Me & My Pedometer

Although I don't have plans to run off with a French man, I do seem to be involved in a very intense relationship with my pedometer. I knew that I'd be walking a lot, and I was a little curious about how much I'd actually be doing. So I dug out my old pedometer (which I got free with two Special K proofs-of-purchase, woot) and brought it with me.

Based on some crap I read online, I set a goal of 10,000 steps per day, which is allegedly five miles, give or take. My reward system is simple and effective: me + 10,000 steps = pastry. Now, I'm not going to kid you; frequently that 10,000th step is taken on the way home from the bakery, and once I even had to circle the parking lot, but a deal's a deal.

What surprises me most is how easy it is to get to 10,000. This morning, for example, all I did was take the bus into town, wander around looking for a photomaton and the bus office and poof, I was already at 5,000. I walked part of the way home, until I got to the uphill bit, then took the bus the rest of the way. After lunch I went to the grocery store and the patisserie and walked home and here I am, éclair in hand, already past my goal.

Side Note: French Commercials

French commercials are awesome; no inhibitions, no shame. My current favorite is for a detergent called Bonux; in this ad, a mom accosts her adult son and his girlfriend in a café; she starts by handing the son a bra and says something to the effect of, "If you're going to bring hussies over to spend the night, can't you at least choose someone who doesn't leave her dirty laundry?"

She then extolls the many virtues of Bonux, holds the bra up to her blouse and declares, "See how my shirt is white; this is not white." Then she hands the bra to the girlfriend, who looks at it and declares... wait for it... "This isn't my bra." Cut to the son, who looks like what he is-- busted-- and to the café waitress, who looks equally guilty and, it turns out, braless.

I'm just saying... can you imagine this sort of thing on American television? Exactly.

Yup, It's Old

This afternoon I took a guided tour of "the old city," the theme of which seemed to be, "Check it, this place is old." At first I assumed the tour would be guided by some boring old fart who wants to drone on and on about construction materials, but then I saw this sassy old broad looking at everyone's tickets. She was wearing a fedora and a fanny pack and smoking a cigarette; I was beyond excited.

I figured we were waiting on her to finish her ciggy before getting started, but right about the time she stubbed it out with her shoe, another dame showed up and proceeded to drone on and on about construction materials. (I tried to pay attention at the beginning, but I confess to having major vocabulary deficiencies when it comes to masonry, so before long I'd tuned her out.)

We started out at the cathedral, where there was quite obviously a wedding taking place, but the guide just took us on in anyway. I'm sorry to say that I was unable to get photos of the groomsmen, whose suits were grey and, I am not exaggerating, shiny. It looked like they were wearing aluminum foil-- I've never seen anything like it.

A note about Le Mans: they are very, very proud of their old city. They love the fact that it has been used in numerous films, most notably the Rappeneau version of Cyrano de Bergerac. (Great movie-- see it if you haven't.) Anyway, they mention this constantly, the way people in Tours mention that theirs is the purest form of French, or people in Mobile mention that they had Mardi Gras first.

As we were about to leave the cathedral, a handsome young man walked in, and the hat lady snagged his arm and asked him a question. I couldn't hear what it was, but I didn't think much about it. The group left the cathedral and walked down to admire some really old walls, and when I looked up again, Hat Lady and Cute Guy were getting in his car and leaving together. What the heck just happened there?!? I have no idea, but whatever it is, it's awesome.

You can see lots of pictures of old buildings here.

I Want My $2

Yesterday I got online to check my bank balance and realized that someone has been doing a little shopping on my dime. This is particularly uncool because, as you can imagine, this sort of thing isn't easy to manage from a continent away. I had to call my mother to get a landline for the bank (calling an 800-number from here is wildly expensive) and then explain the unauthorized charges. At which point I realized I'd have to kill my debit card, at which point I realized I only had 20 euros in cash, at which point I realized I was what's known in financial circles as screwed.

The bank is mailing the fraud documents and my new debit card to Mobile, where it must then be relayed up to Birmingham so that my mom can deal with it, at which point it will then be relayed over the ocean to me. I figure two weeks is an optimistic estimate.

Then this morning I remembered that I have a debit card tied to my savings account that I had the foresight to bring "because you never know." Yeah, okay, well now I know. The only problem being, I couldn't find this card. Instead of panicking, I took a walk to the post office (just over a mile) and picked up the package of books I shipped before I left. This joker weighs 20 pounds. Having no intention of being a hero, I decided to take the bus back home. Only the next bus wasn't for 45 minutes, so I decided to walk down to the next stop to kill time. And then the next stop. And then one more, but that was it because no way was I carrying that box all the way up the hill! So I waited twenty minutes and the bus never came.

I waited another ten minutes, then finally gave up and hauled the stupid 20-pound box the rest of the way home. Which meant I was in a fine mood when it came time to look for my bank card again. I turned the whole apartment upside down multiple times, went through pages of books, took the lining out of my suitcases. Then I called my mother and burst into tears because I was just tired of everything being so difficult.

After that, I had a glass of orange juice (and a chocolate mousse, I won't lie) and thought for a long time and finally, finally found the stupid card. Just in time to head downtown for my Very First Social Outing in Le Mans!

I met Patricia and Nathalie, two English teachers, for a coffee. We had a fantastic time, by which I mean they chattered happily for an hour and a half and I mostly listened. Honestly, I understood half of what they were saying, but I laughed when they did and even managed to make my own extremely lame joke at one point.

After coffee, I walked across the square to my bank, where a very nice young lady helped me open an account. She also wanted to see my pay stub, but she was so nice about it that I handed it over and let her convert the dollars to euros and plug it in her computer. I don't know why. I didn't ask. Let's all say prayers I didn't make a huge mistake with that.

She went through a lot of options on debit cards which were so confusing that I finally asked what kind she had and said I'd take the same. She had to draw diagrams to make me understand "overdraft protection," and the checkbook options required charades. I chose one at random and she nodded and said quite seriously, "Yes, women prefer that kind of checkbook." (I don't know what that means, but it's comforting that I went instinctively for the feminine choice.)

She never asked me for any money, which seems odd; I suppose she assumes that I'll be automatically depositing my paycheck. I probably should have asked about that, too, but by then I was so exhausted and overwhelmed (there are four different kinds of checkbooks, people) that I just nodded at everything she said and brought home a fat stack of papers that I'll read through later.

I also took a comfort trip to the FNAC, where I bought a book on cuisine d'étudiante (cooking for college students) and another called Sacrés Français, which is mostly about why French people are weird. I love that it was written by an American, and that he wrote it in French. (Sort of a big "screw you, frenchies!")

Then I got a brioche (with chocolate chips!) and walked home. So that's it, then. Another day in the bag. Not the best one I've had thus far, but not the worst either. I feel that there is wine in my immediate future. And then tomorrow is the weekend, the last one before school starts. Wish me luck!

Today's Adventure: French Banking

I had a list of things to do today and decided to tackle the worst one right off the bat, before I chickened out. Do I need a French bank account? Not really. What I need is a French debit card, which is the chip-and-PIN variety we don't use in the U.S. There are places here that don't take American-type cards, most notably the train station, where you have to have a chip-and-PIN to use the guichet automatique. So I need a card.

I knew this was going to be a pain, but I was determined to stay positive about it. I went to the Credit Agricole downtown, because all the other exchange teachers seem to have had an easy time of it at the CA. Not me, of course. First of all, French banks want you to have an appointment for everything; you can make appointments on the phone, but since I have an extreme aversion to phones, I always just have to go in person to make an appointment to come back later... in person. I recognize that it's inefficient, but it's not like I've got anything else to do right now.

We could have all saved ourselves a lot of time if the lady had simply said, "I'm sorry, but we don't need your business." Instead, she did an impressive re-enactment of my favorite How To Deliver Excellent French Customer Service video, part of which included a twenty-minute intermission wherein she took a smoke break went to ask the bank's director a bunch of questions about the crazy American girl in the lobby.

She came back armed with a list of "necessary documents," each more ridiculous than the last, starting with a statement from my American bank (why? Why does that matter??) and ending with some form that would require me to present myself at the ever-loving Treasury Office.

Then we had a fight about my pay stub. She needed a copy for tax purposes, she claimed, and I reminded her politely that I'm not drawing a French salary and therefore don't pay French taxes. (And anyway, this is a checking account, so why are my taxes any of her business?) She insisted that she needed my pay stub so that she could get my tax ID number, to which I countered that those aren't printed on our pay stubs and if that's all she needs, I can give her my American social security number. No, my tax ID, she says, and I tell her that in the U.S. they're the same thing, and she rolled her eyes at me. Like she knows more about the American tax system than I do. All of which is irrelevant, I remind her, because I DON'T PAY FRENCH TAXES.

At this point, I opted to take the very American approach of leaving and going to the bank next door. Thank you, capitalism!

So off I went to the Credit Lyonnais, which you probably know from here. And it was great. The lady I spoke to there was calm and friendly and made getting the "necessary documents" seem quite reasonable and easy. Some things are ridiculous and you just have to accept it-- for example, it's not enough that I have a written statement from Miss Cake that I'm living in her home, but I also have to present copies of her I.D. and her proof of residency. Fingers crossed on that one. I've got an appointment on Friday to go back and actually open the account. We'll see how it goes.

Today's Adventure: Laundry

Listen, I know that France is not a third-world country, but living here always makes me feel like I've stepped back in time about sixty years. While they're quite fond of les gadgets (but also paranoid, as in the news story I saw last night about how sending text messages on iPhones causes them to explode), this technology doesn't extend to daily household living. In other words, my house phone has a freaking cord, there's no dishwasher, and washing clothes is a two-day procedure. (I begin to understand why they wear things a few times before doing laundry.)

My washing machine scares me: it loads through the top into a cylinder that looks like a cross between a gerbil wheel and a cheese grater. You have to fasten it closed, essentially double-locking it, then shut the lid on it, then turn the dials. The cycle itself took approximately six hours to complete (an exaggeration, but only slightly), and when it was done my clothes were still soaking wet. Being the intrepid laundress I am, I risked resealing the gerbil wheel and turning the dial back to the spin cycle, at which point water poured into the cylinder. This was not what I'd hoped for. So I was left to inch the dial forward several times to coax the gerbil into spinning just a little more water out of my clothes.

Afterwards I took the load of laundry in clumps into the drying space (a sort of attic on the back of the apartment) and proceeded to map out how best to get everything on the drying rack. It's science, pure and simple. I checked on the clothes a couple of hours later-- what can I say, I'm a hopeless optimist-- and realized I needed to put towels on the floor to absorb the small pond that was flowing across the linoleum.

If things work out well, it'll all be dry tomorrow and the second, more horrible phase, can commence: ironing. Sigh. Okay, here's the thing, I own an iron and I've even used it on occasion (that occasion being the selection of a new pope), but my preferred method of de-wrinkling a garment is to toss it in the dryer for 10 minutes and have a beer. So much for that. I might end up buying my entire wardrobe at the flea market's polyester palace after all.

Side Note: French Men

I confess I'm always a little startled when people assume that one of my goals in coming to France is to snag a French man. Because while most Americans think of French men as what-- some variation on the theme of Latin lover?-- what I mostly think of is dudes wearing cropped pants while reading a copy of Hésitation. (Which I totally saw on the train.) And yes, these guys are straight, and no, there isn't strictly anything wrong with men wearing cropped pants, it's just that it's not what leaps to mind as a romantic ideal, non?

**And as a side story to this side story, I still crack up every time I think of my Parisian friend who complained that after seven or eight years of living in Alabama, "French men just seem so delicate."

Un Week-End à Tours

I had a great weekend that went a long way towards restoring my enthusiasm for the year ahead. I lived in Tours in 2002-03 and fell madly in love with the city (though, to be fair, it took a good six months for me to warm up to it). One of the perks of being in Le Mans is that it's only an hour's train ride away, so off I went. (This is the short version of the story; the long one involves a bus, a tram and a guy who, given the option to sit anywhere he could in the train, opted to bypass three completely empty rows in order to sit next to me and fart violently every ten minutes.)

But Tours-- oh, so worth the suffering! I take the same picture every time I'm here, of the city hall, because it never gets any less gorgeous:

At the train station, I met my boy Bama Ross, who has hidden himself away in England for the past two years but could no longer evade me. We dropped our stuff off at the hotel (a very comfortable, cheap place run by someone Ross knows, naturally, because Ross knows everyone) and proceeded directly to The Pale, our home away from home.

There’s just something special about this place—no matter when you show up, there’ll be someone there you know. Ther’s also something immeasurably awesome about having the barmaid on duty make a phone call for you, and the following exchange takes place:

Phone: Ring.

Jodie: Hello?

Me: Roll damn tide!

Jodie: Oh! I’m just across the street, I’ll be right down.

Brilliant. Jodie, the darling of the Pale (and most of Tours, frankly), is returning home to Ireland after 10 years. And while on the one hand, I’d like to scold her for her bad timing, she’s been talking about this move for as long as I’ve known her, and I’m proud of her for finally making it happen. So good luck to you, Jodes—and give those students what-for!

One of the many reasons we love Jodie is that she always locates our mugs for us. The tradition at The Pale is, once you’ve consumed 100 pints of beer, they give you your own glass. And there are no repeat names—mine is the first and only Melissa, but Ross, seeing as how there was already a Ross somewhere, became Bama Ross. These days, they’re having to think of exotic and bizarre names to put on their mugs, so we old-school types feel a bit smug.

Sunday morning, Jodie and I went to Les Halles to buy oysters and shrimp, which was an adventure in itself. She was preparing an appéro that evening to thank everyone who’s helped her get ready for her move. And we shut the place down that night—not in a rowdy way, just fun. The girls were running around singing ABBA songs (myself excluded—I was outside with the boys pretending to know enough about Formula One racing to hold up my end of the conversation, when the truth is everything I know about Formula One I learned from a book narrated by a dog.)

The weather, it’s worth noting, continues to be spectacular. As I write this from my couch in Le Mans, I could almost say that it’s chilly except this is August and you would all swear I’m exaggerating. All I can say is low of 57 degrees. Beyond that, words fail me. Tomorrow I’ll explore the city some more and report back anything of interest (to me. Your interests are irrelevant.)

Phone Call

I just got of the phone with one of Miss Cake's dearest friends, who by now must be wondering what kind of retard she's been saddled with for the next year. I just get so nervous on the phone! As soon as I hang up, I have a total Napoleon Dynamite moment: "Gah... idiot."

The conversation went roughly this way:

Mado: So everything is going well at the apartment?

Me: Yes, I plugged in all the... things and... all is well. No problem.

Mado: And if you ever need anything, just say so. I mean, if you need to go shopping, out to the big stores in the suburbs, sometimes you'll need to buy larger things and it's not really convenient to take them on the bus!

Me: Okay. Yes. I don't know, but that is going to happen.

Mado: Well... one never knows. So you'll call if you need anything?

Me: Thank you. And. Thank you.

Mado: Uh, all right. Bye then.

Me: Uh. Bye.

God, I am such a painful dork.

French Women Don't Get Fat Because They Don't Eat

I always lose weight right after I arrive in France. Generally this doesn't last long, since my body eventually adjusts to the boost in exercise around the same time I find a great place for pastries.

And right on schedule, I'm already falling off a bit. This is due partly to the fact that I have limited food supplies-- I spent most of last night wandering the neighborhood in search of a grocery store, and by the time I actually found one, I was so tired that I just grabbed a baguette and some cheese and came home to sleep for 13 hours. Then breakfast got cut short because I couldn't figure out the $*#@ oven, and I had places to go. Namely, the post office. I studied the map and used my new trick wherein I write down the names of streets going the wrong way. (As in, "If you pass THIS street, you should turn around and go the opposite direction.") I got to the post office (!), got my package, and hauled it home for a total trip of three miles, half of which was spent carrying a 15-pound box.

After a caffeine re-load, I took the bus downtown and dutifully admired a bunch of old buildings:

I don't mean to sound snotty, but every town in France has its "old city" and after a while they're just okay. As I wandered around some more (lost!), I accidentally found this market:

Amidst the produce, flowers, meats and cheeses, there was also a wide selection of polyester clothing. Which explains why the general population needs a serious talking-to from Stacy and Clinton.

From the market I proceeded directly to the mall, where I was reunited with my one true love, the FNAC. (If Barnes & Noble and Best Buy had a fling, the FNAC would be their love child.) I surprised myself by spending time in the kids books-- and can I just say, Everyone Poops is just as informative and entertaining in French. I also noticed the large display of (excuse me while I throw up a little) Twilight books, which here are titled Fascination, Tentation, Hésitation, and Révélation. I don't know too much about the storyline, but something about a romantic saga with the title Hésitation cracks me up.

After a few more stops at the Office de Tourisme (for maps) and the mass transit office (for maps), I went and found an unoccupied park where no one could see me looking at my maps. (I don't like reading maps in public, so sue me.) I felt brave enough to walk home. This all totaled eight miles on the day, which I assumed at first was a mathematical error on my part (me + math = catastrophe), but a few hours later my shin splints beg to differ.

But it's been a lovely day, lots of sunlight, a strong breeze. It's warm but I wouldn't call it hot-- think Mobile in October, when it's just ridiculously fantastic weather, and that's what I've got going on here. I just hope it keeps up.

Made It

I am finally in Le Mans after a nightmare flight with the world's worst row-mate. I always try to get a window seat because I don't move during flights, but this time I was stuck on the aisle next to some Polish dude with the world's smallest bladder. He went as soon as he got on the plane, and again right after the pilot turned off the seat belt sign. He woke me up to ask me where to plug in his headphones, then woke me up again to go to the bathroom, only before he could get to the front of the line, we hit some turbulance and he had to sit down. Then he went again, and I stayed awake for an hour waiting for him to come back. I nearly lost it when he woke me up to ask me how to turn on his reading light. All this, it's worth noting, happened during the first four hours.

Finally we landed, and I made it to the 1:16 train. Trying to get two large suitcases, a hefty carry-on and a winter coat on board the train wasn't exactly easy, but I got it done. The trip to Le Mans was just over an hour, and the benefits of small-town living were immediately apparent: I lugged one suitcase onto the platform, and when I turned around, an old lady and her grandson were handing my other bags down to me. That doesn't happen in Paris.

I'm more or less settled in the apartment, though things crop up frequently that challenge my perception of myself as a competent human being. The oven, for example, has picture dials. Given these options:

how would you toast bread? I'm just saying... breakfast took a little longer than anticipated.

This morning I'm going to ride buses around town and try to get the lay of the land-- then tomorrow it's off to a mini-runion in Tours!

Gone Baby Gone

Stalking postal workers paid off-- I have my passport in hand and am on my way! See you on the other side.

I particularly like how the ink stain on the photo makes it look like I have a beard...

Friend of Nature

I'm sitting in a folding chair in my mother's garage. The neighbors walking past have all remarked on how nice the weather is this morning (it is) and assume that I am sitting here appreciating a break in the humidity. What they don't understand is that I'm stalking the mail ma'am. If my passport doesn't arrive this morning, all hell breaks lose...

World Debut

So I finally caved and made the existence of this blog generally known-- up to now it's been for my entertainment only. You are all expected to leave numerous scintillating, thought-provoking comments in order to build my self-esteem. So hop to it.

And since Michelle wins the prize for first (and second!) comment, here is her reward:

Photograph of your children, in France, as ordered, ma'am. (The office is a bit of a mess right now. Let's blame it on moving and pretend that one day it will be less messy.)

Date Night

I took Mom to see "Rear Window" at the Alabama Theatre. I was sick as three dogs, so not as much fun as I could have been, but she pretended not to notice.

Showtime was seven, but first the organist spoke, then played an organ solo, followed by an organ sing-a-long. (Can I say that he was proud of his organ without everyone saying I'm dirty??)

I had fun playing "Spot The Hipster" and "Daddy or Sugardaddy?" Cheesy audience members aside, the size of the crowd impressed me-- who knew there were so many people who wanted to see Hitchcock movies on the big screen? I enjoyed the movie, though not as much as mom did (it's one of her all-time favorites).

I also realized how spoiled I am by stadium seating. I kept having to change seats and crane my neck to see around the fat head in front of me. My guess is that the theatre management is aware of these architectural anachronisms as they blatantly tried to curry my favor with the presence of a full bar. It worked. While I didn't actually have a drink, I was delighted just to know that I could if I wanted to. They even had a special theme drink, the "broken leg," in honor of Jimmy Stewart's character.

Also, did any of you know there's a Walk of Fame outside the theatre? I didn't, but I had a Marshall moment when I saw Nell Carter's name.

Lunch with Teacher

After my crushing disappointment from the consulate, there were two bright spots: Annie & Lulu. They were my students back at BTW, and since I'm their favorite teacher ever, they just can't stay away. We had a going-away lunch at the Olive Garden, and I snapped this picture while they weren't paying attention (which is pretty much a perpetual state of being for those two):

These girls are hilarious on their own; get them together and prepare to hurt yourself from laughing. Be good while I'm gone, girls!

Spotted on I-65

I cracked up at the stickers in the window. Hey, if you're gonna own a hearse, you might as well own it, right?

Slight Change in Plans

I called the consulate today and they haven't received my visa yet, which means I will not be leaving as scheduled on Sunday. The result was a huge round of emails to The Program's travel agency-- naturally the agent I use is out of the office today. (This is a wee bit urgent-- it's Friday, which means there are no business days between now and my scheduled departure.)

I finally get in touch with someone else at the travel agent, who rebooks my ticket for me. I forward this information to the Travel Intern at The Program, who dresses me down for not contacting their "in-house" travel person. (For the record, I wasn't aware this person existed. First I've heard of it.)

So, nothing to do now but sit and twiddle my thumbs until Wednesday. You may have one the battle, French Consulate, but I shall win the war!

ASFA Farewell

There's a core group of us who went to high school together (they're all Math/Science kids except for me), and I think it's so cool that they still get together on a regular basis and always make a point of inviting me, whether I'm in town or not. And now they're all married and reproductive, but they did a good job, and their respective spouses have all been absorbed into the crew.

These are my peeps, so naturally I couldn't even think about leaving without a farewell get-together, and Sarah was kind enough to invite everyone to her house. It was great to spend time with them-- and their 872 children (approximately)-- and to try to guilt them into coming to visit. We'll see how that turns out. :)

It's hard to catch kids in motion, but I did get a shot of Sarah surrounded by the swarm, and one of Kevin with his still-stationary baby boy. I am surely gonna miss these folks.

DC Redux (Warning: Long Post Ahead)

We spent a week in Washington, D.C., for program orientation. It was my first trip to the capital, so I took the obligatory tourist photos (you can see them here), but we didn't get to see nearly as much as I would have wanted because, well, we were there for work. Which we did. We had meetings all day, every day.

Monday

Because Miss Cake and I booked our tickets separately, we didn't travel together-- in fact, we didn't even arrive at the same airport-- she went to Dulles, I went to Reagan. I took a 10-minute cab ride to the hotel, and I was so impressed with the city; it really is lovely. There was no organized program for Monday; mostly it consisted of people wandering around trying to find their exchange partners. (We were one of two exchange pairs-- out of 60-something-- who'd already met. Normally the partners meet in D.C.)

I took a walk to Georgetown and bought a pair of shoes and a t-shirt. It wasn't terribly hot, but I was tired and cranky from sleeping on a couch for a week, so I wasn't a whole lot of fun.

Tuesday

Meetings started at 9 a.m. The first speaker, Dr. Gary Weaver, was an absolute scream; he spoke on the rewards and challenges of living abroad, and he had our attention from the first word.

Let's be honest-- everyone in that room has a keen interest in cross-cultural understanding, so in that sense, he had a captive audience. The fact that he was informative and entertaining was just a bonus. I particularly enjoyed his analysis of Americans' emphasis on independence and self-reliance. As an example, he cited the phrase "spare change." Americans refuse to acknowledge that they depend on others to meet their needs; therefore your friendly local bum doesn't ask for help or even money; he asks if you have spare change, as in, "Well yeah, I was just going to throw this away, so really you'd be doing me a favor by taking it off my hands."

In other cultures, he notes, nursing homes are unheard of; it's inconceivable that parents would reside anywhere other than with their children. For American parents, on the other hand, who've spent their entire lives inculcating their children with the values of independence and self-reliance, the ultimate insult would be relying on their children for care.

In the afternoon, there was an optional bus tour of D.C., and I made the mistake of going. I regretted the decision almost as soon as the bus pulled out of the hotel, though by then it was of course too late. I was hot and cranky and my head hurt, which didn't make for the best attitude, I admit.

It didn't help things that our tour guide was an idiot. Okay fine, she's got a degree in engineering from George Washington, so she's not a complete idiot, but evidently GW has no minimum history requirements, because this girl screwed up a lot. She explained quite seriously that Alexander Hamilton had died "for love" (he did not), because "at that time, when two men liked the same woman, they settled the matter with guns, and whoever lived got the girl."

I nearly lost it when we drove past the Tidal Basin and she explained that "these trees, which are called cherry blossoms, were a gift from the mayor of Japan." The mayor of Japan, kids.

The keynote speaker at dinner was Harriet Fulbright, and though she spoke only briefly, I would have loved to have heard more. She began her teaching career in the early 60s in Korea (just a few years after the war ended) and then taught in the U.S.S.R. Her speech was warm and personable; I was impressed by her boldness-- hers was certainly not a typical woman's career path for the era.

Wednesday

An even earlier start this morning-- 8:30. And regrettably, the first speaker was a professor of education whose speech was so theoretical and full of educationese that after he gave his introduction, I turned to the lady next to me and asked, "Was there a concrete noun anywhere in that sentence?" (I wrote down the phrase problem-oriented curricular adjustments and spent the next few minutes doodling. I mean really, what the heck?) The poor international teachers zoned out immediately. I tried to listen, but it was rough. Mercifully, his co-speaker was the National Teacher of the Year, a former NYC cop who teaches at-risk kids, and I very much enjoyed what he had to say-- far more accessible and practical.

The rest of the day consisted of breakout sessions in our country groups, which gave us time to speak with an extremely helpful program alum. (Thanks, Vandana!) That evening, we were free, so Miss Cake and I went with another exchange pair to eat Ethiopian food. Oh man, that stuff was good! At one point, Valerie excused herself, but the food arrived and we were so fixated on stuffing our faces that we didn't notice at first how long she'd been gone. Turns out she'd gotten locked in the bathroom! The restaurant staff had to break the lock and get her out, and all the while we'd been eating her portion of the collard greens and letting her beer get warm. Poor Val.

Thursday

More breakout sessions. More meetings. My brain hurts. That night, however, bliss: the Farewell Dinner and Cultural Fair, in which all the international teacher groups "share musical, dance or cultural performances." Note the phrasing: international teachers; the U.S. group didn't have to do a thing but sit back and watch. Unfair? Completely. And we loved every minute of it.

The French had been told as early on as May that their group is always the very, very worst, so this year Miss Cake spearheaded an effort at redemption. I laughed so hard I cried; they were hilarious.

The French were followed by the dancing lady from Ghana, a Czech woman whose talent was Czech trivia (did you know sugar cubes were invented there?) Then the dancing Hungarians (impressive!); the Indians, who led the whole room in a festive "Jai Ho"; the lone Turkish girl, whose talent, evidently, was showing YouTube travel videos of Turkey; and the Brits, who did an entire "Britain's Got Talent" skit-- complete with judges-- which involved dancing Scots and the English crew singing "I'm a Little Teapot."

The Swiss guy yodeled. Really.

But honestly, the finest moment of the night? Dancing White Guys. Behold:

You're welcome. Bonus photos (of the whole thing, not just DWG, can be found here.