was selling. As I explained to a shocked Julian, his little heater would probably get you booted from any US apartment complex, as it’s essentially a little fireplace that runs on butane…rather like an enormous Zippo. Open fire–not exactly encouraged by American landlords. Still, this is France, and not wanting to rack up the heating bills, I bought it for $50. Julian was also nice enough to show me the little ins and outs of the apartment and how to get the electricity and internet set up. Looks like it’ll be at least 2 weeks on the internet, goddamn it.
Leaving the apartment, I walked to what will now be *my* bus stop, line number 11. Arret: Pont Neuf. It was almost 8, so twilight was falling upon the city, and as I turned around to take a look back at the apartment, I could see the buildings across the bridge. The sunset had lit the stone-colored buildings to a nice rosey hue. Glowing pink houses in the distance, *my* apartment within view, and a permanent bus pass in my pocket…I just thought to myself: I live here now. This is real, and it’s good, and I’m going to have a great time.
I decided to celebrate by having a lovely pasta dinner; however, the walk-up window pasta shop that I spotted just off the town square was being manned by a girl who clearly cared more about singing along with the radio than about tending to the long line of exasperated customers. Not wanting to exchange my buzz for the customer service blues, I kept walking until I got to the small modern-age shopping mall, Cordeliers, which is squeezed in between all the ancient buildings. I often cut through this building to go between the two main squares, Place Charles de Gaulle and Hôtel de Ville. I knew there was a pasta shop in there, too, so I headed straight for it.
The man there was very nice (even offered to speak English with me), and I had my dinner to go in short order. Keen to catch the bus back to the hostel before the last one at 8:30, I hustled to my usual bus stop all the way over at the Place Charles de Galle. In fact, I hustled so superbly that I made it in time to catch the 8:07 bus. As I got settled in for the ride back to the hostel, I noticed that the bus was stopping at the next stop: Cordeliers. That’s right…I could have just stayed right where I was, instead of speed-walking to the other stop. It was then I realized that, no matter how much this feels like home right now, I still have a lot to learn. That made me smile, because I know that I’m going to have days of utter frustration ahead of me (and some behind me, as well), but at least I know enough to know when I’ve fucked up. And that’s half the battle.
Now, I’d love to go on and tell you all about moving into the apartment and my trip to “LeClerc”, a one-stop shop that offers everything a person could ever need in order to live their whole life (including a mind-blowing grocery department that puts to shame every single grocery store I have ever seen in person–or my dreams), but I need to get out of this internet cafe in order to catch my bus.
Until next time! I'll leave you with some apartment pics...
Front Door, moving in day
Backyard, river included View to the left
As you’ll recall, I had found an apartment through a real estate agency and the good grace of an English-speaking agent named Sylvie. At that point, an unfortunate and inevitable problem reared its ugly head: I had to have a guarantor, a co-signer of sorts. Someone who would promise to pay the rent in the event I decided to scarper. If I were under 30, the bank would gladly help me out with this, but as I’m now apparently in “Older Than Dirt” demographic, I was out of luck.
My bank agent, an absolutely wonderful chick named Emilie, advised me to ask for help at one of the administrative offices of my school. This seemed perfectly reasonable to me, as it was the school which got me into this mess in the first place (no room at the inn, if you’ll recall). Oh, if only it were that easy… With that simple advice from Emilie, I embarked upon a Sisyphean struggle [yes, I’m aware you might have to look it up, but I guess I just don’t care] that was eventually resolved only through the luck of the devil, I assure you.
As you’ll again recall, the first office I went to was closed (but the woman there gave me a phone number to call to make an appointment). The second office I went to was also no use because the woman I wanted to see (the one who had told me there were no rooms for me at the university) had already gone home. So, I was screwed for that day and the following, as government workers don’t have to be in on Wednesdays, apparently.
So, Thursday morning, I was up with the dawn and out to the nearest internet café. No response to my desperate email from the chica at the IUFM, so I decided just to call her. Oh joy, her secretary told me that she wasn’t there, but would be in tomorrow. At this point, I started to freak out, I don’t mind telling you. I emailed every administrative person at the university with whom I had had contact previously, and a couple I hadn’t.
[I would like to state here, for the record, that I am as far from impressed as one can possibly be with the University of Poitiers in regards to their handling of me as the new Assistante d’Anglais. You’d think that I was the first one they’d ever had, when in fact this program has been in place for *decades*. At this point, all I should have to do is show up to one particular office, speak to one particular person who is in charge of me, and receive a detailed packet of information that includes a comprehensive list of everything that I need to do in order to function here as a teacher and resident. I know that I am far from the über-regulated business mindset of the United States, but fuck! Get it together people! At this point, I have no idea which of the approximately 15 different offices around town I should be going to, and even less of an idea who I need to speak to, or even who is directly in charge of me. Argh! Thinking about this makes me want to pull my hair out, so I shall cease this bitching immediately.]
Anyway, not getting any emails back in a hurry, I decided to call Sylvie the real estate agent to advise her of my predicament. She was understandably concerned, but I told her that I would call her before she left work in order to let her know the outcome of my struggle.
I called one of the school’s offices (the one that had been closing up when I went on Tuesday), and the secretary there gave me a couple phone numbers to try that were for social agencies designed to help poor people who needed a guarantor, one of which was particularly for government employees such as myself. Terrified to call them on my own, I decided to first try the bank again. It had occurred to me that when I was at the bank, I had said that I needed a “caution”, which is like a deposit, when in fact Sylvie had just said “un garant”, which is a co-signer of sorts. Thinking that I had perhaps not communicated my needs correctly, I rushed across the plaza to speak with Emilie again.
Well, much to my disappointment, Emilie explained to me that a caution and a garant are basically the same thing in France—a promise to pay if the person skips out on rent. Damn. Sensing my impending insanity, and perhaps not wanting me to start crying right there in her office, the incomparable Emilie then offered to call all of the phone numbers I had been given in an attempt to fix this problem for me. What unexpected service from a bank employee!! :-)
She called and called, and explained the situation over and over again, but it seemed that no one could help me. Eventually, as it was now noon and people just weren’t in their offices, she made a last ditch effort and called a lady she knew in the international student department at the university. This Maryvonne had the unenviable task of finding housing for international students and dealing with their various issues. In short, someone perfectly suited to helping me! Emilie told me that Maryvonne should be able to help me find an apartment, but maybe I wouldn’t be able to get the one I already wanted because of the caution requirement (apparently, some apartments don’t have that requirement).
So, to kill time until my 2 o’clock appointment with Maryvonne, I decided to drown my sorrows at my favorite café, Le Gil. I had just placed my order when suddenly I realized that my mobile phone was ringing. It was Sylvie! She had discussed my situation with her boss, and they decided that it would be safe to rent me the apartment without a caution, but just until the end of my contract. If I wanted to keep the apartment after that, it would be on me to find someone to be my “garant”. In fact, this arrangement is quite perfect, as it relieves me of needing to use my psychic skills to figure out in January if I want to keep the apartment past March. (You have to give 3 months notice to vacate an apartment here.)
Needless to say, after hearing this news, I did a little happy dance right there in my seat at Le Gil! I even celebrated with a dish of ice cream (I originally thought I would get one of the enormous sundae creations I saw others eating, until I reviewed the menu and saw the prices were $9-$12!) When I ordered the salted butter caramel ice cream [a revelation!], I told the ever-hustling waiter that I was celebrating because I had found an apartment that day. He seemed as happy for me as a stranger could possibly be. ;-) After lunch, I hurried back to Emilie’s office to tell her of my good luck, and she seemed equally happy for me (or possibly just happy that I wouldn’t be having any more breakdowns in her office for the foreseeable future).
I decided to celebrate my unbelievable luck by going shopping for a bed. After all, I might be lucky enough to have gotten the apartment, but it was unfurnished, and I wasn’t about to spend my first night there on the fucking floor!
The cheapest store in these parts is called “Conforama”, and it clearly fancies itself a French Ikea. But it is not as cheap as Ikea, and the woman who “helped” me was a total bitch, so it’s definitely down a peg or two in my book from the Swedish superstore. In any event, it’s a long bus ride away from the city, but probably worth it if you’re looking to furnish a house on the cheap, as I am. The one thing they have on Ikea is that they deliver; however, this advantage is totally negated by the fact that they currently have a delivery delay of 15 days, of which the bitch in the bed department was all too happy to inform me.
So, in the end, I went with my second choice of the inflatable mattress. Please stop groaning…I can hear you all the way over here in France! Un matelas gonflable. Yes, it’s true. But, it’s like an automatically-inflating Aerobed that actually comes up about two feet off the floor. And it’s queen-sized. And it was only $120. And I could take it home right then on the fucking bus. Deal with it.
In fact, because the mattress looks really awesome, I almost busted it out for my last night at the hostel. The beds here are truly awful, and I was on my own for my last night. Still, the idea of having to wrestle the bed back into its little bag come the morning was more than I could handle. So, since it will be my only furniture for the immediate future, I hope it works when I get to the apartment this afternoon!
After dealing with the bed situation, I had an appointment with the previous apartment dweller to see about buying his washing machine off him. Turns out it’s the tiniest washing machine I’ve ever seen in my life, possibly designed to be used only by midgets or supermodels. But it’s typical for France, and it’s a Bosch, so I went for it. $150 bucks (100 Euros). Literally, I think I’ll be able to wash one pair of jeans and maybe two shirts at the same time…unbelievable. But I had scoped out washing machines at the Conforama, and they were about the same size for twice the price. So, good deal. Plus, Julian told me that it was “15 minutes by foot” to the nearest laundromat, and no way was I about to lug my dirty linens halfway across town “by foot”.
Also for sale by Julian was his portable heater. He explained to me that electricity is really expensive in France, and as the apartment uses electric radiators, I would be advised to find another solution, preferably the one he was selling. As I explained to a shocked Julian, his little heater would probably get you booted from any US apartment complex, as it’s essentially a little fireplace that runs on butane…rather like an enormous Zippo. Open fire–not exactly encouraged by American landlords. Still, this is France, and not wanting to rack up the heating bills, I bought it for $50. Julian was also nice enough to show me the little ins and outs of the apartment and how to get the electricity and internet set up. Looks like it’ll be at least 2 weeks on the internet, goddamn it.
Leaving the apartment, I walked to what will now be *my* bus stop, line number 11. Arret: Pont Neuf. It was almost 8, so twilight was falling upon the city, and as I turned around to take a look back at the apartment, I could see the buildings across the bridge. The sunset had lit the stone-colored buildings to a nice rosey hue. Glowing pink houses in the distance, *my* apartment within view, and a permanent bus pass in my pocket…I just thought to myself: I live here now. This is real, and it’s good, and I’m going to have a great time.
I decided to celebrate by having a lovely pasta dinner; however, the walk-up window pasta shop that I spotted just off the town square was being manned by a girl who clearly cared more about singing along with the radio than about tending to the long line of exasperated customers. Not wanting to exchange my buzz for the customer service blues, I kept walking until I got to the small modern-age shopping mall, Cordeliers, which is squeezed in between all the ancient buildings. I often cut through this building to go between the two main squares, Place Charles de Gaulle and Hôtel de Ville. I knew there was a pasta shop in there, too, so I headed straight for it.
The man there was very nice (even offered to speak English with me), and I had my dinner to go in short order. Keen to catch the bus back to the hostel before the last one at 8:30, I hustled to my usual bus stop all the way over at the Place Charles de Galle. In fact, I hustled so superbly that I made it in time to catch the 8:07 bus. As I got settled in for the ride back to the hostel, I noticed that the bus was stopping at the next stop: Cordeliers. That’s right…I could have just stayed right where I was, instead of speed-walking to the other stop. It was then I realized that, no matter how much this feels like home right now, I still have a lot to learn. That made me smile, because I know that I’m going to have days of utter frustration ahead of me (and some behind me, as well), but at least I know enough to know when I’ve fucked up. And that’s half the battle.
Now, I’d love to go on and tell you all about moving into the apartment and my trip to “LeClerc”, a one-stop shop that offers everything a person could ever need in order to live their whole life (including a mind-blowing grocery department that puts to shame every single grocery store I have ever seen in person–or my dreams), but I need to get out of this internet cafe in order to catch my bus.
Until next time! I'll leave you with some apartment pics...
Front Door, moving in day
Backyard, river included View to the left
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