She Went to Paris*

Saturday morning, my pie and I headed to Paris; well, technically we headed to La Défense, which is just outside of the city. Fellow exchange teacher Katie and her family had kindly invited everyone to share Thanksgiving with them. There were 11 adults and three children, and at least twice as many bottles of wine. The food was dee-vine. An actual turkey (fully cooked), mashed potatoes, stuffing, onion tart, something called "cornbread pudding," which was great, whatever it was, corn... and something else I can't quite remember at the moment. Dessert was pie, pie and more pie. And also a three-layer mousse cake. And wine. And coffee. And wine. I stole these picture's from Kim C's blog:

I stayed the night, which had been previously planned, me being an out-of-towner and all. Kim had driven in from about an hour away and decided to stay the night too, so she, Katie and I stayed up until about one in the morning solving all the world's problems.

The next morning, we had a leisurely breakfast of baguette, butter, clementines and gallons of coffee, then we swapped student papers so that I could prove that Katie's sixth graders write better than my seniors. (They do. No contest.)

Kim needed running shoes, so she decided she'd stop at the mall in La Défense before heading back. While I recovered from my shock (a mall? on Sunday??), I figured I'd catch a ride with her to see this place and also because, handily, I could pick up the Metro there.

What we found was not, in fact, a mall. It was two malls, two enormous malls, and the stores were open, and people were shopping. And between the two malls was an enormous open-air Christmas market, where we spent at least an hour wandering around, drinking hot chocolate and repeatedly declaring, "Oh my God, that smells so good." Compare this to a Le Mans Sunday, and you can understand why I was more than a little starstruck.

I left La Défense and took the Metro to the Champs-Elysées. I could have taken the Metro all the way to my train station, but I wanted to walk around some more. Because no matter how much time I spend in Paris, it's never enough. So I walked down the street and admired all the store windows, passed through yet another massive Christmas market then finished up at the Place de la Concorde. As I was standing outside the Hotel Crillon wondering where the entrance was to the Metro station, this frazzled-looking old couple stopped me and asked if I could help them find their destination. (Those of you who have experienced firsthand my abysmal Paris orienteering are already laughing.) But I studied my trusted map for several minutes and was finally able to confidently point them in what I sincerely believe was the proper direction. No clue if I was right, though I wish them the best of luck!

From there it was back to the station and on board the train to Tiny Town, which quickly filled up with obnoxious, vulgar young people making their commute back to school. (High school dorms are commonplace in France.) At one point there was a group of kids behind me so crass, so obnoxious, that I kept waiting for someone to stand up and scream at them, only no one did. Finally I packed all my stuff up determined to switch cars entirely... and wouldn't you know, they're both my students. Go figure.

In the next car, I saw another of my students; she had kicked off her shoes and propped her sweaty feet on the fold-down tray of the seat next to her. I thought about how I'd recently eaten a sandwich off a similar tray and felt mildly ill.

But I finally made it back to Tiny Town, dark, oppressive place that it is, and Monday rewarded my blissful weekend by giving me six hours of absolutely unbearable students. It appears the pre-Christmas madness is already upon us.

Pictures of Paris are here.

*looking for answers to questions that bothered her so...

Okay, Now I'm Just Showing Off

I am invincible! This morning I made a pecan pie:

It's going to sit on the counter for an hour, then I will place it in a gen-u-wine Walmart sack (thanks Ed!) and take it on the train to Paris, where I will be celebrating Thanksgiving with some of the other exchange teachers.

Glou glou! (This is what French turkeys say.)

Anatomy of a Dinner Party

I invited Richard and Annie to dinner because I love them and I wanted to do something nice to thank them for how wonderful they've been to me while I'm here. I'm not sure that subjecting them to my generally unreliable cooking skills qualifies as "something nice," but it seemed like a good idea at the time. So here's how the day went:

8:30-- crawl out of bed, have coffee, make cornbread.

10:00-- grocery store. Various ingredients purchased, including auxiliary bottle of wine. (R&A don't drink too much, but better safe than sorry.) This took much longer than anticipated, because I forgot to look up "rosemary" in the French-English dictionary before I left. (I bought something that started with 'r' and hoped for the best. And I was right. Score!) Also, evidently green onions don't exist here, so I had to get a regular onion. And "soup in a can"... yeah, not so much.

Wait in line for cashier for about 5 minutes, at which point she turns her service light off. Turns out that unlike in the U.S., where the extinguishing of the light means "everyone in line but no one else," in France it means "get in the back of someone else's line, sucker." Under normal circumstances, this would infuriate me, but as I'm down to 20 days here and now consider myself a tourist, I didn't care. I just got in the back of the next line.

10:30-- walked home. Created something similar to chicken broth from bouillon cubes and turned cornbread into something resembling dressing. More or less. They're French, so it's not like they'll know. (Despite the bravado, I was also contemplating the best method of ritual suicide should the meal fall apart.)

12:00-- bowl of cereal, Xanax, and a three-hour nap. Ah, that's better. Can I just explain the enormity of this? I am giving a dinner party (and I never cook) in which I prepare food with French approximations of American ingredients in a kitchen that is not mine. I don't know what the crap kind of pots and pans, utensils and whatnot exist in this kitchen. And I've detailed my issues with the stove before. To say I was nervous is the understatement of the universe.

3:30-- another trip to the grocery store. Buy final supplies: cheese, baguette, chicken breasts. And a pie. Technically I made a banana pudding last night, but there was a slight problem with the meringue (due to my lack of experience with this kind of mixer) and this morning I spent way too much time cleaning dried egg white off numerous surfaces, including a kitchen chair, the microwave and my iPod. When I leave the grocery store, it is raining. Hard. The bus zips past me. I walk home with groceries in the rain, just a wee bit cranky.

4:00-- clean floors. Embarrassed to tell you how long it's been since I've done this. And anyway, laminate floors are gross; I prefer carpet where the nastiness is ground into the fibers and one remains blissfully unaware of its presence. Miss Cake's Soviet-era "vacuum" (I use the quotes because I truly doubt the veracity of this claim. For all that it sounds like a space shuttle at lift-off, newborns suck harder than this thing.)

5:00-- shower. I spend the entire time calculating and recalculating when to begin cooking each dish. I am losing my mind. I am freaking out.

5:30-- have a whiskey. Dry my hair. Take the garbage out. Feel better.

6:00-- start watching a Season 1 episode of "Fringe" online but can't concentrate because I'm thinking about cutting potatoes. So I finally give in and head into the kitchen.

6:15-- scrub and cut potatoes (white and sweet). Coat with olive oil, salt, pepper and rosemary and toss in oven to roast.

Butterfly chicken breasts. (Oh my gawd, I just butterflied chicken breasts all by myself. I am awesome!) Stuff chicken breasts with cornbread dressing. Coat tops of chicken with olive oil, rosemary and Parmesan cheese. Throw into oven with potatoes, which are roasting nicely.

Sauté onions and mushrooms in olive oil. Add bouillon-approximated broth and reconstituted-from-powder "cream of poultry" soup. Reduce over heat. Result = tasty sauce.

7:15-- open windows because it's hot as all getout. Set table. Place baguette on table. Open wine. Pour sauce into bowl, potatoes into serving dish.

7:30-- Richard & Annie arrive. This demonstrates their cultural sensitivity. Normally French people would never dream of arriving on time (it's rude!) but they know I'm American and so they accommodate me.

We sit down in the living room. They have orange juice, I have another whiskey. (It's medicinal.) I serve dinner and they like it! They like it a LOT! I think I might cry. I break all French conventions by repeatedly saying "Help yourself, help yourself, help yourself." (This is not a French concept.) Annie asks me how I made the stuffing and I all but glow while I tell her. She takes seconds! We laugh and chatter nonstop. Life is good.

I throw my grocery store pie in the oven while I serve the cheese course. (I remembered the cheese course! I'm a pro at this!) After the cheese, I serve pie and make tea for Annie and coffee for Richard and me. Richard becomes my slave for life when I introduce him to the wonders of Bailey's Irish Cream.

We sit at the table for a while longer and continue to tell stories and I laugh until I can hardly breathe. Finally they take their leave; they walked over and will walk back. Richard shows me the new headlight he bought (the forehead lamp that miners wear) and I crack up even more.

10:00-- My first-ever French People dinner party is over, and it was fantastic. I am queen of the universe.

Only now I have to wash every single dish in the apartment. By hand. It takes an hour. But it was so worth it.

Photos of the aftermath:

I See London, I See France

I spent last weekend in London. It was fantastic. I've been there before, so I didn't feel the need to do the whole Big-Ben-Westminster-Buckingham thing. Nope, this weekend was about relaxing with friends, and we had a great time.

Yes, indeed, I did take the Chunnel, although that is the one and only time you'll hear me use that word, because it irritates me. I took the TGV from Le Mans to Paris. I arrived in the Montparnasse station and needed to take the Metro to the Gare du Nord, which is where the Eurostar leaves from. Only naturally the Metro line I needed was not stopping at that station for the weekend and so I had to do a quick re-route involving a different train and a transfer back onto the Metro. (A certain group of students will be shocked to hear that I took the RER in the right direction on the first try. I know, it was wacky; apparently I navigate much better when I'm not jetlagged.)

The Eurostar looked like every other train I've ever been on in France, and the underground bit was actually quite brief. The weird part was before we boarded: we had to clear customs (get passports stamped by French officials), step forward literally five feet and get cleared again (stamps by British officials). Then we had to do the luggage scan/metal detector thing, which you don't otherwise do on train trips. Interesting.

We arrived in London and I took the directions Frank had given me on how to get to the hotel. Step 1: Take the Picadilly line to Covent Garden. Immediate problem: the Picadilly line was not stopping at that station for the weekend. (Sound familiar?) I'm reasonably familiar with the Paris Metro but in London I got nothin', so much time was lost as I stared helplessly at the Tube maps. Finally I wandered down to the Northern line, only it turns out there's more than one of those, so I ended up having to ask a guy in an official-looking uniform how to get to Leicester Square. "You take the Northern line to Euston," he said, "and then you double back on the Northern line going in the opposite direction and it's just a few stops."

In what universe does this make sense? But I did it and I got to Leicester Square and from there stumbled quite by accident onto Covent Garden. From there it was only one wrong turn and I finally arrived at the truly lovely Strand Palace Hotel.

Frank and Ed arrived maybe half an hour later, and we settled into our rooms and went out for food. It was wonderful to catch up with them-- I've missed those two so much!

Sunday Frank and Ed's friend Linda took us to Greenwich. This was wonderful because I'd never been to Greenwich before, and also because Linda is a professional tour guide. I fell madly in love with the town as soon as I stepped foot off the boat (we took the ferry down the Thames). If I lived in London (which I could totally do, it's an awesome city), I'd definitely want to live in Greenwich. We went to the National Maritime Museum and then the open-air market before heading back to London and having Portuguese for dinner.

Monday morning we had a leisurely breakfast and Frank escorted me back to the train station, and I came home.

And they all lived happily ever after. The end.

Today's Adventure: Cyber-Stalking

Me: Hey, Stéphane, what's the new password to logon to the computer?

S: New password? I don't know, I have my own login. You don't?

M: No, they keep forgetting I work here.

S: (pointing to computer screen) Here, I've just been looking at your high school.

M: My-- huh? You mean Baker?

S: Yes, Baker, that's right. Come here, I'll show you what I did.

M: Uh... okay.

S: See, I went to Google and I put your name in--

M: (laughing awkwardly) Well, there's more than one of me--

S: I know, but see, I also put "French teacher" and then I found-- see, here's your school.

M: Well, actually that's my university but--

S: No, see, here on the alumni page it says "French teacher, Montgomery County."

M: Well, that's old. I haven't--

S: I know, so then I put "French teacher Alabama" and-- here, you see? Baker High School. And there's your picture. And the photo album of your class and your students.

M: Um, so... this is what you've been doing all day?

S: Yes well, you know, I thought it was interesting to see what your school looked like. Would you like to see a picture of your replacement?

M: NO. I mean, uh, I know what she looks like. We've met. Hey listen, this is... great and all but... I've really gotta run now. Greattalkingtoyoubye.

Bus Stories

The fates have noted my recent complaints about the inadequacies of public transportation; they have exacted their revenge by surrounding me with local nutjobs whose puzzling behavior leaves me more befuddled than usual.

Today:

A woman got off the #4 bus and ran across the street to catch her other bus... which was also the #4, but going in the other direction. She stayed on for several stops. What was she doing? Why would she take the #4 bus several stops just to cross the street and go back the way she came?

Another woman got on the bus and made a big production of taking the seat next to mine (which required wedging me into the window) and arranging her various bags around her. At the next stop, she picked up all her bags and went and stood by the door, holding on to the balance pole. I assumed she was getting off shortly. But at the next stop, she turned around and squished me against the window again! What gives? All I can figure is fart break, and if that's the case, then I'm truly grateful to her for moving. But couldn't she just have stayed there?

I got hit on. Again. This time the guy was in his 50s who first he suggested that I remove my headphones to hear him better, at which point I assured him I was hearing him as well as I needed to. He then talked about the wonders of technology, showing me his cell phone (which looked alarmingly similar to Bret's camera phone, only dirtier) and went on at length to explain how much he liked listening to mp3's on his phone but how he's never been able to figure out computers because when he was in school they used fountain pens and hand-chiseled pencils. No doubt I could understand this, since we were "of the same epoch." (Actually, a$$hat, I got my first computer when I was nine. But thanks for playing.)

The event that took the cake, though-- the moment I knew that God was doubled over laughing at me-- was on the way home, when this armless guy sat next to me. He had no arms, however he did have fully-formed hands... attached to his shoulders. I swear that I am not making this up. The first thought that came to mind was how Brooke makes fun of her husband's "T-Rex arms," and that was a bad thing because I wanted to laugh but you must absolutely, positively, under no circumstances laugh when you're sitting next to a man with shoulder hands.

So naturally I've spent the rest of the day contemplating his predicament and I've come to the conclusion that shoulder hands are the worst possible torture a person can endure. Yeah, he's got hands, but he can't do any of the things hands are good for-- putting keys in his pocket, scratching (other than his ear, maybe), drinking. I suppose if he's really flexible he can pick his nose, but still...

I swear I think I was being punked. (After all, when I got into town, city engineers were busily putting up banners for advertising an event which takes place in September. Okay, so are they really early or really late?) But it doesn't matter, at any moment my hamster-like attention span will kick in and I'll start thinking about other things. Like my previous reference to Flight of the Conchords. Which means I'll think about this. And then I'll think about kebabs. And then I'll think about how I should have eaten lunch a few hours ago. And then I'll go into the kitchen and find a warm Diet Coke that I opened and left on top of the refrigerator at some point. Could have been this morning, could have been a week ago, who knows.

Just another day in paradise.

For the Good Times

Yesterday I had a great time with my class of fun seniors. This is the group I will actually miss when I leave. I love classes with lots of personality, and this group certainly qualifies. We were reading a text (one of those awful exam-prep texts that I hate) about a 60-year-old Indian man (dots not feathers) who's just found out that his son wants to move to America. So our vocabulary had lots of words in it like "crushed," "heartbroken," "unthinkable," "hurt," etc.

At the end of class, I gave them their assignment and announced that I would be absent on Monday and so we wouldn't have class. Without missing a beat, they went into full theatrics, saying, "We're crushed!" "It's unthinkable!" And so on and so forth. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. It was a really great feeling.

So yes, there will be good memories to take away from here. I'm truly glad that I've had this experience, and if I can end on a positive note, so much the better.

What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been

Today I am finally ready to announce that after weeks of contemplation and discussion, I've decided to terminate the exchange at Christmas. When I leave December 17th, it's for good. This was not a decision that I made easily, and it was not the result of a bad day or even a bad week. If you've read this blog, you probably noticed that I began with cautious optimism, but over the course of several months that optimism eroded, and I ultimately concluded that termination is the best for everyone.

My colleagues here are struggling to understand. They are supportive but perplexed. They freely admit that this school is not great, that there are many problems, but they consider this to be normal. For me, as a teacher, the two most essential things are my feelings of competence and mastery in the classroom, and my relationship with my students.

I don't feel that I'm an effective teacher here. I speak English, yes, but I can't teach the kind of English they expect. As a native speaker, I find expressions like indeed, whereas and moreover unnatural and awkward, but honestly, it seems that the goal here is to sound like you just stepped out of a Dickens novel. I can't teach that. The type of English they must produce on their critical end-of-year exams is not my English, and I feel that they deserve a teacher who can prepare them for this exam. If they fail, I will feel partly responsible, and I don't want to bear that burden.

Most of all, I miss my students. Again, I've tried to explain this to my colleagues and they've tried very hard to understand, but the whole concept of student-teacher attachment is anathema here. I mentioned that a student had emailed me and my colleague burst out laughing. He thought I was joking. When I assured him it was true, he was puzzled-- "I can't even imagine a scenario where a student would send me an email or where I'd want them to."

And that's just sad. So I'm coming home. I'm sorry to disappoint Miss Cake, and I'm sorry for all the ensuing drama, but ultimately I had to make the best decision for me and my students-- on both sides of the ocean.

That said... let the countdown begin!

Surprises-- YAY!

I have to admit, when one gets a large, unexpected envelope with a law firm's address on it, one is a bit alarmed, even if one considers the law firm in question a friendly establishment.

But here's what my friendly local law office sent:

The card says "I let Grace pick something out for you for a little Christmas spirit. The trash is from me."

Aww, Michelle, you know the way to my heart is through trashy magazines-- I love that about you. And Grace, as we all know, is totally my BFF.

This absolutely made my day! I am running out to the store to lay in a supply of wine and chocolate, and I am going to spend the rest of the day on the couch in my jammies reading about pathetic human beings from reality shows I've never watched. I can hardly wait!

The Joys of Mass Transit

Today I was trapped on the bus as usual, and my iPod produced this song for my listening pleasure. It so encapsulated all my thoughts and feelings that I just had to share it with you. Take a couple of minutes to listen to the pre-emo existential rage of Gordon Gano as he preaches my sermon:

Reading Is Fun!

Here's an actual excerpt from our book:

The Great Famine

In 1845, most Irish lands were in the hands of absentee Anglo-Irish Protestant landowners. A farm labourer usually rented a small plot of land annually from a landlord at a very high price. He paid the rent by growing potato crops. Out of a population of 8.5 million inhabitants, over 1.5 million landless labourers and their families had no other real source of food or income except the potato.

Unfortunately a blight devastated Ireland's potato crop in 1845 and famine started. Unlike their tenants, landowners were not dependent on the potato for their survival, and while potatoes rotted in the fields, they remained unaffected.

All together now: "Huh?"

Bear in mind, I'm supposed to be using this text with students who started studying English two years ago. After two years of French, my Baker students can say things like "I went camping last weekend and saw many snakes and birds." These French kids are expected to discuss absentee landowners and potato blight. (You know what their first question was? "What does 'great' mean?") Longest hour of my life? Yeah, you could say that.

Ah, Sundays...

Edith Piaf famously sang "Je hais les dimanches." (I hate Sundays.) The reason? Because she lived in a country where everything is closed and otherwise vibrant city centers become ghost towns. The buses which normally run every 15 minutes run once an hour; it's easier to walk the two miles into town (and two miles back) than to wait. And Lord help you if you run out of toilet paper on a Saturday night; you'll be scrounging around for Kleenex, paper towels and possibly old socks until after work on Monday.

Sundays are very, very sad around here.

I Pity The Fool

Here's a tip: if you're wandering the streets of Le Mans trying to remember where this place is, don't ask for "Mister Tee," because this is incomprehensible. Much like ordering a "hamburger" is incomprehensible at McDo. You want a burger? You ask for "un ahmburGUR." You want this shop? That's "Mee Stare Tee" to you.

Music Day: Reality TV Edition

In France, one version of "American Idol" isn't enough, so they have two. The first is called "In Search of a New Star," and it's the one most similar to AI. There's also "Star Academy," which is a combination of AI and The Real World, in that the contestants all live together and are filmed fighting over use of the toaster and whatnot. I don't remember which show this particular singer came from, but he's wildly popular now. I give you the video for "Plus que tout," which, in music video terms, is sort of Robert Palmer on acid:

I realize that your brain is possibly exploding as your eyes and ears refuse to agree but yes, in fact, that voice belongs to that face. The singer is a man. I promise.

School Marathon

Welcome to my 11-hour school day! I am in full recovery mode now, which involves an entire bottle of something fizzy (and it ain't Diet Coke).

I have class from 8-10 on Thursday morning, same group of kids for two hours. It was a nightmare. About halfway through, I melted down on them and started screaming: "Listen, you either say 'I don't understand the question' or 'I don't know the answer to the question,' but I can't stand any more of this staring into space! This two hours feels like two YEARS, this class is torture, and if you're going to sit there like lumps, I have better things to do with my time." Then I pulled out a stack of papers, started grading, and ignored them for the rest of the class.

At the end of class a girl came up to my desk to explain that she didn't have her assignment to turn in (a one-page journal entry on the person she most admires), because, as she said, she couldn't think of anything to say and anyhow, we just keep doing the same thing all the time. "That's interesting," I said. "What do you mean?" Then she said again, "I mean it's like a wheel that turns, we just repeat the same thing over and over." I asked her several times for clarification, but she couldn't explain it to me and finally changed the subject to her aunt who lives in Cape Cod. "So write about that," I said. "I don't care, just write something."

After this I have a three-hour break. If I had a car, I could go home, have lunch, relax, but with the buses being as fabulous as they are, I just sit at school. I made some copies, graded some papers, then went to the cafeteria. I sat by myself at lunch because none of the other teachers talk to me; I swear, it is like living high school all over again. I had turkey with some sort of gravy-ish stuff, peas, and two bites of quiche before I thought I'd throw up and left. I get disapproving looks for eating my lunch in twenty minutes, but it's pretty nasty, so I don't feel the need to linger.

I wandered back to the teachers' room and met our new English assistant. Yes, the new one. If you'll recall, the American assistant quit before she even got here (smart girl). Then they hired the 60-ish Scottish lady, who quit after two weeks. Now we have a forty-something lady from Chile as our English assistant. (I suppose this should surprise me, but these days it takes a lot. Remember, our Spanish assistant is from Israel.) The Chilean lady asked me how the kids' speaking level was, and I told her I had no idea since I can't get them to talk. Ever. She said, "Well, I have 13 years' experience, and there are special methods you can use to engage them." Her tone was so condescending that my first instinct was to bitch-slap her snotty Chilean self, but instead I just smiled and wished her the best of luck with that. I might have even meant it.

At one o'clock, classes resumed; I had my obnoxious junior science students who were... obnoxious. I managed (barely) to get through the lesson, then I had my senior science class, who mostly just ignored me. After that I had my class of four sophomores who speak more German than French. They copied some questions off the overhead, answered them, and we left.

Then I sat around the teachers' room for another hour until the Big Meeting for my senior misfits class. They're so bad that we had to get all of their teachers together-- and the principal-- and essentially go down the list and determine who would go before the "discipline council," who would get brief suspensions and who would get threatened with brief suspensions.

Now, the fun part was before the meeting started. The class's boss teacher organized the meeting, and at one point she was fretting because everyone was waiting and the principal was... walking in the opposite direction. So after a few minutes, the boss teacher left, then came back all flustered because the principal had told her, essentially, "I'll be there when I finish my cigarette." The boss teacher declared this "scandalous and indecent," at which point another teacher argued that the principal should be allowed to smoke if she wants to, and the boss teacher countered with, "I don't care if she's smoking. I care that we're waiting. If she were standing out there eating a croissant I'd still be pissed off."

Frankly, I think I'd be much happier here if I could spend all my time listening to faculty members complain about each other, rather than wasting my time with these water-carbon lumps known as students. The teachers here are bold, they absolutely crack me up.

When the principal came into the meeting, she immediately started mocking the assistant principal (who wasn't there) and did an impression of his address to the dorm students after one of them threw a bottle from his window and hit a construction worker in the head. (For the record, the kid did it on purpose.) She recited the entire speech and then, while the other teachers were gasping for breath between peels of laughter, she dismissed the man with, "It's like he thinks he works with four-year-olds!"

Other tasty tidbits from the principal: "So is there anyone in this class who does more than warm a chair?" "So why is she here? We're the only school who would take her, aren't we? I knew it." "Ah yes, Lycée Sud, where previously docile children learn to be insolent and disrespectful. Well, at least they learned something."

So we finally end the meeting at 6:23, and I sit in the cold and dark until my bus comes twenty minutes later. I got home at seven p.m., having left the house at seven a.m., and if I weren't off on Fridays, I would be suicidal.

And despite the fact that I had been asked twice to meet with this principal during the week, she didn't say anything to me at the meeting. It's quite possible she has no idea who I am. Wouldn't surprise me a bit.

Educational Television

Ever since Mike From Ohio introduced me to it seven years ago, I've had an unhealthy fascination with the children's show "C'est Pas Sorcier." (Roughly translated, "It's not rocket science.") It's sort of a cross between "Mr. Wizard's World," "Bill Nye, the Science Guy" and "Mythbusters."

This is from an episode about fighter jets. If you skip to about 2:40, they start demonstrating how jet engines work. How can you not watch this??

::Cough Cough::

The high today is 44 degrees, there's a tropical storm in Mobile, and I'm supposed to meet with the principal this afternoon. Therefore, I have determined that I am sick and will not be going to school. In Mobile, if I am sick, I log on to the computer, report my absence, and go back to bed.

Here, I call the school and explain to the receptionist, who transfers me to the student life office. I explain to them, and they transfer me to administration. I explain to them, and they say they are going to transfer me to the principal's secretary but then I'm pretty sure they disconnected me. At this point, I should probably have called back, but what are they going to do, fire me? A girl can dream.

And now I'm going back to bed. Have a great day!

Why Teaching English Is Painful

I'm required to teach pronunciation. The problem is, it turns out I don't speak English very well. For example, when I speak, this and then have the same sound, as do four and for. And math and half. Don't even get me started on the word dog. I mean, I know it's not dawg, I can do that much, but still... We had a big blow-up over the pronunciation of the word bus, which to me is in no way different from the sound in America but which in the Queen's English has a whole other sound which I am apparently not capable of making.

Theoretically, I'm allowed to teach American pronunciation. The problem is, all of their future teachers will penalize them for mispronouncing words that are perfectly correct in American. So I've got to at least try to teach them "proper" English.

Just for fun, go here, click on a few words (I highly recommend "for" and "vacate," and if you really want your brain to explode, "should") and see how good your English is.

McWorkout

This was startling...

At first I thought it was funny, but then I realized that the "gym club" is actually a playground. Further exploration revealed a monitor in a tracksuit with a whistle around his neck. Wow. To me it's more evidence that kids are required to be entirely too serious here; there's no playing, only organized and regimented exercise time, even at the friggin' McDo. Can't they just, I don't know, slide without having to calculate calorie expenditures?

Self-Medicating

Prozac? Xanax? Crack cocaine? No thanks, I've got... kir, a well-known French OTC remedy.

Works like this: take your favorite four-euro bottle of white wine:

Add sirop de cassis (currant juice):

Consume with pleasure:

Repeat as needed.

Cranky Teacher

My students are getting on my nerves. They are incredibly critical of late, and living as the idiot-in-residence leaves me more sensitive than usual. Hmm, whiny students, prickly teacher: not the best combination going.

I have a class of seniors who are wonderful; they are bright, they are enthusiastic, they are good at English. (They're the only class that qualifies as such.) I think their textbook is atrocious, so I've made a conscious effort to avoid it; all the texts are gloomy and negative and frankly, I just don't think they'd be that much fun to study.

Only today I got ganged up on because, well, the best way I could translate what they were saying to me is "We haven't had class. We need more class." What I eventually managed to piece together from this is that they feel they don't have enough handouts pasted into their notebooks. All my efforts at cultivating their spoken English are irrelevant because what they want is lists of vocabulary, and a text with four or five comprehension questions following it.

Really, this is what they want.

So as of next week, that's what they're going to get. Gone are my plans for the "Big Fish" unit, the reality TV/faux celebrity unit, the songs. Instead I'm trying to decide if I should begin with the text about apartheid, the text about anti-semitism or the text about life on an Indian reservation. Or there's my personal favorite, the Paul Auster excerpt wherein a little girl in Alabama informs her new neighbor that she doesn't play with niggers. (What really infuriates me is that Paul Auster is from friggin' New Jersey and has probably never set foot in Alabama in his life, but this is how we're being represented in a textbook to an entire country of impressionable youth. GRRRR!)

Twenty-two school days until Christmas. Twenty-two. I can do this.

Fast Food

How pizza is delivered in France...

French Game Shows: NSFW edition

I love French game shows, even the American rip-offs like Qui Veut Gagner Des Millions. What's interesting is that, despite how useless I am on French pop culture questions, I own these people on history, grammar and anything related to religion. (Once, a contestant had to use a lifeline to arrive at the answer Adam and Eve.) However, this is even better:

Here, the host is reviewing the question (What orbits around the Earth?) and, as you can see, not only has the contestant felt obliged to ask the audience, but 56 percent of them have chosen the sun as the correct answer.

Another favorite is N'Oubliez Pas Les Paroles, which I enjoy but which I can't really participate in because I've never heard of any of these songs. Essentially, I'm just waiting for the inevitable French pop song which attempts to up its cool factor by including random English lyrics; I love when French people sing in English.

But without a doubt, my hands-down favorite French game show is Attention à la Marche ("Watch Your Step"), for the simple reason that I have absolutely no idea what's going on. At the beginning, there are four contestants, at least one of whom is certifiably insane. They answer a few questions, accompanied by these cartoon creatures who look like dancing purple popsicles:

After no more than two questions, the lowest-scoring player is no longer allowed to participate in the game, but he still stands around to take part in the chatting. And there is a lot of chatting. Think of the moment on "Jeopardy!" when Alex Trebek interviews the contestants and they say things like "I enjoy tennis and swimming... but not at the same time, haha!"* Now put that thought far, far from your mind, because nothing like that is happening here.

First, one of the guys tells a story about when he went to the zoo and felt he made a "special connection" with Ghislaine the Orangutan, that "something happened" when their gazes met. Right about now, we hear the first notes of "You Can Leave Your Hat On," thus announcing the arrival of, I kid you not, "The Naughty Question."

Today's question, after a clip of the purple popsicles dancing on a mattress: out of 100 women surveyed, how many said that all men have the same "mode d'emploi" in bed. (This doesn't translate precisely, but think along the lines of "methods of usage.")

Before revealing the answer, the host demands that each contestant do an impression. One guy impersonates Charles Aznavour, a dead singer; another impersonates a famous comedian; the crazy lady does an impression of (I swear, I am not making this up) "Me, climbing a rope."

Then the host goes back to the Naughty Question and invites the crazy lady to tell everyone about Her First Time. (Yes, that's exactly what I'm talking about.) To which she responds, "I had several, and they were all marvelous."

Then the guy with the braid gets his turn and proceeds to describe the four different kinds of orgasms women have:

I would just like to point out that this show comes on at noon on Sundays. I'm just saying...

After this, we cut to a commercial, and when we come back, a randomly-chosen audience member joins the other four contestants in answering questions on a staircase. Then there's a musical break, and everyone dances together. Then more questions. And finally the guy who told the orgasm story plugs his album, at which point I realize he's famous. Which means that the crazy chick in the tiger shirt is also possibly famous. Then it's revealed that the woman on the stairs has won 10,000 euros. (How? When??) And finally, the credits roll, while the in-house cartoonist (yes, the in-house cartoonist) shows pictures he's drawn of the other guy and the orangutan.

I have no idea what this show is about, but I deeply love it.

*My mother and I actually witnessed this on an episode of "Jeopardy!" and it so traumatized us that it has remained our standard of dorkiness ever since.

Ah, school...

Yesterday I had lunch with a colleague and spent some time planning lessons for the next term. At one point she lamented the fact that I'd been sent to this particular school (!) and expressed the wish that someday I would be able to do another exchange in a better school.

So, just for laughs, I checked the school's ranking. According to the official Education Nationale web site, my high school ranks 12th in the city (out of 14), 103rd in the district (out of 108), and, my personal favorite, 1534th nationally, which means that only 381 schools are worse than mine. In the entire country. In contrast, the school I worked at in Tours is ranked in the top 500 nationally.

Good times.

Truth in Advertising

I give you: packaging vs. actual product. Words cannot sufficiently convey my disappointment.

Heh heh

From the series, Business Names Which Amuse Me: