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Wednesday, 12 March 2008

Well, the return to normal life after the break isn't going very smoothly. Even though I was in Bergerac for almost all of the vacation, I barely saw the French friends and as a result feel kind of alienated from them. And because of that, and because I had to say two very difficult goodbyes to people I love who came to visit, and because I hate my job, and this town, and because it's been raining for 4 days and there are mosquitoes in my house again, I don't really feel like calling anyone up to hang out. I never got to the point with the French friends where I felt like I could call them to chat or have a relaxed evening... I always feel like I have to be in top form, ready to discuss politics or something else meaningful, and I'm just not at the moment. Claire made me some CDs, which was awesome of her, and I have yet to get on making her some CDs in return, which also makes me feel like a bad friend. At the moment I kinda just want to hibernate until it's all over, but as there's quite a bit of time left here for me, I'm hoping that I'll get up the energy to start making the most of things again. It would really help if the rain and mosquitoes went away. Technically, I'm only halfway done with my teaching here. Before this last break I had taught for 14 weeks; at the beginning of this week I had 14 to go (though that's debatable, as we may actually get a few extra days off in May). But essentially, I'm right in the middle and I'm really ready to be done. The high school assistants will be leaving at the end of this quarter-- that is, mid/end of April. That'll be strange. I kind of wish I were leaving then, too, but there are just too many commitments that I'd be breaking if I tried to get out of those last two months. So for better or worse, I'm staying.

Wednesday just keeps dragging on... in other news, I recently found the spiritual equivalent to "Shoes" in French.

Tuesday, 12 February 2008

in a town so small... there is no escaping you

After years of an extremely emotionless relationship with jazz music, I've finally found a jazz for me: jazz manouche. Thanks, French friends! Thanks, Django Reinhardt.

This past weekend was full, long, and altogether enjoyable. Friday I took a long walk by myself by the river, earphones glued to my head to create the ever-useful sound barrier between myself and rude men. Thankfully there weren't too many out after a point, and I enjoyed walking into the sunset, turning back frequently to take pictures of Bergerac at dusk. It's pretty shameful that I had never walked that way by the river before; during my first week or so I went down by the river and sat alone, staring at my shoes and feeling sorry for myself, and unadventurously decided that what I could see of my path was all there was. Actually, my path was quite a bit longer-- at least 2 miles more. The other "assistants" had made me aware that there was such a path, and that it went to a supposed dam, some time in October or November, but by that point my spirits and the temperature were too low for me to take a river walk (especially by myself). Now that things are turning up, walks and days without naps are much easier.

On my way back from the walk I ran into Daniel, the most communist of our communist friends. Daniel is a tiny Portuguese-French marathon runner who peppers all our conversations with pick-up lines. Thankfully the last bit has ceased to annoy me and has just become amusing background noise, and I feel we've become decent friends. Anyways, we went to the Bodega for a drink (it was nearly 7 when I was getting back from the walk), where we found Adrien and Baptiste rehearsing for their concert the following night. The guitar playing created a nice atmosphere, and we enjoyed our drink, then parted ways for dinner. Daniel then came around 9:30 to my place before going back to the Bodega at 10 to meet the other French friends. We sipped on some porto, and Daniel chatted briefly with "the enemy"-- i.e. one of the student leaders of the Socialist Party, which, in the eyes of the Communist Revolutionary League (not to be confused with the Communist Party) is a just group of right-wing pussies in disguise. About half an hour or so later, he pokes me in the arm and nods his head at a couple entering the (very small) bar. "That's the Green Party candidate," he half-whispers. And such is Bergerac-- it's a Friday night and major representatives from three political parties are all in La Bodega.

Unlike most nights, I was left "alone" with the French friends, as all the other assistants were out elsewhere. After some more Bodega time we headed over to Michael's Pub to see some live music. Michael's now has the distinction of being the only bar in Bergerac where you can still smoke inside-- apparently they made some letter of protest to the local government and until the local government drafts up some kind of reply they're going to do as they please. Luckily for me, I didn't run into the coffee shop owner who, earlier in the day, had been intent on disrupting my coffee and internet time with his "You are very beautiful"s and "Here is my number"s and "Come to the concert at Michael's"s. However I did run into Xavier, an extremely nervous but endearing guy who I'd met once at the Bodega and who seems to have incurred the blatant disrespect of all the French friends, and his buddy "James." Xavier bashfully tried and failed to get my number (-"Do you, um maybe have a phone number?" "Well, yeah..." "Oh, okay, I get it, it's cool never mind"); James, a British boy obviously quite proud of looking like a department store underwear model, simply recounted all his life accomplishments in succession ("I'm a black belt in karate with two stripes, and I run my own company even though I'm only 21, it's construction but I don't do the construction because I'm the boss, and I used to be a rugby player" --expectant look--). The evening ended with French friends back at Sylvain's place (first time to his place), drinks, guitar playing, complicated education discussions, but general merriment.

Saturday night was great. It was my first real live music experience in forever, and it was super great because two of the French friends, Adrien and Baptiste, were playing! They played a lot of classic French chanson stuff together for the opener, including the less classic but cultishly beloved "La fille du coupeur de joint." Their version is better than the original, in my opinion. The Adrien played with his band. They were surprisingly good, and had a saxophone.

Sunday--again with the French friends! I'm starting to think they like us. Claire, Adrien, et Sylvain, notably. What I thought was going to be a walk around town was actually a drive up to a couple chateaux, and a little waterfall, and an aperitif at a little cafe in a random town called Eymet. Back to Bergerac, we played boules (aka batchi) and then Claire made us a delicious dinner that involved more frying things in pure fat (duck fat, to be exact) than I'd ever seen in my life. For dessert Erinne (assistant) made banana pancakes and Lizzie made a cinammon apple topping; there was even maple syrup. It was by far the best Sunday I'd had in awhile.

And thus continues France's positive streak, greatly helped by the sunny weather. One and a half more weeks of teaching unappreciative brats and then vacation! Josh! Marissa!

Oh, one last tidbit. Today's amusing story took place at the supermarket. As I was just taking off my man-deterrents (headphones), a group of guys comes up to me.
"Eh, eh, mademoiselle!"
--"Oui...."
"Est-ce que c'est vrai que tu travaille a cote?"
--"Non..."
(Guy 2) "Elle n'est pas francaise."
--"Comment vous savez ca?"
"Je t'ai vu avec tes amis a la gare."
--Ah, bon.
(Guy1) "T'es anglaise?" --Non. "Allmande?" --Non. "Suisse?" --Non. "Belge?" --Non. "T'es belle... ah, ca tu sais! Et avec des beaux yeux en plus!"
--Merci. Americaine.
"Americain! Ouais Americano! Hello Howeru? Howeru!" They skip off.

I wander off in search of Ducros ground pepper for my great-aunt, and am again approached by one of the guys.

"T'as quel age?"
--Ca ne te concerne pas.
"Ouais mais t'as quel age?"
--Ca ne te regarde pas!
"Ouais mais je veux savoir parce que je te trouve belle."
--(raised eyebrows)

He wanders off; I wander off in search of my diet coke and find my way blocked by glass and wine spread everywhere in the aisle. As I'm checking out, the cashier is talking with the butcher about how these guys have been in three times today, breaking everything, stealing stuff, and he needs to call the police. Sure enough, as I'm walking out, the police arrive. Sorry, boys.

Tuesday, 05 February 2008

On the edge of my seat for the primary results. It's strange for me to be following politics this closely-- I can't imagine that a year from now I'll be taking two hours a day to figure out what bill is going through the Senate and why I should care. I think that it's part genuine interest and excitement over the end of the Bush era, but also part America nostalgia and a desire to reconnect with the motherland, part cultural curiosity mixed with wonder over the strange happenings of those people over there, the Americans. The will.i.am music video, for example, I think I would normally consider cliched and obnoxious, but instead I'm drawn to it for its representation of the American mythology, its coded meanings, its naively sincere commercialism. And I like to hear Obama talk, because he says beautiful and meaningless things like, "But in the unlikely story that is America, there is nothing false about hope." Now, I think he has good ideas and I support him for those. But I don't see why I should hold such a nice thing as poetry against him.

I've been relatively happy here in Bergerac for going on three weeks now, and I'm almost ready to call it a sea change (another one of the NYT's favorite sayings, along with "culture of" and "war on." sidenote-- NYT is pissing me off with the way its Clinton endorsement is coded into pretty much all of their articles about the election these days. And a big scowly face at Krugman and his critique of Obama's health plan, and his other hard-assed attacks for that matter, which I find a bit facile. I prefer this article. As well as Salon's every interesting commentary). But back to Berge. I've been keeping much busier, taking trips and seeing a fair deal of the French friends, sleeping less and taking walks, and generally trying to be healthier. I'm on a good schedule of preparing my lessons a couple days in advance and I'm generally less afraid to do so. Things like how long an activity will take and its level of difficulty are now easier for me to predict. I take the inattention and disrespect that I receive from the children (and teachers, quite often) less seriously and less personally and just get on with the lessons as best I can. I've been keeping the apartment clean, I bought a teapot, and I go every Tuesday to the amazing fruit/vegetable/foreign foods shop, where they keep wonders like coconut milk and dried fruit and turkish delight and spices and every kind of fruit and vegetable from every corner of the world all the time. It really is a highlight of my week. So I'm just living ma petite vie a moi the best I can and am almost starting to feel a little sad about the approaching end of my time here. I really do like the French way of life-- even if a la Bergerac isn't as cool as a la Bordeaux, and teaching is certainly not my forte.

Class Portrait 1: the CE1s of Solange.
I go back and forth with this group, though giving them new assigned seats and instituting a behavior chart has worked wonders. At the beginning of the year I had nine of them, and now it's 11, meaning that several children have not had most of the lessons and are a bit lost. At present, the players are: Antony (psychological problems/only there on Mondays boy), Sophia (who likes to make catty insults and "tell" on others), (moody) Manon (very bright, always looks neglected), Remi (I'm fine, fuck you/troublemaker/a little slow), Hamza (bright but naughty, though less so when not sitting next to Remi), Hanae (pretty and pleasant), Marine (sensitive and bright), Stephane (a latecomer and a daydreamer), Tiffany (thought her name was Stephanie until January, too cool for school), Daniel (painfully shy, a latecomer who's often absent and always too exhausted to pay attention), and now Nor (doing better than most of them after 3 classes). Our main obstacle is that we don't have a proper classroom. Their main problem is that they all pick on each other constantly and get distracted really easily. Oh, and that they're often absent. But there's only 11 of them, which is a lot nicer than most of my other classes.

All that's more for me to be able to remember than anything else, I guess. Can't think of a real punchline for that group at the moment, but I'm sure one will come up eventually. Oh, children.

Thursday, 24 January 2008

Since I seem to be on a Xanga kick, I feel I should mention that I spend an inordinate amount of time sitting in my apartment reading the news online. My top three sites are the NYT, Salon, and Liberation (French, and a distant third). Seriously, at least two hours a day. And I'm so, so done with two phrases:

"The war on _____ (terror, drugs, poverty, unwanted teen pregancy, obesity, uncute puppies, high-sodium potato chips, whatever)."
"A culture of _____ (fear, secularism, consumerism, fame, body art, consumerism, hedge funds, corruption, youth, artificially-sweetened bottled water)."

Of course, my next three most visited sites are gofugyourself, manolo's shoe blog (especially the "Manolo for the Brides" and "Manolo for the Big Girl," though I am neither fat or engaged), and mydeathspace. So really, who am I to criticize.
There were, however, two strange things about last night: one pleasant enough, the other not so much. The first was that half the teachers I work with were at the movies last night-- perhaps because they, too, felt like the night before a strike was like a mini-weekend? They all seemed rather surprised to see that I existed outside of school, but were friendly enough (these are my good teachers though).

The other strange thing happened in la Bodega. Adrien and I were talking and probably making France/US comparisons, when a portly man sitting by himself, reading and eating a steak leaned over and asked, "So you're an American?" This is never a good start to a conversation. Next, "So, as an American, what do you think of the ban on selling foie gras in Chicago?" -- "Well, I hadn't really heard about that." "It's true, they say that it's cruel to the animals. There are huge animal slaughterhouses in Chicago, they eat all this meat, and they're banning foie gras." --"Umm... I guess I can see how it's a little cruel... but it's not a big deal for most people. Most Americans don't eat foie gras, and not many even know what it is." "Did you know that because it's illegal to sell it, restaurants are selling $100 toast and 'giving' away the foie gras with it?" --"No... that is kind of silly, I guess."

Awkward pause.

"Did you know that the Americans are trying to ban mixed grape wines?" --"What? I don't understand you." "They're trying to make it so that you can only put one kind of grape in a wine." --"Why would they do that?" "They want wine to be just like Coca-cola, no flavor, all the same." --"I seriously doubt that, we like wine in America, too. I don't really understand what you mean about all this." (Adrien breaks in to explain that the man seems to be saying that this new rule would make it so that only pure Merlots, or Cabernets, or Pinot Noirs could be sold, and smaller, more experimental wineries making different things would be hurt, especially French ones). I respond, "But we make different kinds of wine, too... Americans respect wine... I really doubt that that would ever happen." The man then gives me a disbelieving scowl, then pats my arm, saying, "Oh, well. It's okay. Despite everything, we like the Americans. We have to, we're family, cousins, after all. Yes, we're cousins." Without finishing his wine, he hastily stands up, says goodnight, and walks out.

I can only conclude that there's some sort of "Ways the Americans are screwing up everything the French find good about life" weekly, and that this man was a regular subscriber, because really, who knows that stuff? and who cares? And just because one person somewhere thought about standardizing wine, that doesn't mean it's going to happen and that "you the Americans" are all behind it. Sheesh.