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.

Luncheon & HSM

Today the school hosted a welcome luncheon for Miss Cake. It was great to see so many folks from school getting together to socialize, and I think it gave her a good introduction to the essential characters on campus. Chrissie spoke a bit about The Program's history, then Mr. R thanked our guests (state representatives-- two of them!) and introduced me, who in turn introduced the guest of honor. Lots of introductions going on. Mr. R had asked me to talk a bit about The Program, but I got so flustered that I just started rattling about Lord-only-knows-what-all, then sat down. Which was fine, because at that point we got gift bags! Miss Cake got lots of Baker goodies (t-shirts, planner, umbrella, you name it) and I got a lovely school bag filled with tons of fun stuff, including chocolate. You can check it out here. Big thanks to Chrissie, Roe and Estle for making it happen.

That night, we went with Ed and Frank to see the Playhouse production of High School Musical. The kids were obviously having a great time on stage, and despite the painful cheesiness of the plotline, I found the show very entertaining. Shout-out to Angélique, whose role included a line about joie de vivre; her flawless pronunciation made her French teacher proud. And Guy... well, he stole the show, as usual.

Time to Break the Glass

Visa Status Update: I took the first available appointment at the consulate, August 13. I'm scheduled to leave the 16th. You do the math. I was doggedly optimistic as I conveyed this information to the Commission: lalala, all I have to do is show up and retrieve my visa, non? Uh, non, as it turns out. My contact, through thinly-veiled panic, recommended that I contact the consulate directly to see if I could get an earlier appointment.

Today, I took action: I called. (Those of you who know me well recognize that this is a BFD. Think about it: when was the last time I called you? Exactly.) I almost threw up the whole time the phone was ringing, which was stupid because naturally I only got the Electric Lady, who rattled off lengthy instructions about getting an appointment online (already did that, thanks), then invited me to press one to speak to a visa agent. I pressed one, and was immediately informed that all visa agents were busy. Did I wish to leave a voice mail? Why yes, I did. Well, tant pis, because the voice mailbox was full. Au revoir!

Argh. I got drastic. Looked online for the main switchboard number, dialed it (feeling faint once again)... and got the Electric Lady again.

Plan B: as the Electric Lady suggested, I could consult the website, which is updated daily. Found an email address, spent a ridiculous amount of time composing, editing and adding accent marks, copied the Commission, hit send.

Email was returned with fatal errors.

So evidently it's not possible to contact the consulate by phone or email, and they won't see you if you show up without an appointment.

Yeah, you could say I'm panicking now.

Picking Up Speed...

Well, it feels like the train has left the station and we're starting the slow but relentless climb to the top. (Then, probably about the time I step off the train, the inevitable free-fall-and-vomit.) The past three days have been semi-eventful. On Thursday, I went to the beach to spend the day with another exchange teacher who's going to be outside Paris. (Like all the cool kids. In fact, out of the 12 Americans who will be in France next year, I know of only four who won't be "outside Paris.") She and her family are all super-nice; in fact, I later confessed to my mother the shameful feeling that her niece might be even cuter than my goddaughter. (But only a little bit, and mostly because Care Bear is almost six and, you know, I'm over her.) The beach was gorgeous and the water was ice cold and gorgeous; I rarely even get in the water at all, but that day I couldn't stand to leave. And I have the sunburn to prove it.

Friday I had a small, suspicious package from the French government which turned out to contain a flash drive. For a moment I wondered if I had been unwittingly recruited as a spy; how friggin' awesome would that be? "This flash drive will self-destruct in..." Of course, I'd wind up being more Maxwell Smart than James Bond, but they don't know that. At least, I don't think they do. At any rate, it turns out the drive was just loaded with lots of boring and convoluted information about the French school system, including flow charts and enough acronyms to quite make one's head explode.

Then today the mailman delivered two Fulbright-related articles. The first was yet another missive from the French government, this time an official document to add to my growing collection of official documents whose only purpose seems to be hanging around long enough to be photocopied. (The bureaucratic equivalent of mayflies.)

Also in the post was a gorgeous invitation to a welcome luncheon for Florence. Once again, Chrissie has gone above-and-beyond. But then, she always does.

This sudden burst of activity definitely makes it feel like things are moving, which inspired me-- briefly-- to step up my moving game. I went to the post office to mail a letter, and I thought while I was there I'd ask a few questions about this mysterious M-Bag I've read about online. (Is there an actual bag? Where might one acquire it?) Sadly, the clerk did not inspire much confidence. First, as I was explaining that I needed an air mail stamp for my letter, I asked, "Should I put England or UK as the country?" His answer: "Put whichever one it's going to." At this point, I decided further questions would just cause unnecessary angst for both of us.

Welcome Wagon

God bless my principal. He is really in to this, and that's a relief. Having worked previously at a school where the principal's reaction was "No, and don't ever ask me again," it's been an absolute thrill to work with Mr. R on this exchange and to know that I have his full, enthusiastic support.

Today he called a meeting of the Mentoring Team, which was entirely his idea and buddy, let me tell you, he was not messing around. He had notes, he had an agenda, he had intentions: assign roles, handle the media, plan a Welcome Event.

(Side story on media: there was talk of a press conference, but I'm hoping that if I hold my breath and Think Good Thoughts, that will be forgotten. Actually, what happened was that Mr. R said he wanted to put out a press release, which my beloved colleagues believe is the same as a press conference. And even though my mass comm degree was absolutely screaming in pain, I sat very very still and bit my tongue till it bled while my beloved colleagues discussed the best location for the press release. [Okay, I might have backslid a little and suggested the fax machine as the best location for a press release, but they didn't hear me.])

Today we mostly talked about greeting the new girl and assigning "roles" to the various committee members to ensure that all bases are covered. Two faculty members, who sponsor the two largest clubs, are in charge of internal social activities, and as if to demonstrate what great choices Mr. R made, Estle has already planned a welcome breakfast. (There was a brief debate over whether she should be subjected to local breakfast delicacies, to which I emphatically responded yes. I mean, it's not like we're going to make her peel her own crawfish, more to the point, I want shrimp and grits.)

Everyone is very concerned about Florence feeling welcome and at home here; I tried to explain some of the differences in the education systems so they know what she's up against. (I'll never forget Mr. R's flabbergasted reaction when I explained that French schools have no sports, pep rallies, etc.)

And in the course of the meeting, they kept asking if the school in France was making the same preparations for me, which just made me laugh. Talk about cultural differences. The official answer is, I highly doubt it. In general, I find that the French have a much more hands-off approach; they are very respectful of people's privacy (to the point of ignoring them, in my opinion) and tend to approach the professional aspect with an attitude of, "You're a competent, well-educated person, and we have every confidence that you'll figure out what you're doing on your own." Complimentary, of course, though in my case it's a disaster in the making. Good times to come...