Paris Day Two

On my way to the metro in the morning, I ran into Mark, another exchange teacher, in a café and we both took the train together. And both got controlled. (Sorry for the franglais, but the English word escapes me. The contrôleur is the guy who comes through and checks that you have a valid ticket, ergo we call it being controlled.) This was new; I mean, I knew contrôleurs existed, but in all the time I've spent in Paris, I'd never actually seen one. Neither had Mark. It was no big deal-- I had a ticket, and I don't jump turnstiles or anything-- but it was odd.

Mark and I got to our meeting location (a high school in the 14th, right next to Montparnasse Cemetery) but we were early so we went down to the corner and had (another) coffee. When it was time for our meeting, we went to cross the street and a guy on a motorcycle pulled up and looked intently at us and said something which sounded friendly but you never know with French people and anyway, why was a random guy on a motorcycle talking to us?

Our meeting was being held in the Chinese Pavilion, which was neither Chinese nor a pavilion. (Discuss.) It was, in fact, a large square room on the edge of a basketball court. But okay, fine. Our friends from the Commission arrived, among them the leader himself, the guy with the long aristo name, and Mark leaned over to me and whispered, "Oh man, that was the guy on the motorcycle!" And he was right; we just hadn't recognized him because he had his helmet on and we didn't expect him to scoot his way around the city.

We heard from the principal of the school; the guy whose job is roughly vice-principal in charge of discipline; and someone who's sort of the head counselor (I think). The training session was run by the Inspecteur Général, a very friendly and helpful woman named Annie. In the U.S., teachers are observed and reviewed by their school administrators; in France there is a team of professional reviewers in charge of evaluating teachers in each district. Annie is the boss of all the foreign language inspecteurs in France.

She's worked with exchange teachers for several years now and I appreciated how frank she was. She had a Q&A session, where I stirred the pot by asking, "How can we possibly engage and inspire student learning when the texts and documents they give us to work with just plain suck?" Suddenly everyone in the room was sucking in air; you'd think I'd asked her cup size or something. But she just shrugged and said that for the most part she agreed with me. She claimed cultural differences; American teacher editions are full of tips, ideas, plans and suggestions on how to present the material. A French teacher would be appalled by this sort of setup as it suggests they are incapable of preparing a lesson without help.

Yeah, I get that, but still. I'm perfectly capable of planning, executing and evaluating a lesson, but if the textbook writers want to do the lion's share of the work for me, I'm down with that.

Annmarie and I were paired together to observe classes; we saw an English class that made me want to gouge my eyes out. (Two words, people: James Joyce.) And then we observed a Spanish class, which was excellent for a couple of reasons: first, having no knowledge of the language allowed us to really take a step back and just watch the interaction without getting caught up in the content. And second, this was a seasoned teacher who ran a tight ship but gave a high-energy, interactive lesson which seemed to appeal to her students. And also it was fun to try to pick out the Spanish words that looked like French words and guess what the text was about.

Between observations, Annmarie and I went to stretch our legs and ended up on Boulevard Raspail, which I always think of as Hemingway country. We had a drink in one of his old haunts (at the current rate of conversion, I paid $8.75 for a glass of orange juice), then headed back to wrap up meetings.

Dinner that night was an experience; first off, I got controlled in the metro again, which is insane. Everyone agreed that I had terrible train mojo. (Hint: this is also foreshadowing.) We arrived at a lycée hotelier, a high school which specializes in service industry studies, where our dinner was prepared and served by students. They were all dressed in fine dining suits, very earnestly presenting the menus and suggesting wines. They brought our fish out and dressed them in front of us, they did a tableside presentation at dessert which involved setting liqueur on fire. And all the while their teachers were running around offering help and yelling, as the case required. It was just about the cutest thing I've ever seen. The food was excellent!

Dinner conversation was fascinating, as it always is when French people are in charge. I sat next to Mr. Moto, who talked about his diplomatic adventures around the world. We discussed the situation with my STG class, and he was refreshingly blunt about how poorly they've been treated by the educational system. (Roughly, STG kids are perceived to be not very bright; they're given little encouragement or help and are basically being babysat until they either pass their exams or drop out. Most are minorities, many are first-generation citizens, and most are understandably angry at the world.) Those of you who know my history of teaching in the hood know these are the kids I like best, even if they don't like me. And they don't like me. See that whole "angry at the world" thing.

There were lighter moments, to be sure. I found out that Mr. Moto was born in, of all places, Chattanooga. I know, right? After dinner, Annmarie was bold enough to ask Mr. Moto for a ride back to the hotel. As RFK said, only those who dare to fail greatly can ever achieve greatly:

Annmarie, whose gutsiness I admire beyond description, went a step farther. When they got to the hotel, she said, "You mean we're done already?" and was rewarded with a nighttime drive through Paris, including circling the base of the Eiffel Tower. I was so jealous I could spit.

To work off the painfully large meal, most of the girls decided to walk back to the hotel, and I have to tell you, wandering the streets of Paris at night is just heartbreakingly wonderful. For me, Paris is a city that never gets old; no matter how many times I go there, it's never enough. And while it was good to be there, it was also tinged with bitterness that I can't be there all the time. I'd move there in a heartbeat.

Not quite ready to tell Paris goodnight (particularly Maureen, my favorite third world denizen, who knew her days in civilization were few), we stopped at the café on the corner and had one more round, sitting on the terrasse and watching the world go by. I slept really, really well.