Halloween (Only Not Really)

Full report on my trip to Tours will follow, but for now, I thought you should all know that I am celebrating Halloween in the traditional French fashion; that is, oblivious to its very existence.

Here's an article (and a recipe) by Peter Mayle explaining things a bit.

Hope you're all out having fun!

See Ya, Suckers!

I'm off to Tours until Saturday. Will report in later. Remember to behave yourselves while I'm gone-- no wild parties, got it? Leave that to me...

In Which I Am Neither Julie Nor Julia

Okay, it wasn't epic cuisine or anything, but nobody was more surprised than I was when this turned out to be edible, particularly since I only guessed at the measurements. The cookbook had measurements in milliliters but my measuring instrument only had notches for centiliters and grams, and can I just say: WTF, metric system? I thought you were supposed to be "easier."

Anyway, this is my masterpiece. According to my "student cookbook," it's a flan, but while I'm not 100 percent sure what a flan is, I don't think it's this. Essentially this is a baked omelette; it's mostly goat cheese, milk, eggs and spinach. Pretty tasty, I have to admit.

But cereal is still way easier. And there's a lot less cleanup involved.

Chamber of Commerce

The first in my new series: Business Names Which Amuse Me. First up: "Mutant Assurances."

Dinner Party: With Neighbors

Mado (she of the cows-in-the-road adventure) called to say that her 12-year-old wanted to host a dinner party for the neighbors and me, so Saturday night all 11 of us crammed into the dining room. Food was eaten, games were played (there was miming involved, which was particularly entertaining when Lance Armstrong was confused with Neil Armstrong), the neighbor went home and got his saxophone and came back to play three very loud songs, which I found odd because, you know, no one asked him. He just did it.

So that's about it, then. Time changed overnight here (we're on a slightly different time-changing schedule here), and I woke up entirely too early. Yay for vacation!

More Laundry Adventures

This is my washing machine, which I've talked about before. And yes, it is in fact located right next to the refrigerator.

As noted in the Great Kitchen Fire Incident, counter space is tight. It gets crowded. Mistakes are made. On taking out my last load of laundry, I found a small square white thing which might have been a used kleenex (eww) except for the perplexing presence of cardboard at the center. I puzzled over this for some time (what was this thing? how did it get in my laundry?) before finally unfolding it. Even then, it took a minute:

I washed a paper towel roll. Since I don't recall putting paper towels in my laundry hamper, I can only conclude that I knocked it off the kitchen counter while I was loading the washing machine.

So, let's see... the toilet and shower have to be in separate rooms, but it makes perfect sense to do laundry in the kitchen. Sigh. Will I ever understand this country?

Yogurt Shots

I want to like yogurt. I swear, I have tried every single yogurt brand and flavor out there, but I have never been able to eat the stuff without shuddering.

The French have solved my problems: drinkable yogurt. It's still nasty but I can knock it back in one shot and get all the nutritional benefits without wanting to throw up afterwards. This is also how I learned to consume tequila, and that turned out pretty well. Actually, it's not much different: I stare at the bottle, brace myself, shoot it, gag a little, and then chase it.

Mmm, yogurt. (cough) Thanks, Danone!

Outrage at the Library

Every time I arrive in France, I put my cultural game face on. Some things are just different here, and I can accept that. Did I not behave admirably during the Great Banking Crisis?

And then, in the midst of my "it's not wrong, it's just different" calm, something happens that is just plain wrong. I give you: the municipal library.

First of all, this allegedly "public" library requires a subscription; I got the high-end, 20-euro a year plan, and this "all-inclusive" plan means that I can have no more than 10 documents in my keeping, which includes a maximum of 5 books and 2 DVDs at a single time.

They have a respectable selection of English-language books, which is excellent, but not what you'd call new releases. Looks like I'll be reading lots of stuff I managed to weasel out of in high school and college: Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Faulkner and the like. (Silver Lining: It turns out I really like Hemingway. Who knew?) For French titles, they have fantastic theme-based lists in cute little binders at the end of the stacks, only it turns out the library owns very few of the books listed there.

Despite all this, I was still down with the French library. I took my handful of books and went home, where I spent the next couple of weeks reading the English books and avoiding the French ones; then, since I was going into town, I figured I'd drop off my materials and get some more.

And then it happened: the Cultural Moment. I cannot speak for all of France, naturally, but at the main library in Le Mans, one is required to stand in line to return materials. Outrageous! Why, why why should I have to stand around with my finger up my nose while Captain Single Dad and each of his four offspring slowly unpack their book bags and the one lady at the check-in counter carefully inspects each book, CD and DVD for damage? ARE YOU FOR REAL??

Yes, they are indeed for real. I was feeling saucy enough to ask if waiting is really a requirement, which got me a Nasty Librarian Look (the one over the top of the glasses, you know what I'm talking about) and a sour suggestion that I be a little patient.

Thus I had to stand there, holding my two little books, while Child 3 whined at dad over whether or not she really had to return the Smurf book because Child 2 had stolen it and poor little 3 had never even had the chance to read it which is not fair!

I finally was able to advance to the front of the line, surrender my books, and soothe my agitated nerves in the CD room. This made me happy, especially once I realized they have listening posts where you can put on headphones and preview the CD before you check it out. Aww, library, you're so thoughtful. All was forgiven. We were friends again.

And then Captain Single Dad was in front of me in the checkout line.

Hello, Awkward.

I have this odd habit in regards to the bus; most days, I walk the route. This is because I am impatient; if, for example, I am finished with classes but the bus doesn't arrive for 15 minutes, I have no intention of standing in the bus shelter with 800 rowdy teenagers blowing smoke in my face, so I start the walk home. Each time I pass a bus stop, I check the time and see if I can continue walking or if I should stop and wait for the bus to arrive. Most days I get about halfway home before the bus catches up with me.

Today it was raining, which means the bus shelter was even more painfully crowded than usual. So I started my walk. I got three stops down and noticed a blue car stopped in front of the bus shelter, which seemed weird, but I didn't think much about it and started hustling that way because I was cutting it pretty close on time. (I don't mind walking the whole way home, but the hill at the end sucks and I try to avoid it.)

I walked past the car and the driver rolled the window down; I think he said something to me, but that made me nervous, so I feigned ignorance (headphones! lala) and kept walking.

The car pulled forward. And this time I heard my name. Turns out it was Stéphane, my colleague. He'd seen me walking and had stopped to give me a ride to my bus stop.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that he was currently parked in front of my bus stop, so I got in the car and had to think fast on how to get out of the situation. Finally I told him that the stop was at the end of that road (which is kind of true, in that there is a stop at the end of that road). When we got to the intersection, he asked if I lived far, and I don't, so he ended up taking me almost the whole way home. (Hill avoided!)

It was such a gallant gesture that I couldn't bring myself to say a) it was unnecessary because I was walking voluntarily and b) it was futile because as soon as he was out of sight, I went right back out the door so I could go buy groceries. Oops!

In Which Our Author Charms a Local

I got a phone number today. In the bus. From a guy who was about 45, wearing a Cosby sweater and blowing smoke in my face.

There were a couple of factors at work here, most notably, that he is apparently attracted to Ice Queens, because I said and did absolutely nothing to encourage him. I gave him a made-up name (and a second made-up name when he forgot that first one), and didn't say anything to him beyond "Oh, really?" in the blandest tone I could muster.

Here's the thing: it's sort of accepted practice that if someone isn't harassing you, you play nice until you can get rid of them. (One time I was in a wildly crowded metro train and everyone was smashed up against each other, and a random skeever with his hand in his pocket turned his fingers so he was basically feeling my crotch during the entire train ride. I didn't freak out, but when we got off the train I told my French friend what happened, and she said, I swear, "Yeah, that happens, but it doesn't hurt so it's no big deal.")

Anyway, back to Bus Guy. I put on the Ultra Freeze and refused to answer any of his questions, and let's just say he's not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, because at one point he commented that he'd never seen me around town before, and was I from the city? No, I said shortly, I was from very far away. And at first he thought "Very Far Away" was a town he wasn't familiar with, so finally I just said, "It's near Tours."

He finally got off the bus and I continued to my destination in peace. I relay this story for all of you who harbor fantasies about French men. You just keep that dream alive while I cope with the reality, how about that?

"Oh mais franchement..."

There is this word, franc, which gets thrown around a lot; the most obvious synonym is frank, as in Frankly, my dear... To the French, there's an element of truth to the word; someone who is franc is sincere and honest in his speech. He does not prevaricate. To me, though, the better translation is blunt. And lemme tell you, that's something these folks have no problem with.

Earlier this week, in the teachers' room, a woman randomly starts this conversation with me: "So, are there more black people in Alabama than in other states?"

Me: "Uh, I don't know. I guess maybe."

Her: "You've never been to another state?"

Me: "No, of course I have. But--"

Her: "Well, when you went to other states, were there more or fewer black people?"

Me: "I don't know. I guess I didn't notice."

Her: "Ah, well then, if you didn't notice, then maybe it was the same?"

Me: "Listen, I don't know. When I go to visit other states, I don't take a census. If you want, we can go to the computer lab and look up the numbers, but I can't tell you because I don't know."

Her: "I read that there were more. Because of the slavery."

Sigh. Why me, God?

Political Films (Joy)

The ever-adventurous Richard and Annie once again extended an invitation for me to join their weekend adventures. (I would be absolutely lost without these two; they have been beyond kind.) Annie got as far as, "Richard and I wanted to know if you want to join us Saturday in Tours--"

"Yes."

"--for the Festival Cinéma et Politique."

D'oh! Political films. Crap. Well, what the heck, it's in Tours... I'm there. And can I tell you, after weeks and weeks of feeling like a blockhead all the time, it was awesome to be in a place I knew well enough to confidently direct them. "Rue de Bordeaux? Oh yes, it's right this way, follow me." I was even able to take Richard to the street with all the booksellers, and he was in hog heaven.

We saw three movies; the first was "Young Soul Rebels," which was about these two fellas in east London in 1977 who have a pirate radio station that plays funk and soul. One of them looks gay but isn't, while the one who looks straight is gay. One is black and one is mixed race, and there's something about some dude who gets killed by another dude in a park where all the gays hook up, and the mixed guy gets blamed for it and the gay guy doesn't care because he's out with his white anarchist boyfriend. Right, not really sure what was going on there, and I think if you want to make a political film, you should probably try to focus on one or possibly two issues at a time, rather than tackling homophobia, racism, police corruption, poverty, youth unemployment, murder and prejudice against soul music all in 93 minutes. But hey, what do I know?

After the movie, we had lunch and then went to our second film of the day, a 95-minute acid trip called "Morgan: A Suitable Case For Treatment." It's a black-and-white film starring a young and lovely Vanessa Redgrave, but beyond that I have nothing positive to say. This movie was absolutely insane. Vanessa Redgrave is divorcing her husband, Morgan, because he's nuts. He's obsessed with gorillas and his brain constantly superimposes National Geographic-type films over every day interactions. The guy taking his ticket in the train station becomes a yawning hippopotamus, his mother-in-law becomes a peacock, etc. I think it was supposed to be a love story but I had trouble feeling sorry for poor jilted Morgan because, and I really can't emphasize this enough, dude was nuckin' futs.

Of the three we saw, I was most looking forward to the last one, cryptically entitled "Who Killed Maggie?" I was told it was a documentary, and I was all excited because as you might know, I am ridiculously fond of true-crime type shows, "48 Hours" and whatnot. So I was all ready to hear poor Maggie's tale and examine the evidence and so on.

Only it turns out the Maggie in question is...

Okay, not what I was expecting. And as you might be aware, Margaret Thatcher is still alive, ergo the "killing" referred to her political career. This isn't to say the documentary wasn't interesting-- it was-- just that it was unexpected. Richard and Annie, diehard Anglophiles, were cracking me up; they were actually pointing at the screen and identifying background characters. At one point Annie leaned over and whispered, "Look, that's Lord Baker!" in the same tone one would say, "Look, that's Bono!"

After the third film, we stayed for a mind-numbing scintillating debate on... I don't know, something British, I wasn't really listening. The guy moderating the debate spoke French but with this atrocious accent I couldn't place. Finally I leaned over and asked what kind of accent he had, and I was told he was English. Nuh-uh. I have heard a lot a lot of Brits speaking French, and none of them sound like they're channeling Bela Lugosi. Then he mentioned his family in Liverpool and the lightbulb came on: he sounded like the Beatles. Craziness.

We went to dinner at a Lebanese restaurant and the service was so bad all we could do was laugh. The waiter was just plain rude, and made it clear that we really got on his nerves with completely unreasonable demands like, "Can we have coffee and dessert at the same time?" He yelled at us for stacking our plates on the corner of the table because we were supposed to keep them for the next course; when he plunked down a dish of what amounted to silver-dollar hamburger patties, Annie asked if there were any accompanying vegetables or sauces and he said, "This is what you ordered," and walked off. At that point we didn't even try to behave anymore; it was great fun.

We took a walk by the cathedral on our way back to the car, then headed home. A long day, but a good one. Only now I've got to really buckle down and work tomorrow. Argh.

Hello Winter! You Suck!

Winter arrived yesterday, and I was not pleased. I am not a fan of cold weather, and the prospect of waiting at a bus stop when it's 40 degrees holds absolutely no appeal for me. But, brave soldier that I am, I put on my heavy winter coat (the one I usually only need during Mardi Gras), my gloves and the little wool cap I bought for a trip to Minnesota.

In short, I was ready. And I looked like a freak. I don't know if these people have lava for blood or what, but I was the only one in an actual coat. There were a couple of jackets, a metric ton of scarves, but not hats, no gloves, no coats. Just the crazy American girl. (In my defense, after three years of coastal living, I think Birmingham is unbearably cold.)

I spent most of the day studying the natives, and after dismissing the usual crop of idiot girls who wear denim shorts and black tights even if it snows, I decided that the purchase of a second coat was in order. Something shorter and a wee bit lighter, perhaps. The copy lady told me about an actual mall just south of the school, so today, off I went.

Now, this mall is precisely 2.5 miles from my front door, but because I must avail myself of public transportation, it took me forty minutes to get there. If it hadn't been so bloody cold, I'd probably have walked. And on the way, I had a French Parenting Experience, in that I was stuck next to a rather exhausting mother and child. You remember that old Bill Cosby bit about "Jeffrey, Jeffrey, Jeffrey"? It was like that, only "Inès, Inès, Inès," a name which I previously liked but after today just makes me feel ill.

I walked all over the mall-- it's not bad, it's got an H&M and a Sephora-- but I couldn't find the coat I wanted. So I got on the tram and went all the way back downtown and found one in the first store I walked into. In my typically fashionista manner (cough), I tried the coat on and I thought, "I like this, it's shiny." Turns out it's shiny because, according to the saleslady, it's silk. They make silk coats? I had no idea. Anyway, it was on sale and a pretty good bargain if you don't think about the exchange rate. (And I make it a rule to never, ever think about the exchange rate.)

So bring it, winter. I am ready for you. (But don't bring it too much because, frankly, you suck and I hate you.)

Major Announcement

I just thought I should tell you all, that after five full hours of classes today, I can say firmly and with the utmost conviction:

Today Was A Good Day.

As the locals say, ça s'arrose! Let's celebrate!

French Pop: Showtunes Style!

While French musicals aren't as well-known as, say, Andrew Lloyd Weber shows, they're far more pervasive in pop culture. Whenever there's a particularly successful stage show, its soundtrack vaults right up the Top 40 and videos follow; the cast become pop stars and live happily ever after. Think about it; while well-known American actors sometimes take a turn on Broadway, it's rare that a performer starts on Broadway and then becomes a household name.

Not here. There's Garou, whose role as the terrifying Quasimodo in the musical version of Notre Dame de Paris launched him into super stardom; he and two other leads from the musical give Three-Tenors-style concerts. The two leads from Le Roi Soleil (Emmanuel Moire, who played Louis XIV, and Christophe Maé, who played his flamboyantly gay brother) now sell out arenas throughout the country. And now, the latest and greatest show: Mozart, the Rock Opera.

For your enjoyment (if you can manage to, I freely admit it's not my favorite), the Official Video:

So Have I Told You About-- hey, what's that smell?

Today's blog post was interrupted by a small but exciting kitchen fire*. I was going to have cereal but then decided to stop being such a wuss and cook some pasta, for crying out loud. How hard is pasta?

Pretty hard, it turns out, when you have no cabinet space and therefore use your stove top for extra storage. And if you, for example, have a loaf of bread on the back of the stove, turn on the wrong burner, then go into the next room to update your blog...

Well.

To answer all your burning (hah!) questions:

No, that is not an actual photograph. Are you insane?
The fire is out.
The bread is in critical condition.
Burning plastic smells really really bad.
I have to leave the windows open, and it's 56 degrees outside.
Remembering that you should throw flour on a kitchen fire does no good if you have no flour.
I am having cereal for dinner.

Tomorrow I'll go back to whatever I was talking about before.

*Coincidentally, I just finished reading a book called The Burn Journals, about a guy who set himself on fire when he was 14 years old. Excellent book; those of you who are English teacher types should consider using it in class.

Adventures at the Pharmacy

The first time I ever went to a pharmacy in France, I got yelled at by the cashier. She wanted my social security number, and not only was I not in possession of a social security number, I was also very confused as to why I needed one in order to purchase fingernail clippers. I was so traumatized that it was at least five years before I ever ventured into another French drug store.

This makes life more difficult than you realize. You see, "over the counter" has a literal interpretation here, in that everything is behind the pharmacist's counter and you are first subjected to an analysis of your symptoms. I hate this, namely because, as a professional hypochondriac, I am a connoisseur of all things pharmaceutical; I know what I want and I don't like anyone getting in my way. And, most importantly, my medical vocabulary is sparse and I always end up having to pantomime something.

I have had a nagging something-wrong for, oh, a month or so now. When I was in Paris a couple of weeks back, I cracked and went to the drug store in the train station where I discovered that France has finally-- finally!-- been introduced to the idea of "libre service" medications. I could walk right up to the shelf! Take the product I wanted! Not have to talk to anyone! It was BLISS.

So today, I trucked down to the pharmacy in my neighborhood, strode confidently inside and realized... "libre service" hasn't yet arrived in Le Mans. Horrors. Before I could run back out the door, I got cornered by an overly helpful girl who proceeded to ask me entirely too many questions. I got flustered and told her my eyes itched while pointing to my ears; she asked, I think, if my snot was thick or thin and I got the adjectives confused and told her the wrong one (which I only realized after I left). Then she picked some things out for me and rang them up before asking basic questions like, "Do you have any drug allergies?" God only knows what's in this stuff and also, could I just say, what is the aversion French people have to pills? Everything I ever get from French pharmacies has to be chewed or dissolved. I'd rather keep my taste buds out of the process, thank you.

I've already gagged down my first dose, but I think I'll revert to my old system of acquiring medication: have my mom go to Walgreen's and mail them to me. It's either that or taking a train to Paris every time I need a refill.

Hail, yeah!

As I was washing dishes on Wednesday, I heard a sudden loud noise which I assumed was my roof caving in, but was in fact only a brief but impressive hail storm:

I got lots of calls and emails assuring me that this sort of thing is highly unusual, all delivered in censuring tones as if the weather were a recalcitrant child who was raised better but persists in misbehaving front of visitors.

The French Lady Always Rings Twice

Those of you who know me well know that I am a slob. When I lived with roommates, I was a lot neater, but when there's just me in the house, I don't particularly care if the dishes stack up in the sink. When I walk in the door and strip off coat, scarf and shoes and let them pile up over the course of week, who's there to see it but me? Dust on the furniture? Dirty floors? Not my highest priority.

Yeah, that one came back to bite me. I'd gone out this morning but felt feverish and not quite well, so I came home, threw on my grubby clothes and took a two-hour nap. Under covers. I heard the phone ring, but I was comatose, so answering it was out of the question. (Side Note: My so-called "voicemail" tells me how many calls I missed and at what time; there are no messages, nor does it record the number of the caller. Very helpful.)

I finally dragged out of bed, thought about doing the dishes but instead proceeded to spread out all my school materials across three rooms to start getting ready for school next week.

The doorbell rang. My heart froze in my chest. I decided to ignore it. It rang again. I took a deep breath and answered (via phone), but no one was there. Whew! Close one! As I walked back across the filthy living room, I thought how mortified I'd be if someone had actually been there. What a nightmare. Then I sat down at the dining room table to get back to work, glanced out the window, and saw Cake's friend Mado staring back at me.

DANG IT!! Well, what could I do? I leaned out the window and asked if she wanted to come up, then scrambled to find a bra and shut doors while she made her way up the stairs. I felt like a total and complete jackass. I was wearing gym clothes, for crying out loud, I had major bedhead and-- this is particularly mortifying since I didn't realize it until after she'd gone-- I had some crusty white zit paste on my chin.

Sigh. Not my finest moment. I had to scramble to offer her something to drink, then bachelor wash a cup to serve it in. She's as nice as can be, but I can't say I ever really settled down and enjoyed the mercifully brief visit.

I hope people don't make a habit of this around here.

Dinner Party: Lively Now!

Another week, another dinner party, this one light years better. It's not that I didn't enjoy the old folks, but here everyone other than the hostess was in their 30s. Aaah, that's better. There were two couples, the guys both teachers at school, one missus an English teacher and the other a librarian, and also two small children. This part was not fantastic, but I felt like their parents were more pained by their presence than I was. Particularly when they broke things, which they did. More than once.

Conversation flew around the table as always: difference between U.S. and American students, whether Obama deserved the Nobel, Didier & Karine's vacation in Scandanavia, Guillaume's imminent trip to Cambodia, the presence of the Klan in the southern states. (I got to answer this one three times, because there was a "special report" on TV last night about it. I just told them that I've lived my whole life in Alabama and never seen a real, live Klansman, but I suppose if you go looking for nutjobs, you can find them.) They agreed the French media has a tendency to exaggerate.

The teachers I work with were absolutely appalled to hear I'd been assigned the Devil's Class, that one particular group known school-wide for being the worst of the worst, absolutely intolerable, at least half of whom should be expelled immediately. This was mollifying; it's nice to know I'm not the only one who thinks the school could have been a little more considerate in picking out my classes. Lord knows we took great pains to make Miss Cake's adjustment as easy as possible, so I get kind of bitter about the corresponding treatment I've received.

Anyway, I can't even tell you how much I enjoyed the evening. It was relaxed, it was fun, it was just plain super. Afterwards someone volunteered to drive me home, which is good because it was past midnight and I'd missed the last bus. There was one shaky moment about halfway through the drive when the missus said, "Did you drink too much? Are you okay to drive?" and he responded by giving her the universal hand signal for "kinda sorta." But hey, it was a short trip and we made it back in one piece, so good on him.

Side Note: French People Lurv Exams

In France, when you want to be a teacher, you have to pass a concours, or series of exams. Now, when you take an exam like this in the U.S., we set a certain score as our arbiter of success: score above the mark, you win! Score below the mark, and your teachers will be blamed for your failure! In France it works a little differently; let's say you want to work in District X, and there are five available positions for history teachers based on growth or retirement. Among all the folks taking the history exam, the top five scorers pass; everyone else fails.

It doesn't matter how good you are in the classroom; it doesn't matter how well you interact with students; it doesn't really even matter how much you know about history: if five other people know more than you (or are just better test takers), you're screwed. The upside of this, I'm told, is that you can take this annual exam "as many times as you want." To which I say, I only one to take the exam once, thanks. I want to pass it the first time based on a fixed standard of achievement, and I want to then be offered a job based on my own merits.

The reason for the tough selection process is that if you pass, you don't just receive certification, but you're guaranteed a job. You go into the national education system and they will assign you to a post in your district. If you don't like the school, tough. You have to wait a few years and build up points in the system, because transfers are based on seniority.

There's also an argument that these exams are impossible for non-French people to pass. One woman wrote a whole book about how native English speakers are destined to fail in the French educational system, because... wait for it... our English isn't good enough. (Which is a whole other blog post. Trust me.) So even if I wanted to stay and teach forever in France, I'm pretty much SOL.

Silver lining: the upside is, there's a huge pool of subs to draw from. Because everyone who's still waiting to "pass" the exam can work as a long-term substitute for folks who go on maternity leave, break bones, or walk off the job in a fit of student-induced insanity. (There are no short-term subs here; if you're going to be out a few days, you just cancel class. Sweet.)

Blistering, Festering Wounds of Outrage

My favorite third-word denizen (and soul sister-- we were both gypped in this exchange) sent me an email updating me on life on the island. I liked this phrase from her note so much that I'm considering making it the new title of this blog. "Blistering, Festering Wounds of Outrage: a Blog by Melissa." Poetic, non?

Fight!

Today I attended that event dreaded by all teachers, the departmental meeting. I don't know why they wanted me there; there were two items on the agenda and neither concerned me. The first had to do with our new assistante. I'd been looking forward to the arrival of the assistant since the beginning of the school year. Typically, an assistant is a recent college grad who gives conversation classes in their native language. They work 12 hours a week and get paid enough to prevent starvation. This is the program I did in Tours seven years ago, and after a rocky few months, I loved it. (Let's hope that cycle repeats itself.) At my school in Tours, we had two American assistants as well as an Italian, a Costa Rican, a Brazilian and a Russian.

As further evidence of my school's general dysfunction, our Spanish assistant is from Israel (huh?) and our American assistant quit before she ever got here. That's all we've got. So I've been pretty disappointed about that. Then today Stéphane introduced me to our new assistant, who kind of appeared out of the blue. She's 60 years old and Scottish, so to say I was a mite surprised is an understatement. She's lived in France for at least 10 years, and she can only work at our school on Tuesday.

So, since I only have two classes on Tuesday, there's no way I can use her. A couple of lucky teachers have a full load on Tuesday, so they benefit enormously. (I'm trying hard not to be bitter, particularly since these teachers also have the post-grad classes who leave to start internships in a couple of weeks. So their teachers will just be free. And getting paid like they're still working.)

Anyway, the best part came at the end, when there was a huge fight about who should be the department chair. I've missed out on the backstory so I'm not really sure what's going on, but I know that voices were raised, doors were slammed, all while I sat in the corner drawing stick people and wondering how soon I could leave to catch the bus home.

Good times!

Becoming a French Teacher

I finally understand my role as a teacher in the French classroom. It is this: ask questions, provide answers to questions, allow students time to copy down answers verbatim, give students a week or so to memorize everything, then wrap things up nicely with a test in which they recite all the answers I've given them.

That's it. Asking students to think for themselves? Not so much. Asking students to think at all? Nope. As far as I can tell, the routine (at my school at least) is, "Don't think, just memorize!" (One of my colleagues phrased it as, "They have to give back what you gave to them." It was all I could do not to vomit.)

I never thought of myself as a touchy-feely American teacher, but it turns out I am. (The things we learn about ourselves!) All of my cues are geared towards self-reflection and letting students figure out the answers themselves, as in:

S: What's the difference between X and Y?

M: You tell me.

This is appalling in the French system. It suggests that I am incompetent and don't actually know the answer. There's also an element of, "I am the teacher, how dare you attempt to give me information?"

The bottom line is, my students don't want to think, and I'm tired of fighting them. It's been a month, and it hasn't gotten any better. At all. So in an effort to salvage my tattered self-esteem, I am throwing in the towel. They win. As of tomorrow, I will revert to the read-the-chapter-answer-the-questions-at-the-end-take-a-test method of teaching.

Look at me, kids, I'm a coach!*

*This is teacher humor. Coaches stereotypically always a) teach social studies and b) use the read-the-chapter-answer-the-questions method.

Admiring Photos

So, I'm at the home of some friends of Miss Cake and they wanted to show me some pictures she'd sent them. With great enthusiasm they took me through an entire slideshow of... my apartment. It was surreal; I don't think they ever really made the connection between my lack of comment and the fact that I've lived in the place for three years now. ("Isn't that a wonderful view?" she said at one point. Um, yeah, in fact it's one of the reasons I rented the place.) They also showed me pictures Cake had taken at school, which I didn't like at all because those are my kids and I don't like being reminded that someone else is taking care of them this year.

Then we went to the park where the younger daughter and I made a sad attempt at playing pingpong until she finally ran off with someone her own age then promptly hurled herself from the monkey bars and had to be taken to the ER*. The husband drove me home. I ate cookies. MLIA.

*Mado just called to say I love you tell me that baby girl is staying in the hospital overnight and will have surgery tomorrow. She's got a fracture and... something about two things (bones?) that slid one over the other. Not sure, but it sounds pretty awful.

Socially Acceptable Spying

I meant to get a lot of work done today, I really did. But around two, my phone rang, and it was Annie. She'd just heard about a manifestation in town and wanted to see if I were interested in meeting her and Richard in front of city hall. (Side Note: Manifestation is the word used for demonstration, so I was a little confused about why they seemed so enthusiastic about checking out a protest. Later I remember that it can also more generally mean "an event," which made a lot more sense but was a lot less exciting.) I said sure, then scrambled to find matching shoes, a rubber band for my hair, my house keys and bus pass. And then I ran.

The event is called Entre Cours et Jardins, and it's yet another let-the-peasants-admire-our-bounty event. In the old city (which I visited in previous adventures), families open their normally well-shuttered courtyards and share their private gardens with the ticket-holding masses.

It was fascinating. Unlike the U.S., where everything is open (big front yards, picture windows, etc.), in France everything is insular. From the outside all you see is stone walls and imposing iron gates, none of which even hint at the sumptuous beauty of the houses and gardens inside. I can't tell you how many people said something along the lines of, "Who would've guessed all this was right here?"

The weather was beautiful and the gardens were lovely. You can see them here. When we finished we stopped in a gorgeous little bar and had some liquid restoration. Since this is one of the few places in town that specializes in cocktails, I splurged and had a margarita. (Neat, since "frozen" and "on the rocks" are not concepts here.) Richard had a Manhattan. Annie had tea. (Party pooper.) We talked shop and they both gave me great ideas and advice on how to handle my monster class.

It was a lovely day (though chilly, I don't think it broke 60), and well worth every hour it set me back in lesson planning. I'll get around to that one of these days.