The Echoes

After all, French children are French people in training

2010-04-26T14:22:00.005-04:00

I spent this morning in elementary school with the munchkins, who were all the cuter for speaking French and offering up their sweet little round-cheeked faces for bisous.

The school is set in the center of a Typical Provencal Village, which may be the only thing more charming than well-behaved children with toothless grins. School, 12th century stone church, post office, mairie (town hall, but replace the white wooden peaked building with a sturdy stone facade), and Roman fountain, wrapped around the town petanque green, shaded by pale-barked trees. Three-story houses with colorful shutters peer at each across narrow cobbled streets -- narrow to keep the too-hot sun out. On a warm, sunny morning, the glaring sun is mellowed to leafy green and pastel.

The school building itself surrounds a flat courtyard dotted by shade trees. There is no playground, but the children find means anyway to run around and amuse or hurt themselves.

The day started at 8:30, with their teacher checking their blue math notebooks for completed homework. Those who hadn't completed it went and, without any fuss, wrote their names on the chalkboard. (If I understood correctly.)

After they introduced themselves and figured out that I was American, we did a little geography. Luckily, they could find America on the map, and major cities like New York, Los Angeles, Hollywood, etc. They also found Alaska, which isn't quite attached to the rest of the US, but is the same color on the map, and there's another piece of the US over there that's the same color, right next to Russia... No, that's Mongolia. Mongolia is not America.

Our next lesson was math. After I gave them a numbers dictation (thirty is a killer -- what's this th business? how can you be sure she didn't say thirteen?), I busted out the American Dollar -- which is not from Egypt (despite the pyramid picture on the back), nor is that a picture of the Queen, or her son, or a judge. I showed them a $20 bill (which, although the $1 has a picture of the first president, doesn't actually have the 20th president on it), and one child pointed out that the dollar is worth less than the euro; another kid guessed that a 20 must be worth about 5 euros. Ouch. (It's more like 15 euros.) I had cleaned out my change purse on arriving in France, and I had enough American coins for each kid to have one. They asked me quite a few questions along the lines of, "Is this real money? Is this what you use to buy things?" It's a strange feeling to realize that what is arguably the most motivating symbol in our country is effectively, to these kids, play money.

Morning snack break appeared pleasantly soon, and, lo and beyond, it was Clemente's 9th birthday, and we all ate cookies and Coke. I have never seen so many 8-year-olds behave so calmly in the presence of sugar. Yet more unwitting disregard for American values. I led the class in a rousing rendition of "Happy Birthday," which they all seemed to know already. I hope that being sung "Happy Birthday" by a real American was at least a little exciting for her.

I finished the morning by playing my violin, and then it was time for them to trot off to lunch (either purchased from the school cafeteria, or eaten at home with their family -- they have two hours to make sure they get a proper hot meal). A few stopped to ask me questions ("Is this real money?" "I have the same bag as you!"), to thank me, and to give me bisous.

I spoke only in English the entire morning, which was understandably confusing. But it was exciting when a child would surprise us by understanding a sentence, or a word they'd probably never heard before, or when they'd know some fact about the US that seemed to come from thin air. I don't believe the French education system is founded on this concept, but there is something enchanting about listening to what children have to say.

One afternoon in Provence

2010-04-25T13:57:00.001-04:00

Stereotypes galore

2010-04-21T07:09:00.003-04:00

I was sitting at a picnic table in the sun, talking with my students, and one girl asked me if the TV show CSI was like real life. I quickly disabused her of that notion, and we started talking about American movies, French movies, reality and stereotypes.

They all listen to American music, and prefer American films, although they do tell me American movies are "exaggerated" and the happy endings are ridiculous; French films are "bland", often too complicated for their audience to appreciate, and don't have enough action. Often the French films that are made, they tell me, are with French plots (which are good) and American actors (who are "strong"). I asked them if they thought it was important for France to have good musicians and good films, and they said yes.

We eventually segued to stereotypes -- they wanted to know what Americans think of the French. Always an awkward question. But I do love telling my students that French people eat frogs' legs and escargot. The disgusted faces they make answer that question.

In a development that would horrify the French language advocates in my life, I then told my students that American believe that the French are very proud of their language. That got a unanimous no, on the grounds that French is "too complicated, too hard" (hear, hear!) and "not pretty" (unlike English, Spanish and Italian). Furthermore, they would not be among the French accused by Americans of being "snobs" by snubbing imperfect attempts at speaking French. (True point -- I don't get much further than "bonjour" before French people start praising my French.) They get that it's a hard language, and, as one girl explained, French people speak English with a pretty thick accent themselves.

The Death of French Culture is often a subject taken up by American press (not sure that's really our right), National Identity taken up by the French (specifically President Nicolas "Obama could take you any day" Sarkozy), and my students' interest in American culture at (arguably) the expense of their own makes me wonder how French Culture and Language will evolve as this generation grows up.

Barcelona: The Pretty City

2010-04-19T06:10:00.004-04:00

Englishizing (Englishising in British English)

2010-04-19T05:39:00.002-04:00

Have you thought, lately, about how infinitely weird and awesome the English language is?

This isn't a sneaky jab against Ms. French is the Language of Culture Snobbypants; I'm sure (am I?) that, if I had a deeper understanding of it, French would prove itself equally rich. But in the meantime, I'm trying to plan a lesson for an adult student who throws up his hands in exasperation every time I use a phrasal verb including "up" or "down." "We need to do a lesson on this," he tells me.

So I hit the google (learning, in the process, the phrase "phrasal verbs" -- multi-part verbs, like "I looked up phrasal verbs in the dictionary.") and found an online dictionary where you can type in a preposition or verb and it gives you the list of phrasal verbs. Type in "up" and you get 320 results -- all weighing down a word that implies gravity-defying with a world of other meanings. Which I suppose is gravity-defying in its own right.

Barcelona

2010-04-15T16:00:00.008-04:00

One of the coolest side-effects of being a totally unorganized traveler is the intense power of surprise that a city can offer you when you have absolutely no idea what to expect. A few people mentioned sites to see on our impending trip to Barcelona (which I forgot, because I can't yet retain Spanish/Catalan names, with or without a French accent), and arrived remembering only the counsel to "see as much Gaudi as possible," whatever that was.

We took an eight-hour bus ride and stayed in a colorful youth hostel in the center of town that had rooms not unlike double-tiered hospital wards. Uncharming but functional.

Even if you aren't one of those ubiquitous American college students responsible (I assume) for the scent of pot that wafts through the streets, Barcelona is still a trippy city. All the European cities I've ever been to (and it's not clever of me to compare European cities, I have no claims on expertise) have a certain respectable dignity to them. Or maybe it's not dignity, maybe it's just elegantly packaged conservativism. Which is not to say that one gets sick of Parisian wrought-iron balconies and stone facades, but Barcelona does this instead:

And then does stuff like in this, in public:

Walking through certain passages of Barcelona feels like walking through the fantasy landscape of a picture book. There's an element of the fantastical that would be inappropriate anywhere else. I'm mainly talking about the wild Gaudi influence, but the rest of the city is lushly adorned with ironwork and architectural frills.

At the same time, Barcelona has the expansiveness -- seen and felt -- of a modern city. Huge boulevards cross the town, complete with fanciful lampposts and outsized banks whose facades point into the outsized intersections. Even as we walked away from the tourist hubs, the scale was large, and we didn't wander into the sort of windy-streeted, clothesline-arbored neighborhoods that must be tucked away somewhere.

I've heard that everyone loves Barcelona. For me, it was the aesthetic. For others, I believe it's the ambiance. And I won't lie, it's amazing to walk down a street teeming with life at 9pm , to eat dinner near 10, and to walk home at 1am with no signs of winding down. It's a serious party city, or just a living city, as you wish.

Finally, it's a Mediterranean city, with a big blue sky, and the illusion of infinite sunshine on all that glitters.

Barcelona, gettin its magic on

2010-04-15T15:40:00.003-04:00

So there we were, enjoying the Barcelonian sunshine late one afternoon, in front of the Magic Fountain, kind of wondering why there was no moving water in the Magic Fountain.

Nice, but not magical.

When all of the sudden, this happened:

Sunshiney hiking

2010-04-05T12:02:00.003-04:00

Apparently the day after Easter is a holiday around here. This country, it's full of surprises. So there was no 8:10 bus to Aix this morning, and as we were sipping our coffee/hot chocolate and planning Plan B, Plan B called us to go hiking. We rode in the overflow car of the caravan with a lovely couple I'd met once (who turned out to be the parents of one of my students), and promptly got lost. We didn't end up finding my friends, but we did have an extraordinary hike high above the sea under the glorious Provencal sun, in a relatively lush region close to Toulon. Vegetation here includes "white cystes" that are actually pink, and l'herbe de schmourf ("Smurf grass"), which is not even close to the color of "Smurf ice-cream."

Hiking with Cyrus

2010-04-05T11:54:00.003-04:00

Most of these photos by Cyrus.

Why is there a car in my front yard...?

2010-04-05T11:52:00.002-04:00

Visit #4

2010-04-04T16:58:00.002-04:00

My brother's in town! People come to visit me as dependably as the bakers find an excuse to make something tasty (see below). Visits from family and friends are exciting on all counts. Seeing cool peeps is always a good time when you're far away. Not only because a person can get lonely all the way on the other side of the ocean, but because as exciting and foreign as France may be, I didn't get a chance to notice every exciting and foreign detail before becoming adjusted to the ways of the French world. Having a visitor opens my eyes to things before my eyes that I had never seen before. It also gives me excuses to go hiking along the calanques of Cassis, which are gorgeous and new every time.

Culinarily gifted brothers are also handy to have around when you need to impress French people. For example, on Friday, I gave a presentation at a small organization, and Cyrus provided the refreshments. The presentation went over fine, but it was my bro's salsa that I caught someone eating with a spoon. One of the attendees was heard saying, clearly impressed, "All the Americans speak French!" Bah oui.

I took Cyrus to the market today, my favorite Sunday morning activity. He got to meet the friendly cheese lady (who made sure he tasted all the cheeses), the friendly vegetable dudes, and the woman who has strange and elaborate opinions. We had some quality basking in the sun time, and some quality wandering-around-Marseille time, and we're headed to Barcelona on Wednesday, for all the adventure that entails.

Amelia + dessert = holiday

2010-04-04T16:25:00.006-04:00

It's entirely possible that I mark the passage of time with the changing displays in the bakery windows. France never fails to delight me with its rich tradition of rich food. Christmas was the buche de noel, a cake shaped like a log, complete with little frosting mushrooms. Just as American New Year's Resolutioners were kicking into gear, the French busted out the month-long galette des rois party. If your slice of cake includes the feve (which is a little figurine, here, a traditional Provencal character), you get to wear the tacky paper crown, and the next cake is on you. And so on and so forth until February 2, Chandelier, which, as far as anyone knows, is when you take down the creche (nativity scene) and devote yourself to eating crepes. It may be the day that Jesus ate his first crepe, but we're really not sure.

Eventually, there's Lent (Careme), which has no special desserts associated, but there was Carnaval somewhere in the middle, perhaps to show that France is an equal-opportunity disdainer of religious practice. That brings us up to Easter, featuring mouna (which seems like a strangely un-French word), a light brioche-like cake, like sweetbread with a hint of orange water, I think, and most importantly, little crystallized beads of sugar on top. David Sedaris fans will know that the French are not visited by the Easter bunny, but by the Easter bell, and while I have not confirmed this with any real French people, I have seen quite a few chocolate Easter bells at the bakeries. They also have large chocolate cats, fishes, hens, the occasional bunny, and eggs. There's some debate as to whether or not we saw chocolate turtles.

Part of the thrill is that I didn't know about any of these traditions until they started appearing in the bakeries. So who knows what the next big event will be? I hear May 1 is big around here, at least for disrupting bus schedules, so we shall see what that brings.

I also want to take this opportunity to remind you of how much I love ice-cream. Ice-cream in France (especially when there are Italian influences involved) is exciting every single time. Lavender ice-cream will never get old. And yogurt ice-cream -- who knew what tangy delights awaited me? This country is full of pleasant surprises.

The pen is mightier than the sword

2010-03-21T15:01:00.002-04:00

Have I mentioned recently that I live, more or less, in my second language? Let's talk about language.

I met a French lady today, who, immediately upon meeting me and learning that I was American, informed me that "French is the language of Culture." That French is more difficult than English, because there are more French words (although a minute with google debunks this), each precisely defined, lending the language infinite subtlety.

If French is the language of Culture, what, I asked her, is English? It's for everyone, she responds. Everyone can learn English. Whereas French cannot even be mastered by all French people.

Which is why, if you speak French truly well, you will always succeed (just, in general). Because, she explains, if in conversation you use a word that the other person doesn't know, "you win." The perfect French is the language you use to bend people to your will.

This conversation put me at unease.

I'm not sure I properly understood her, but the questions I asked didn't lead me to the clarity I'd hoped for. I asked, first, if she saw conversation as a way to take the upper hand, rather than as a way to establish rapport. She protested heartily. I couldn't say on what defense. My second question was which French language she meant. "In general," she said unhelpfully. The language of inner-city youth? Nope, definitely not that one. That's not French, that's something completely new. Those kids who can't be bothered to learn French French will never leave les banlieues (French equivalent of the inner-city). It's French French that will open doors -- or close them.

She is absolutely right, though, that language is power; that language can be used to exercise control. You can see this in the dynamics of a single conversation, or you can see it in the power politics of colonized countries. As soon as someone opens their mouth, you have the evidence you need to pigeon-hole them in a class, should you choose to stop listening there. I don't disagree that you'd do well to arm yourself with the weapon of words. But wouldn't you rather see words as a million little doors that open you to the world and the world to you? Or as bridges uniting two minds?

And what the hell is Culture anyway, if there's only one? Surely not the one that was dead by 2007?

As we parted ways, this woman invited me to an olive cultivation expo next week. With a smile, she said, "It's culture."

Whatever, dude.

Who I played Bach for this afternoon

2010-03-16T18:23:00.002-04:00

Blossoms and other lovely signs of spring

2010-03-16T10:41:00.004-04:00

The sun is shining unabashedly, the fruit trees are blooming, I played Bach to an open window this afternoon, and I'm only going to write about the good things in life.

I left school in a good mood, as I often do these days. My students are endearing themselves to me more and more and the months pass. If I ever become a teacher (which is looking more and more likely), it would be for the endless possibilities of the job -- not only could I endlessly and endlessly master the art of teaching, but every one of my students is endlessly fascinating. As we learn to trust and understand each other, each one crafts a unique rapport with me. April seems too soon to leave.

Not to exaggerate my competences as a teacher either, but I've felt different lately, standing before my class; more at ease. I'm chipping away at my discipline issues (my middle schoolers listened to me this week, which is what getting high must be like). I'm learning to talk slowly, repeat the directions, and explain when we use the past simple instead of the present perfect.

I would not say that I'm a good teacher, or a natural. But I feel good.

I'd meant to describe my weekend -- a leisurely Saturday lunch shared, a blue-skied morning of music with poets and friends, and hearing Joan Baez sing in person. But you can imagine.

March Flowers

2010-03-06T07:55:00.003-05:00

Mimosas

and almond trees.

February 25

2010-02-25T06:23:00.004-05:00

If I sometimes hate my job, it's not from boredom. Other days, I love it.

This morning started with a class of eight girls who were very dubious at first about speaking English with a native speaker at 8am, but by the end of the class they were hard at work trying to set me up with another single teacher. That they referred to him as a "vampire" can only be a good thing in this Twilight day and age. . . right? Meantime, the prize-winning question of the hour was, "Why do Americans say 'oh my god' all the time?" No answer, but they decided it was like "voila quoi," a French expression that also means practically nothing. Still unresolved was my claim that there are more vegetarians in America than in France -- surely you can't be a vegetarian if your entire country runs on hamburgers?

The second class was 5 boys (slightly older, around 18-19 years old), one of whose claim to fame was nearly starting a fistfight in my class a few weeks ago, another who, when not preparing for the French boxing championship, has endless creativity energy for charming his way out of work. They walked into class singing in English ("What is love." "Qu'est-ce que ca veut dire, Madame?" and other smooth lines), asked me if I thought Tom Cruise was a beau gosse, and tried to convince me that they'd spent their vacation in Vancouver.

I can tolerate a certain amount of betises (idiocies, roughly translated) in class, but dropping the n-word in class? Not so much. Where do you begin? So they didn't know that it's an offensive word, even if rappers use it. I can only hope that the ignorance doesn't run deeper than that. If it does, I hope that it's at least been chipped away at today . . .

Today's return to (relative) innocence was a little 12 year-old boy going on a long monologue (in English!) about the (largely imaginary) tradition of oral history in his country, without knowing the phrase "oral history."

"In my country," with a hearty French accent, of course, "We [brainstorms in French] talk the stories of the family. My grandfather say to me," gestures dramatically and self-importantly, "and I say to my little sons." Et cetera. All that to say he didn't want to write his assignment.

Roaming

2010-02-14T11:04:00.008-05:00

It's a Sunday afternoon in France. I went to the market this morning: bought my shimmeringly fresh yellow pepper; listened to the produce vendor warmly greet a friend in Arabic before offering me a bunch of parsley; accepted a cadeau from the cheese vendor who remembered me from last week and was happy that I had enjoyed the 24-month-aged Comte; and bought my hot fresh bread from the bakery around the corner. I arrived in France Friday night, after a sojourn in Rome. Walking past a cafe in Nice the next day, where the late-morning coffee-drinkers were still lingering, I caught myself thinking, "It's nice to be home."

But it's even nicer to travel; which, let us not forget, is what I'm doing every minute this year. I spent the first day in Rome in a complete buzz. I asked everyone patient enough how to say this or that in Italian, ate my meals one savory bite at a time, and flooded my eyes with artwork. Visiting a new country is a drug, and I can tell from the minute I set foot somewhere new that I won't ever have enough. When I wasn't stuffing my mind with Italian words or Italian art, I was scheming (ok, fantasizing) a year in Italy, complete with language courses and art history classes. It was a totally realistic dream until I got to the part where I'd start wearing fashionable Italian clothes...

I was not prepared for Rome. Even if I had pored over pictures guidebooks, you're never really prepared for Rome.

Rome is unreal. It's huge, larger-than-life. Every city has endless nuances and nooks for the patient explorer. Rome has everything -- the enormity, and the subtlety.

Every time you turn a corner, there is another church. The architecture is diverse, but each one rises above the street magnificently, wearing its columns, sculptures and stone filigree with the grace of a French lady at the opera. If a year in France had numbed you to immense stone facades, you have only to walk in to be awed anew. Inside, the ceiling is closer to the heavens that the roof had been outside. If you peeked in the door and then immediately closed your eyes, the colors, however muted by time and solemnity, would dance behind your eyes. If you looked again, your gaze would ascend along the marble pillars, past the larger-than-life sculptures of saints and popes, past paintings of every story in the Book, past Mary after Mary, and rest on the vaulted ceilings covered with paintings framed in golden lace. Finally, if you walked through the door and stood with your head tilted back and your hands hanging at your sides, you could stare for hours and hours without seeing everything.

And after your eyes were saturated, after the choir had finished singing their mass, after the nun had passionately pressed a Mary medallion into your hand, and you'd emerge on the street again, you'd blink in the crass light and and you'd start walking, towards, knowingly or not, the next monument to beauty.

Rome shows its true colors

2010-02-14T10:54:00.002-05:00

It's never too rainy to be a huge, bright-orange building in a beautiful city.

Self-portrait, Musei Vaticani

2010-02-14T10:46:00.002-05:00

February Flowers

2010-02-14T10:18:00.004-05:00

I only skipped January from neglect, not for lack of flowers.

Photodiary: January 13

2010-01-13T11:40:00.003-05:00

Skyline Aix

2010-01-07T07:48:00.002-05:00

Skyline Blue

2010-01-03T16:02:00.001-05:00

2010-01-01T16:34:00.000-05:00

Une creche

2009-12-28T08:48:00.003-05:00

A creche is like a nativity scene combined with a Christmas village, except set in Provence. It's really just an excuse to make tons of rustic little miniatures. I've seen some with little mechanical devices, for example a well drawing water, or people moving.

Photodiary: December 27

2009-12-27T14:49:00.003-05:00

Cats don't like to be photographed.

Cabbages do.

Blue is the new green

2009-12-27T14:44:00.003-05:00

Sing it loud; the three-month mark

2009-12-24T15:46:00.007-05:00

If you look to your right, you will see my favorite verse from my favorite Bob Dylan song. It's there because I imagined this year as an adventure, a joyful adventure in which my long-muffled Soul would announce itself jubilantly from the hilltops. If souls grew as predictably as zucchinis, maybe things would have progressed as planned. As is, I haven't exactly spent this fall being the devil-may-care rebel that Bob probably had in mind. If you've asked me how things are going at any point these past months, the "it's a good experience" part of the answer (qualified praise that that is) is always accompanied by some "but" and some variation of "not easy."

Well, it's not. The three skills that would have been most handy -- teaching, speaking French, and making friends quickly, language barriers be damned -- have turned out to be ones that don't come naturally to me. I could also throw "herding cats" and "crowd control" on the list, but "teaching" should cover that, right?

Don't get me wrong; this is not a pity party post. I've turned a corner (we won't call it "the" corner), and I'm finally feeling more optimistic about this year. The thing is, it's good for me to be doing something I'm not good at. I've known this abstractly for a while, every morning that I gathered my courage to face down the flighty teenagers; each afternoon that I asked myself what I could do better next time, rather than throw my hands up in despair and count the days until vacation. (I'm being melodramatic and self-martyring right now, but not unreasonably so.) But it didn't feel like I was getting anywhere, and I wasn't getting better at teaching, and I still can't speak French beautifully, and, and.

And now, the moment where what I've learned finally clicks into place. I was in Ireland this weekend, playing chamber music. We were rehearsing, and there was something I wasn't quite getting. I didn't quite get it on the first try. I didn't quite get it on the second try either. And to be honest, I really don't think I got it in the concert, either. But in the moment where my group was politely listening to me throw tempo to the wind, I watched myself not get frustrated. Usually a failure to be perfect on the first try sends me into torrents of existential despair of the "I'm bad at life" variety, maybe even a little panic. You know, the kind of frustration that lets you walk away from a problem in disgust because you don't believe you'll ever solve it. This time, I watched the exasperation pass like a cloud and noted that I would have to dig in harder.

Christmas chowder

2009-12-24T15:41:00.002-05:00

Red peppers & green peas.

On my return from Ireland

2009-12-24T12:49:00.014-05:00

The raindrops were beaded like Christmas lights on the clothesline as the dusk fell pearly-grey; the wind shook the palm trees in the damp haze of the streetlights; the waves were heard leaping the beach to scatter detritus on the sidewalk; and I was in the glow of my lamp.

My trip to Ireland, to play chamber music and see friends, was so good, that I'm even happy to be by myself here in rainy Provence in my moldy apartment. As the train rolled closer to "home," the red roofs, scruffy flora, and jagged horizon looked new and welcoming. Not really new, since the land here looks old and the buildings tired, but new as if I was seeing anew. The homecoming that greets a long-traveling daughter, the voyage to a place seen only in the mind's eye never by daylight, the first time opening your eyes fully. "I live here," I told myself, here where walking through the hills feels like walking through an arid movie set.

What drug of new vision did my few days in Ireland give me? Partly that travel-rapture that has eluded me here in France. When I was a student in Paris, visiting Marseille, visiting Chartres, wherever I was, the slightest discovery was thrilling; returning this fall, I felt blase. I even went, very deliberately, to the particular cathedral that I once felt a certain kinship to. But no; nothing.

Now, Ireland. My excitement to go to Ireland was untempered and uncomplicated, and when I got there, I was as delighted as I had been prepared to be. The first day, I took a walk through the countryside. I was in such a rapture that I stopped to stare at chickens.

You may suspect that it would take something more than rain-rich pastures, or even cozy fires and unparalleled hot drinks, to cause such joy. You'd be right.

Ireland!

2009-12-22T12:30:00.003-05:00

Another week of classes survived

2009-12-11T12:55:00.007-05:00

There has been a slight uptick of successful classes lately. I still haven't gotten the hang of manipulating large groups of unwilling adolescents, and I may never, but when I can gather a few little students in a circle to chat for 50 minutes, things go well. More than six or so and you start getting into cat-herding territory. Not that I don't like cats, and in fact I have an adorable group of 15/16-year-old kitties on Friday mornings who are curious and playful and will respond however flittingly both to suggestions to be quiet and invitations to talk in English.* Yesterday I chatted for an hour with a charming group of five terminales (high school seniors) who, unless I flatter myself, were pleased to discover that English can be used to chat, not just to do grammar exercises, and to have a teacher sit and listen to them talk about themselves. The cool thing about teaching is that you have tons of kids in your life who you could potentially care about, and every so often you see them respond. Tuesday, two girls told me, "It's a good class, Madame!"

With one class, I had a worthwhile, if brief, discussion about multi-culturalism, via Kwanzaa. We worked through their confusion ("No, no, black people can still celebrate Christmas! And, uh, I guess white people can do Kwanzaa too?" I don't think we have segregated holidays in the US...? They were worried about the white people being left out of Kwanzaa) and they were impressed that we have a holiday to celebrate black heritage. They did tell me that they think US has more racism than France to which I say: Obama can take Sarkozy any day, and they know it. We got to Kwanzaa by way of the Muslim holiday of Eid. For my part, I made the mistake of assuming that that blond girl didn't celebrate Christmas because she was atheist or celebrated the Solstice or something. Turns out she was Muslim. Guess that goes to show that, Obama and Kwanzaa aside, we still have something to learn about stereotypes...

Of course a small group is no guarantee for success. For example, my terminales today who, when I mentioned that we were in English class to practice speaking English, told me "je parle pas anglais"** as matter-of-factly as if I had accidentally stumbled into a grocery store looking to buy a skirt, and went back to chatting in French until I was ready to get back on subject (whatever that may be). Luckily, I came to class armed with music, and they happily sang along (such as it were) to Winter Wonderland and We Wish You a Merry Christmas, and the class narrowly escaped complete failure.

Across the board, good kids or no, they all think they can get away with texting in class. They look embarrassed and surprised when I, smugly, swiftly and adeptly, catch them, but, really, what did they want me to think they were doing staring intently at their lap?

*I mean the cat analogy as affection rather than condescension; I think I respect my students.
** "I don't speak English."

Pretty food

2009-12-11T12:45:00.003-05:00

To help you recuperate from the ugly cookies, here is the most delicious orange soup ever. It was beautiful.

December flowers

2009-12-11T12:43:00.001-05:00

My landlady promises blooming mimosas in January.

Maybe I'll be a senator instead...

2009-12-05T08:25:00.014-05:00

This is the batch I dropped.

This represents all the batches that started as cute, autonomous little stars and ended as blobs.

These are the success stories, to be broken into cookie-sized, if not cookie-shaped, pieces.

The most tragically burned were not photographed.

*****

My nostalgia-driven baking adventure was for the benefit of a holiday gathering at Le Grand Portique. (These are cookies, by the way.) Le GP is an association in my town that offers opportunities for members of the community to glimpse the outside world; they periodically offer evening presentations by people who have done interesting things in interesting places. Among the 25 people there last Thursday night to share our holiday traditions were two Americans, two Italians, an English, a Mexican, a Paraguayan, a Russian family, and a bunch of French people.

It's nice to be reminded that even if America can export its blinged-out Christmas around the world, different countries are still different countries with different traditions. It's nice to be reminded that I still have plenty to learn. I told them about decorating our houses with lights, making gingerbread houses, and Yankee swaps; Yankee swaps, not because I've ever done one, but because I thought, correctly, that it would be something quirky enough to have escaped mass export. (Yup, you can count on Yankees for quirk.) Karima, the other American, explained Kwanza; I'm glad the French folk got to hear about the diverse, multi-cultural side of the US, and they received it well.

The best part, well, second-best to the hand-made Italian chocolates and whatever that cake was, was of course the singing. For all that America is the most dominant exporter of pop music, I often feel that there isn't quite enough spontaneous music-making in our lives. Not enough sitting around sharing songs. We the Americans offered Rudoph the Red-nosed Reindeer, which, as it turns out, uses a totally different musical idiom than the Russian, Italian, Mexican, and Paraguayan songs we heard.

My cookies, appearances aside, tasted fine, and were in good company with an impressive spread. The evening lingered late with dancing (salsa) and music.

Here and there

2009-12-02T15:18:00.003-05:00

I've been getting a little mired in nostalgia lately. Did I tell you I was getting nostalgic for a particular midwestern bar? even though I have never once in my life been happy to be in any bar ever? Unreasonable. This trend is getting worse as we get deeper into the Holiday Season. I'm listening to Christmas carols, mooning over Christmas cookies, and obsessively wanting to make a gingerbread house. As far as I know, it's been at least ten years since any of those things even crossed my mind without being accompanied by due cynicism.

But here I am, here are the Christmas lights strung alongside the palm trees, and here I set out to make my American Christmas cookies: Translating ingredients, finding them in the store, converting cups to grams; in my damp, dark, slug-frequented kitchen, rolling out the dough with an empty wine bottle, baking the cookies six at a time in the toaster oven, and in the meantime nibbling bits of raw-egg infested cookie dough, something that never so much as tempted me as a child.

Next Christmas, when I'm in Mom's cozy kitchen with rolling pins and pandora.com and tins of flour, I'll be nostalgic for department-store tinsel and make-shift batches of cookies, won't I.

More revelations

2009-12-01T17:18:00.003-05:00

My high school seniors were so, so not sold on the name "Santa Claus." "Ok, we have Saint Pierre, Saint Paul... Saint Cloos," they said. The sleigh, elves and North Pole toy workshop were all fine. But Santa Claus?

Let's not be reticent on good days!

2009-12-01T11:56:00.007-05:00

Like many other teaching days, I woke up nervous today. Teaching is like giving a concert, which is cool, I like concerts, except I've been playing violin for 15 years and teaching for about a month and a half. Often enough, my worries are justified; I've had my share of unsuccessful teaching days. To be honest, I don't think I'm a natural at teaching, or the learning curve hurts, or I've been airlifted into an alien universe where nothing makes sense.

But not today! Today was gold. Teaching felt great. Thanks, I think, to the advocacy of one of the teachers, I worked with small groups today -- only 4-5 students at a time. With only 4 kids in class, we can sit together in a circle and have a conversation. It's hard to hide, so everyone gets a chance to bust out their English moves. So effective. So suited to my personality. (Have you ever seen me thrive amongst large groups? No, you haven't. And how do I like the "I talk you listen" model? I don't.)

This was one of the first times I've felt truly effective as a teacher. I felt like what I offered them was suitable and helpful and well-executed. After so many classes of feeling like I'm not doing anything for my students but confusing them, this felt so good. I do love those little punks, and I hate to let them down.

Some choice moments:
With the 10 year-olds: "What is dinde [turkey] in English?" "Dodo!" Exceptionally witty, that one. Faire dodo is a cutesy way to say "go to bed" in French. Yes, turkey makes you want to faire dodo. (Inadvertent wit, I'm pretty sure.)

At high school: We were analyzing a political cartoon, and one of my students came up with an interpretation that I had not thought of. Not that I have a monopoly on ideas, but using language to express abstract thoughts is glorious.

In the next class, we joked around about one boy's imaginary friend. Cross-cultural humor. Also glorious.

Later that class, I explained "sweat shop" to them. It's not a funny concept, but seeing them understand "sweat" and then trying to figure out what a shop of sweat might be... good fun. I'd forgotten how weird English is.

I have honed my plans for Christmas (Plan A was sitting alone in a darkened room drinking vodka and writing bad poetry). New and improved plan is an invitation from one of the teachers to have dinner at her house.

If good classes are my favorite thing, The New Yorker magazine is a close second (especially this). Thanks for the care package, Mom!

Out for a walk this afternoon, an elderly man fell on the sidewalk. No fewer than 5 people rushed up to help him, sit with him, and make sure he got home ok (it wasn't anything serious). It is deeply reassuring to know that even on a quiet, empty afternoon, there are still at least 5 people in this town who will help you if you fall.

Dinner in French

2009-11-29T06:24:00.003-05:00

The English teachers from the high school hosted a dinner in my honor last night. I was impressed by how graciously they accommodated my vegetarianism. No one bothered me about why I didn't eat meat (tact or disinterest, I don't know), and their culinary flair didn't seem to suffer for lack of meat. There were three desserts, which surprised me, and no one seemed to mind how Americanesquely I (and others) tried all three.

There were a couple good moments of conversation -- nice to roll with a crowd who can walk the English Lit walk. There is also something very satisfying about talking about my country to non-Americans, which is my unquestionable authority (whether they know it or not). And when my French sounds the way a Calvin and Hobbes cut & paste ransom note looks, and what's more when I look like an unfashionable 16-year-old, a little credibility feels good.

Somewhere in the haze of the third glass of wine and a chocolate mousse I lost track of the conversation. No no, it was long before then. When I listen to spoken French, I have the impression that I understand. But really I don't. I assuage myself with the rhythm and the cadence that is becoming familiar; then I stop struggling to build paths around the words I don't know with the words I do. Unfortunately, the missing word is so often the punch line to the joke which I won't get, and I tie myself up in knots trying to understand. It's really hard to feel like a functional human when everyone is laughing and you have a perplexed look on your face (and possibly a quivering lower lip). This sort of situation can have complex side effects. For example, when I don't have the opportunity to laugh at normal, appropriate times, it comes out in the wrong places. For example, when someone starts throwing pieces of food at his colleagues.

This extreme gauchery reminds me of when I lived with a host family in Paris during my study abroad. Conversations were pretty excruciating. The up side was that when I returned to the US, my English had undergone a transformation. Before then I wasn't really fluent in English. I mean it's my native tongue and all, but I would stumble all over the place trying to find the right word at the right time. After three months of blaming my awkwardness on language skills, I refused to be awkward in English. And that was that.

I'm eager to see what transformations will become apparent when this year is out.

November flowers

2009-11-29T06:02:00.002-05:00

So delicate to be blooming in November. Is that an autumnal shade of purple?

The flower vendors at the market are so appealing, and this grey morning I didn't resist.

An expat Thanksgiving

2009-11-26T14:35:00.002-05:00

Today, I'm thankful for friends and family worth missing and a home worth returning to -- and in the meantime, for a sunset walk along the sea, though solitary, and the dark-haired girl who didn't once stop smiling in class. I'm thankful for the chance to do something most people only wonder about, and I'm thankful that, difficult though it is, this is one adventure I won't have to regret not trying.

My first strike

2009-11-24T02:43:00.003-05:00

Did I ever tell you about the transportation strikes in Paris, back in '07? How we all got up extra early, packed onto one of the few trains that were running, walked miles because our connecting train wasn't running at all, and spent the whole day wondering if we were going to have to walk home or maybe there'd be a bus running for at least part of the way?

So that's one kind of strike. Then there's the teachers' strike.

My first reaction to a strike is to laugh. I mean, really? A strike? Medical, dental, retirement, and how many weeks of paid vacation? And I thought you weren't supposed to skip work when there was work to be done. (Although believe me, I am not one of those people who think teachers have it easy. Oh no. You try herding cats to prepare them for an exam.)

But. Who doesn't have complaints about their job, their boss, or their management, and good grief, all the more so when you work for the government, right? So really the only difference between us and them is that we complain at the water cooler and they complain and strike.

The idea of a strike is to annoy as many people as possible, one of the teachers explained to me, so that there's an impetus to change. But, as I grumbled to myself this morning, why must that mean annoying me? I called my supervising teacher last night, and she only told me that she would be striking, and that I should call the school in the morning to see about my other teachers. See, usually this is how my schedule works: A certain class has English with their teacher; the teacher sends me several (3-14) students from that class. So if the teacher is on strike, the students don't go to class, and I don't have to work. But if I don't know which teachers are on strike, I don't know which classes I have to be at. I called the school at 8:45 this morning to see if those teachers had showed -- they didn't know. I called at 10:15 (my first class starts at 11); they still didn't know.

So I went to school indignant, wishing I could know at least an hour in advance if I was going to be working. *grumble grumble grumble*

It turned out to be one of my favorite days yet. The school was dead quiet, with so many teachers and students gone. I did end up working for my full day, but it was actually a perfect working condition. In my first class, I had three students. We sat and chatted for an hour. The second class I had two students. The teacher and I spent the hour talking with them about Thanksgiving. Also amazing. It was also a chance for the teacher to see me in action, and, much to my surprise/delight/relief, she was really pleased.

Pedagogically, the small classes were brilliant. But we expected that. There was an unexpected effect as well. Since there were only a few teachers in the teachers' room at lunch, I actually had a chance to chat with several people who I'd never so much as exchanged bonjours with. While the other teachers are showing their solidarity in striking together, we back at the ranch had our own little solidarity going on.

French healthcare: Part I

2009-11-23T12:05:00.003-05:00

I called the doctor at 2pm today and got an appointment for 4pm, same day.

Gave the receptionist my info and paid in full, to be reimbursed later. 22 euros (Three times my American co-pay, if you account for the exchange rate. Yes, we're comparing copay to full cost.)

Waited for about 10 minutes. Peeling paint and ugly furniture are not problems that can be fixed on a government-run budget, apparently.

Saw the doctor. She was certainly competent and efficient, and although I could have wished for a more cosmopolitan outlook from her, she was not unkind. I had a hard time understanding her, not so much because I was lost on the medical terms (I actually got all that), but just because there are some people who are harder to understand than others. I left her office feeling depressed about that, because I hate being the stupid foreigner who asks you to repeat yourself again and again. Let's face it, there's no way to sound intelligent while saying, "I don't understand." On the other hand, I'm a little proud of myself, because, while it was not gracefully executed, I did get myself through an entire doctor's appointment in my second language.

I left the doctor's office with my prescription print-out of four items, which I took to the first pharmacy I passed. The woman who helped me there was very helpful and patient about my foreignness. She collected the medicines, explained to me how to use them, explained to me how to get reimbursed by my insurance, made sure I had the proper papers, etc. The total cost for two things of antibiotics, anti-septic spray, anti-septic cream, and bandaids was 37 euros.

Because doctor's visits are reimbursed at 70%, some medicines at 65% (including my bandaids) and others at 35%, my 59 euros worth of healthcare will end up costing 23 euros.

What do you make of that?

Amping up the Frenchness

2009-11-23T08:19:00.003-05:00

Guys, I'm really excited. I'm going to experience some profoundly, quintessentially French things this week.

Today I have my first ever French doctor's appointment. (Nothing serious. A problem that even the quackiest of quacky quacks has eventually cured.) Because, remember, I have French Health Insurance. If this goes well, I'm going crazy with medical fun.* I could get my teeth cleaned (yes, dental insurance!)! I could get regular check-ups! I could -- I could --

Tomorrow is a very special event in France, one that only occurs all the time. A teachers' strike! The government did something to the teachers (I didn't catch what, I was busy frolicking with my benefits package), and they're going to protest. The idea, as one of the teachers explained to me, is to annoy as many people as possible. So the students will all go to school, but without knowing if they'll have any teachers. I myself do not know if I'm going or not. I might be on a shopping spree with my health insurance.

Full report to follow.

*I should say, I've always been lucky to have great insurance coverage back in the US. It's just realizing that that ends by the time I'm 25, and then what?

A short reprieve

2009-11-20T16:17:00.003-05:00

Here by popular demand, a full account of Lenny's visit to Provence.

It was sunny and we sat outdoors and drank coffee.

Yes, the whole day. Well, until it was time to sit outside and drink wine, and then time to sit inside and eat dinner, and yes there was time to walk along the seashore.

What better way to spend the day?

A good day at the ranch

2009-11-19T16:38:00.001-05:00

I've been struggling to write a blog about teaching for several days, with no success. No coincidence that the past several days have been a little rough (Monday excepted)? But I enjoyed myself at school today, so I'm jumping at the opportunity to write an upbeat entry.

The English teachers are throwing a dinner party in my honor. They've even set a date, and it's really going to happen. Some of them even talk to me now! And a couple days after this dinner party, I'm going to someone else's house for dinner.

I still have no way to decide if my classes are "successful" or not. Is our children learning? Who knows. But I'll settle for amusing myself. And I laughed plenty today. I had them invent biographies for these random people (mostly pulled off The Sartorialist), and later make up stories using five random words they drew from a hat. While some students were happy to chat in French and ignore their work, some got it together and came up with brilliant stories. Highlights were the politician who killed a fox at brunch with hairspray; something about Star Wars, time travel, and killer-bananas; and finally the guy from the photo who likes "sex, drugs, and rock and roll." I know I'm not supposed to laugh, but you have to understand, these kids do not have a sophisticated command of English, so when they bust out something like this, it just kills me.

And my classic ESL moment du jour: These kids were goofing around instead of working (yes, really), and I asked them reproachfully, "Are you working?" The one boy repeated slowly to himself, "are... you... working...", thought for a moment; then the lightbulb went off and he scrambled to look busy.

My supervising teacher gave me a CD of materials for the terminales (seniors), who have a major exam at the end of the year. On their exam, they will be given an image or a quote, and they'll have to talk for 10 minutes on that subject; my new CD has images that have been used in past years. (That counts as, like, an entire semester course of teacher training! I mean it's really not, but considering how little training I have, it's a bonanza. It was nice of her to think I might need help, too. Because, good god, do I ever.) I'll probably use images I find on my own (that represent multiple facets of the US, rather than just the one), but at least now I know what's expected of them.

So maybe there are undercurrents of snark here -- maybe I'd kind of hoped that everyone I met would leap at the opportunity to listen to me butcher French, that all the teachers would shower me with wisdom, and that every day at school would be a joyous occasion of language-making. But maybe I'm getting there.

Paper airplanes...

2009-11-13T18:56:00.000-05:00

...are actually really funny. Please don't tell the teacher.

Autumn in Avignon

2009-11-08T09:55:00.003-05:00

I haven't posted any pictures yet from vacation. And I know that's not right.

Walk out of the youth hostel, turn left and see: the Rhone River, the Pont d'Avignon (do you know the song?), and a little bit of Notre-Dame-des-Doms and the Palais des Papes.

Le Palais des Papes, 14th century home to the popes and their entourage.
It's mostly huge and stone, with cool features like secret underground coffers to stash their wealth.

Inside, looking out.

Less than an hour away from Marseille by train, yet Avignon looks totally different -- it actually looks like fall. The color of the stone and the particular quality of fallness made me surprisingly nostalgic for Paris.

I'm turning into my mother :-)

2009-11-08T09:24:00.005-05:00

I've been meaning to take a picture of my adorable little French eggplants for ages. (Which is something my mother would have thought of and done weeks ago, hence the title.) Are they not the cutest little things you've ever seen? I can't tell you how delicious they are, sauteed in olive oil, with maybe some tomatoes, chick peas, and bell peppers for good measure.

They're posing here with my shopping basket, that I bought expressly for filling with fruits and vegetables at the market. Have I mentioned how beautiful the market is? It is probably the one thing I will miss the most about France. Unlike American farmers' markets, I don't believe the vendors are actual farmers; which means that the produce could still be imported from non-Provencal locations. (Not sure locavorism has quite caught on here...) But what amazes me every time is how much really high-quality produce is available for such low prices. I filled my basket with eggplants, bell peppers, clementines, kiwis, tomatoes; plus bananas and apples. At an American grocery store, would that not cost more than 7 euros? And would it not be a little difficult to find nice tomatoes and nice clementines at the same time? I don't know how they swing it, but it really seems a lot easier -- in terms of quality, availability, and cost -- to eat a ton of fruits and vegetables here than it did in the US.

Another observation on health. There are McDonald's here, and there are advertisements for McDonald's. And at the bottom of every ad for fast food, there is a reminder that, for your health, you should exercise regularly and eat at least five fruits and vegetables a day.

More on le mistral

2009-11-08T07:06:00.003-05:00

Now that it's 10 degrees colder in the South of France than in my old northern stomping grounds, there's heat on in the school, and I got my shoes soaked through by the rain last night, can I complain about the weather?

I don't really want to complain. In a confusing, unfamiliar way, I think it feels like fall. When I walked out my door this morning to go to the (open-air) market, it felt even wintery. You know those bright winter days we have in NH, where the sky such a clear, icy blue and the air is so dry, and there's nothing stopping the sun from shining, but you can tell just by looking at the sky and the way the light falls that it's winter? It felt like that. Except, I must be losing my grip on reality, because it's really not cold at all. The wind can be fierce, as it is today, but it isn't needles to the face so much as chaos in the air. And when the wind stops, the air is gentle.

It's not swimming weather, but it's not bad. It is weird, though. It's weird to go out in the evening, at 6pm, when it's already dark, so it feels like winter is coming, and yet... by day there are palm trees, so it looks like summer. There's a strange cognitive dissonance going on. I am curious to see how it will feel to have a winter without snow. I'm guessing that I will be tricked into feeling normal. After all, we wouldn't want to subject even weather to ethnocentrism.

My week in food

2009-11-03T20:14:00.003-05:00

A culinary summary of this past week, eating on the cheap:
Default sandwich: Variations on a Nicoise salad, involving a half-baguette featuring tuna and olives. A little drizzle of Provencal olive oil and pepper really goes a long way.
Olives: These are REAL olives. I've walked past the olive trees. They are pungent and potent and ever so olivey. These beasts are not for everyone (and I'm only just now developing a taste for the little punks), but there is no arguing with some quality olive oil.
Fougasse aux olives: Some brilliant, delicious pastry with a shiny, slightly sweet patina, slightly sweet cheese filling and olives. I was not prepared for how delicious this was going to be.
The latest in ice-cream: Olive oil, honey and nougat (?). Still don't know what the nougats were, but for a relatively unsweet ice-cream, this was a cool experience. I have no idea where the ice-cream place was, though -- could be any one of millions of little streets in Arles...
Pistacio-apricot tarte. Creamier than an American fruit pie, and a beautiful shade of green. Why must bakeries put such pretty things out in the window to tempt weaklings like me?
Chausson aux pommes. Puffy pastry with apple compote (think apple butter) inside. At a high-end bakery (like a certain one in Nimes, near where my last sighting of that intriguing stranger took place...), this stuff is serious.
Coffee. It would still be delicious even if it weren't in those cute, cute little mugs.
Hot chocolate. In the cafe where Van Gogh used to hang out. And yes, for that, you may charge me that much for a little cup of ordinary hot chocolate. The put a little packet of sugar on the saucer, too.
Bread and cheese. I can't go long without this stuff.

Next week: Vegetables (have I ever mentioned how cute French eggplants are??) and lesson plans.

Avignon, Nimes, Arles

2009-11-03T18:11:00.002-05:00

I just spent the last week all around Provence, seeing sights and thinking thoughts -- I can't decide what to tell you about.

The main points revolve around ancient buildings (including Roman structures from the 1st century AD and a 14th century papal palace); wandering through impossible tangles of French streets and stumbling upon places I may never find again; contemplating art from the 14th and 21st centuries; eating (yes, really); and talking with all sorts of nice people. We could also get into both the introspection I had time for, my renewed appreciation for my bathroom (toilet seats! you don't see those every day), and small epiphanies on language.

I walked through a lot, a lot of very old stone buildings. No sooner did I recover from the shock of a 14th century palace, than what should appear but a 1st century arena. It is impossible for my 23-year-old mind to grasp 2000 years old -- although my young viscera definitely got the "I know this tower has lasted 2000 years, but can this narrow winding stone staircase really hold up until I get to the bottom safely?" bit. So we must be impressed then by the size and grandeur of the structures -- but even that's out of reach. At its finest, the architecture is so perfectly proportioned that it doesn't feel huge and you don't feel small; but the people walking around in front of you do seem a little silly in their irrelevance. I wonder what it was like to be walking around these buildings not as a reverent visitor, but as an inhabitant? I'm talking about the Palais des Papes, temporary seat for the Popes when they were in Avignon (starting around 1309, I believe), a place that housed not only the pope but the hundreds of people who worked with, under and around him; I'm talking about the 1st century AD Roman arenas, where 20,000-30,000 people could watch machismo in its bloody glory. What would it be like to see all that lavish extravagance as functionality rather than a sacred cocoon of History?

History's overwhelming; let's talk about Art. I saw two art museums: One of medieval Italian paintings, one of contemporary photography and sculpture. I realize that my nerdiness really borders on snootiness when I get all excited about Art and Western Culture and the New Yorker magazine and all those fancy elitist things that people pretend to like, but, seriously, fusty old paintings are a big deal. Looking at what one man (or woman) decides to put in one frame that ostensibly represents one moment in time puts me in their mind like nothing else can. Because of course they couldn't possibly confine the meaning of the painting to only one idea, even if they wanted to. What informs their decision to choose those expressions, those colors, those gestures? Nothing less than the entire world they live in. And so in room after room of Virgin Mary and Child, we see not the same woman with the same child but dozens of different artists as people, the towns they lived in, the conversations they had, the qualities they valued... as many enigmas as insights.

Wandering through narrow, windy little streets, or across ancient stone floors, is the best way to mull over all these thoughts about art and places and the world and what I'm doing here. And none of these words looks quite the same on my laptop screen as it did floating above a ivy-shaded shuttered window somewhere in Arles. I'll try again later.

The writing on the wall

2009-11-03T15:55:00.006-05:00

"Smoking kills."
In America, this would be to avoid a lawsuit. In France...?

McCafe.
McBoobs.
McMarketing.

"Long live the Pope."
What century am I in?

Mini-trees

2009-10-25T15:35:00.002-04:00

I went on another hike today, again along the cliffs by the sea. I figure you're sick of all my sea & stone pictures by now, so I'll give you a break to show you some trees.

Above is an oak tree (chene, en francais). It's about two feet tall, if that, and the leaves are the size of my thumb and very sharp. More like dangerous shrubbery than a tree (dangerous, especially when trail blazing). It's surprising how fierce plants become in this climate.
Below is the shrub version of pine (pin); again, about a foot tall.
Hiking through patches of rosemary (romarin), fennel (fenouil), olive orchards (oliviers) and vineyards (vignes), by the way, is like a gourmet kitchen turned inside out and became the whole world. I cannot tell you how fragrant and delicious these things are fresh.

Ok... just one. I couldn't resist.

What I would have said to Toto

2009-10-25T12:48:00.005-04:00

There are only two things that make me fully aware that I'm in a foreign country. They are not: That everyone around me speaks a language I still don't understand; the pink stucco houses with terra cotta roofs and palm trees in front; the bizarre bureaucracy; the sea, the mountains, the landscape; my permanent cluelessness; the strange cell phone plans; the inscrutable behavior of the young 'uns; the persistently warm weather; all of those things I can accept.

They are: seeing the French flag, and hearing someone speak about the United States as a foreign, even exotic, country. Those are the only two experiences that truly give me the vertiginous understanding that I am far from home.

the scenic route and a sunset

2009-10-24T16:33:00.004-04:00

My town, from above. Far, far above.
The following two are pictures of the neighboring town.
Again, in the first of these, I need to point out that that is a really steep cliff. Really steep.
Notice the lack of guard rails.

Deceptively lush.

More assorted thoughts on where I live

2009-10-24T06:20:00.004-04:00

Lunchtime, for the shops, is from 12-3, maybe 3:30. Everything shuts down for a serious mid-day break. The whole concept of rushing around to do errands during lunch time must not exist here.

I'm finding that my Boston driving experience (such as it were) was not bad preparation for navigating French towns. Straight lines and square blocks are not the thing here. The map of my town is a fascinating tangle of streets, most named after someone. (Marseille is similar.) Less so in Marseille, but here the streets are very narrow and twisty, especially downtown. I'm often surprised to realize that what I thought was some seedy alley is actually a full-fledged road with real stores along it. What's more, these roads often look like pedestrian-only streets (think cobblestones and Church St, Burlington), but cars do drive on them and they do honk at you if you're in the way.

My cell phone is second-hand, not exactly the hippest new model, but I only just realized that the little icon that tells me I have a new voicemail is not a little robot face, it's a cassette tape. Cassette tapes and cell phones shouldn't mix, right...?

In chatting with some locals last night, I gleaned that the Pres. Sarkozy supporters around here are in serious hiding, if they even exist. (I'm just going to note that among Sarko's first presidential acts in 2007 was a visit to his friend George W. Bush. You get the idea.) It's interesting to hear how different people talk about him: The retired teacher who has taken us assistants under her wing complains that his French is embarrassingly poor; my students complain that he wants to raise the driving age.

The subject of my French skills is a broad and sensitive one; without getting into all the unpleasant details, I will just say I'm totally confounded by the use of formal vs. informal "you." I vouvoyer (that's the formal version) pretty much everyone who isn't clearly younger than me (which is most everyone, since most of the people I see are fellow teachers and I don't speak to my students in French). There's something a little uncomfortable about being so formal with people I see regularly, but I prefer that to being rude or presumptuous. Last week, one of the other teachers (the youngest one, as far as I can tell) told me I could say "tu," the informal "you," and laughed, not unkindly, but with a tone that suggested I should have known. So I'm still uncomfortable and confused. Probably time to play the Helpless Foreigner card and get someone to explain to me.

Comments about my town

2009-10-23T16:00:00.003-04:00

I walked through the downtown today. Everyone was dressed like a pirate.

I must be the oldest non-baby-producing woman in this town. Seriously. It is very, very rare to see a young (like my age young) couple walking down the street without a baby or two. Tons of pregnant women, tons of very young men by themselves pushing strollers. Surely, there are some single people? Or are they all holed up in their apartments writing blogs? Oh, and I'm pretty sure those are engagement rings I've seen on some of my students. (Obviously, I'm skirting the main issue, which is that for every diamond ring, there is a French man who is not single. I'm going to need better odds here.) But anyway, maybe it's just my skewed perspective, but this is a striking trend.

This town is not as small as others I've lived in, but it does have the small town quality that I always see people I know when I go places. Mind you, I've only met about 10 people, counting only people whose names I remember. (Oh yeah, and like a gajillion students, and I never remember their names?) So it's amazing when I run into people I know. For example, at this lecture this evening I saw a good half-dozen people who I could greet by name. Amazing.

Ok, back to the pirate costumes. There's a 1720 celebration this weekend, commemorating the arrival in 1720 of the plague. The main road by the sea, where the market is, is all decked out in 18th century costume. They covered the pavement with dirt and hay, the restaurants lining the road have hay bales everywhere, there are tons and tons of people in full period dress (not just pirates), musicians strolling the streets, lots of street food (crepes and vin chaud! be still my heart!) and the usual market fare (cookies, cheese, sausages, crafts, clothing) but with a slightly 18th century feel. They may have had snake charmers, too.

It poured for two days this week (after they laid down the dirt and hay for the festival, unfortunately). After a month of lovely weather, I was incredulous to have jeans so sodden they took a full day or more to dry. The sun is back, though, don't worry.

Ice-cream. Oh my. Ice-cream. I never didn't like the stuff, but here, both my town and Marseille, the ice-cream is exceptional. Including: melon, pear, black-current, lavender-honey, and nutella. Every time I go out for ice-cream (I aim for twice a week), I can try a flavor I've never had in the US. The flavors are so elegant! There are some that are laden with candy, cookie-dough, all that good stuff, but mostly they represent one simple, beautifully executed flavor. There are actual pears in the pear ice-cream, actual honey in the lavender-honey. Except the one ice-cream stand that offers what I believe is Smurf ice-cream.

Along the same lines, I can't get over the eggplants that I've been eating. Mmm. Eggplants.

More to follow.

One month done: I only get eight of these!

2009-10-23T11:19:00.005-04:00

And now I've been here a month.

I've started teaching, I have my little apartment, a library card (yeah, I'm on week 4 for this book, don't worry), the grocery store, bakery, and ice-cream stand that I frequent; all of which must mean I'm "settled in"? I don't feel it -- I'm still very much a foreigner. Let's not even get started on my French... I have a cell phone with no credit left and a land line whose number I still haven't memorized. Living abroad is definitely harder this time than last time, for pages and pages of reasons, I suppose. I realize that living five minutes from the Mediterranean in a town that has seen two days of rain in the past month limits my entitlement to complain, though, so I'll try not to wallow.

Teaching is making me think. I have left my classroom smiling most days these past two weeks (today being the exception). I love working with teenagers (god help me), and I love teaching my language. I'm fascinated by the personalities that emerge in the classroom, the things they'll say. I'm fascinated by the students' struggles to express themselves in English. Of course I relate to that experience, since I know all too well the feeling of having an idea and having no idea how to realize it in words (both when speaking French and when speaking English...). And I'm fascinated by the work that I have to do to make myself understood.

I don't remember relating to teenagers when I actually was one, and it's not easier now. I know less about the adolescent world, but on the other hand I come to school each day fully prepared to love each of my students (and I do). I just wish there was some way to reach all of them...

This is what's making me really think about teaching: I love my students, and they absolutely have it in them to speak English. But how to convey that to a whole bunch of kids all at once? and how to give them the opportunity to be successful in English? How to give them the confidence to speak strongly (in English)? Even in a class with just 12 students, there are a few who answer all the questions, a few who talk all the time, but never in English, a few who very politely but desperately tell you they don't understand anything you've said, and a few who slump silently in either boredom or despair. How on earth can I help each of them at the same time?!?!

I don't suppose I could fit the role of idealistic young bleeding-heart liberal rookie teacher any better. Let's hope I never see jaded.

Hiking by the sea

2009-10-19T11:27:00.003-04:00

As you can see, we were intrepid little mountain goats, scrambling along rock faces like that (above). Below, please realize that there was a very, very steep, tall cliff between the hikers and the sea, and we had only a very narrow little path to walk on. Thrilling stuff!

The Mediterranean isn't exactly something you get sick of looking at . . .

Our hike was a guided tour, with a large group and a botanist and a geologist. As you can imagine, I didn't quite catch everything those sciencey folks were saying (non-technical French is hard enough!), but I did get that this region is the driest in France, but there are some 900 species of plants nonetheless (did I hear that right?). There are tiers of habitats, starting with the ones closest to the sea, where there's too much salt and wind for much to grow, and continuing until the other side of the hills, protected from the wind, where actual trees can grow. The trees facing the sea don't grow straight; they grow sideways, forced by the wind.

You probably think by now that I live in some vacation paradise where all is warm and sunny. It was shocking for me too, to realize that this land is actually quite rugged. The first I noticed that was swimming on a windy day, and I could feel the sea fighting back. That huge body of water - it wasn't just there to pamper me! It is a beast in its own right. The wind here too can be very fierce. It was after one especially windy day -- so windy it scared me, almost! -- that I started to notice how rocky and rough the land was, and how it resisted the power of the wind, and how it will continue to all winter.

The right side of the tracks

2009-10-18T13:43:00.004-04:00

There's an abandoned railroad that passes by my house, and Nikki & I followed it one day.

The juxtaposition of railroad (industrialization, Global North) and palm tree (leisure, South) blows my mind. Time to be more open-minded anyway.

And the vegetation that one finds on a rundown railway that runs through backyards and other dodgy places. There were some stunningly large plants that I couldn't recognize.

And finally, an olive orchard! Now I really feel Mediterranean.

If you'd be so kind...

2009-10-15T13:49:00.004-04:00

I have a request. Should you feel inclined.

I brought absolutely no teaching materials with me to France (I mean, c'mon, I didn't even bring sunscreen, what was I doing?), and I'm wishing I at least had decent pictures of my country to show off. I will make do just fine with my friend the Internet, but I would love to have American postcards! If you would send me a postcard (with a message that you wouldn't mind being read by French teenagers) I would be SO happy, and I will send you a French postcard (with French stamps) in return. (I hope that's a fair deal... if only French ice-cream shipped well...)

Email/facebook me for my address, if you're down! Thanks guys. :-)

PS Why I couldn't pack properly:

boats for my bros

2009-10-14T15:32:00.003-04:00

After two days of teaching

2009-10-14T12:37:00.004-04:00

Getting to know dozens and dozens of new people in the next few weeks means that I'll be learning as much, or more, than my students -- about these students, about French and France, about teaching (I hope).

I learned that President Sarkozy is not popular amongst my Tuesday afternoon high school seniors (terminales), on the grounds that he wants to change the driving age from 16 to 18. (Guess which current president is popular?)

One student asked me, in all earnestness, what I thought about celebrating Columbus Day; another asked me if I was married (and offered to introduce me to some people).

All the high school students like music: Eminem, Bob Marley, Outkast, a French singer they were aghast to learn I didn't know. I told them I didn't know any French singers, so they whipped out their ipods. But one girl said she only listened to American music, another said she only had Arabic music on her ipod, and the third flipped through song after song 'til she found something that would give me a good impression of French music.

That was the high school. At the middle school, the 11-year-olds jumped out of their seats to ask me questions and show off their English (or really for any other reason). I opened my red moleskin notebook, and a girl exclaimed, sotto voce, "Elle a le journal de Bridget Jones!" That class has been studying English for less than a month, but they're eager to hazard guesses at what I've said, and they pronounce the few sentences that they do know very carefully. They ask me my favorite color, my favorite food, if I like purple ice-cream, if I have any pets. Purple ice-cream, by the way, isn't "purple cow" or some other American oddity, but lavender, according to their teacher. Bien sur.

Sea and stone

2009-10-07T12:43:00.006-04:00

Do you remember when I was first assigned to this particular town in France, and I google-imaged it, and smirkingly showed off pictures of stunning rock cliffs jutting from the sea into the sky? That's where I went today.

The formation is called a calanque in French, and it's like a fjord -- a narrow inlet of sea surrounded by very steep stone cliffs. To visit the one we saw, you first walk through the botanical gardens. I don't think any of the plants I saw were native to both New Hampshire and Provence, and since it was a botanical garden, some may not have been native to either. One of the other language assistants, who I went with, recognized a few plants: one that's used to make tequila; one that can heal cuts; one that produces fruit.

You keep walking along a cobble-stone path that becomes surprisingly steep for something so civilized. The path is shaded, sometimes by trees, sometimes by cliffs. Along the path are caves -- perhaps old cellars, but some perhaps were natural formations. The area apparently used to be a river delta, and so the cliffs are years of sediment. Water is stronger than stone, here.

Finally you reach the top, a little notch in between two peaks. It's like this:

The little scoops cut away from the cliff are natural, as far as I know; it's like when you make a sand castle, and the waves start eating it, and chunks fall off the sides (except, in this case, in slow motion).

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So that was not exactly a proper calanque, I think; it was just the nearby cliffs. We went to a real calanque next, where you could sit on the beach in between the cliffs and gaze at this:

Pebbles, most a bit too big to skip, cover the beach. If you stand where land meets sea, you will slip, wave by wave, 'til stones bury your feet and water splashes your knees. The waves are small, but you hear them move: The inhalation before the crest; the breaking against the rocks, or the hollow clap against the cliffs; then softer, the clatter of pebbles being pulled back out to sea.

A day in Marseille

2009-10-03T13:50:00.002-04:00

A day and a half, really. I can't tell you about all of it, because there's only so many interesting things that can be said about paperwork, and they've already been said.

I had to go in Friday morning for a medical visit at the immigration office, so they could be sure I don't pose a risk to France. I don't, but now that I'm getting a taste of my first government health plan, I may pose a risk to the US.

It took barely an hour to go through the waiting, the tests, the waiting, and the paperwork, and then I was set loose on Marseille. Marseille is a grungy, strange port city that I love. The buildings, which are simple or run-down to begin with, are painted pale colors that don't hide the dirt. There are touristy things to do and buy, but other than that, it doesn't seem as if the city has dressed itself up for visitors. There are plenty of magnificent buildings, but they grow in a shabby soil. When I first visited Marseille, discovering the cathedral and so forth was all the more incredible given the setting.

Despite the human efforts, the natural setting of Marseille is amazing. It's surrounded by cliffs and sea and blue sky. The buildings are low and the light constant; the city is dirty but not shadowed. My experience of Marseille is not so much what there is to do there but how I feel there. Marseille feels good.

Eating well feels good too. As a certain comrade in ice-cream connoisseurship promised me, there are tons of bars that serve ice-cream -- or ice-cream parlors that have a night life. It's true that the Vieux Port (the center of the city) is lined with restaurants that say both "glacier" (glace = ice-cream) and "bar" on the awning. Ice-cream is wonderful. Today I tried lavender-honey ice-cream (la glace lavande-miel), which was as exquisite as you could imagine. Plenty of other places to eat, too -- a creperie where the crepes (ratatouille-egg-cheese and orange marmalade-chocolate) were too big for even me to finish -- and, of course, a falafel place -- definitely a high point in my falafel-eating career.

I've been pondering -- agonizing -- about what I want to get out of this year, and what will make it feel like a success or a failure. It may not be worthwhile to decide that sort of thing this early, or it may have been something I was supposed to consider when I was applying for the job. But all I really want to do is sit in the sun on the beach with my ice-cream. Is that so wrong?

The sea and me

2009-10-03T13:37:00.000-04:00

The glamour: What doesn't feel better In The South of France? There's the luxury of swimming in late September with barely a shiver. There's the gorgeous beaming sun. Then, the water feels softer; it's perfectly clear, and the color of a jewel. The water is salty but the waves are gentle, so swimming is no harder than sunbathing.

The sea near me

2009-10-03T13:26:00.002-04:00

A day in Marseille

2009-10-03T13:18:00.002-04:00

Good morning, Teacher, please take out a sheet of paper... and another...and another...

2009-09-28T14:50:00.008-04:00

Ostensibly, I'm here in France to teach English, so I took a break from strolling along the sea to make an appearance at my high school to fill out paperwork.

Both "high school" and "[French] paperwork" are places you don't want to go, but surprisingly, it was the most encouraging few hours I've spent yet this week. (Perhaps being the most relevant...)

I went with Elizabeth, who is a retired English teacher and, as far as I'm concerned, a superhero. She has dedicated herself to helping us language assistants settle in, and I haven't had to do much on my own yet, thanks to her -- she helped me open my bank account (THAT is an epic tale of paperwork in its own right), buy phone credit (omg, SO circuitous), and fill out forms that allow me to be paid. She's a kind woman and easy to chat with, which counts for plenty when all this is going on in your second language. It's encouraging to see her perplexed by the same peculiarities of French systems that perplex me.

The forms she walked me through at the school were not unduly complicated; the glory of French bureaucracy is in the photocopying. There are currently enough photocopies of my passport to wallpaper France, except of course you couldn't really, because each copy is in some very important government folder in some very important office. (The phone store has a copy, too.) The bank was even better. The clerk could sign those papers like nobody's business (it wasn't until the third page, when the official stamp came out, that I realized he wasn't just testing the pen; and believe me, he was barely warmed up by page three), and the pages kept churning out of the printer. For simply opening a bank account, I have an entire booklet of papers. Sorry, trees...

Lest it become Kafkaesque, everyone realizes the absurdity of what they have to do. It's not the bank clerks or the school secretaries who require book-length bank accounts, and, maybe self-conscious in the presence of a one-click-banking American, mockery flew freely as the photocopies.

So navigating all that at the bank last week and at my school this morning was no small victory, and I emerged unscathed.

Having taught for years at my lycee before retiring, Elizabeth showed me around a bit -- library, what seemed to be the teachers' room. It's quite high-school-like, but otherwise fine. I met a couple secretaries (one of whom kept referring to me as the "little American" -- is that a compliment, or to distinguish me from the rest as she imagines us...?), the librarian (eccentric, phew), and an English teacher.

I don't know if they were surprised that I could speak any French at all, but most of the people I met told me I speak French well. I know it's shallow to feed off of compliments, and I should have self-confidence independent of other people's opinions of me, iknowiknow, BUT I speak French ten times better the instant a real French person tells me I speak well. (Even if they're being polite... or just straight up lying...) I ended up being immersed completely in French for the entire morning, and it felt wonderful. Especially so, having understand as much as I did, and having left with the sound of French lingering in my ears.

And finally. In retrospect, the girl may have thought that I was a new student arriving at the school, but when the librarian showed me the shelf of English and American plays, one of the students nearby gave me a wonderful, sincere smile. ah. :-)

French flowers and Mediterranean Colors

2009-09-28T14:45:00.002-04:00

Roses, from my landlord's garden, and morning glories on my way to the sea.

Cucumber-mint soup, from the grocery store

2009-09-27T12:32:00.003-04:00

It's so pretty... I've almost convinced myself it tastes good too...

The first meeting with my little French town

2009-09-24T15:13:00.003-04:00

I nearly posted my first in-France entry last night, hours after arriving, but I'm glad that I didn't. Traveling here was interesting enough, but in my haze of fatigue, nothing looked even tolerable, and I couldn't be excited about living here.

But this afternoon's sun-, sea-, sugar-high made me feel at home. Nikki, my roommate, offered to show me around town a bit. The sea (that would be the Mediterranean) is just down the hill from us, and we followed the water until we got to the center of town. I'd forgotten how striking the landscape is here. When you're standing facing the water, you see not open water, but the rugged filigree of the coastline. The outline of the cliffs that rise up sharply from the sea were a bit hazy in the afternoon heat. The elusive distant peaks... some that have really craggy contours begging to be explored.

We wandered about town, Nikki showing me places I would need (bus station, post office, ice-cream shops -- ever tried melon ice-cream?), and stopped at a small cafe for a Coke.

And really stopped; stopped to talk with the proprietor and whoever that woman was hanging out. Somehow they started a conversation with us that ambled on for nearly an hour. ("You call the USA; call Barack Obama -- Barack Obama. Tell him to stop the war.") Along the way, little glass cups of tea (mint, sugar, and sugar) appeared for us to drink (later he showed us how he makes it -- 3 liters of water, 20 spoonfuls of leaf tea, 45 cubes of sugar, big handsful of fresh mint). Of course you can't have tea without something sweet to nibble, and voila, there were our pastries -- "to taste" -- light, fluffy almond and vanilla cookies, and something with I think semolina and dates. It was all lovely.

While he was on a roll, maybe because we complimented the tea glasses, he showed us each piece of artisanal crockery and decoration in the entire restaurant, most from North Africa, some that he had made -- a tile-mosaic tabletop with the name of the restaurant worked in. We eventually left, but not before he gave us each small ceramic mugs with the name of the restaurant written on them.

So I walked home in the sun by the sea with a very pleasant sugar buzz, and who could be anything but content?

Everyone has been very friendly and helpful from the moment I landed in Marseille. Stunningly friendly and helpful, really. The woman at the airport info desk was perfectly charming through several rounds of explanations about trains and buses and ticket-machines; a stranger at the train station helped me buy a ticket when my credit and debit cards weren't working (don't worry; I got that sorted); the cashier at the train station tobacco shop explained very slowly, meticulously, and repetitively the difference between the two types of phone cards; someone met me at the train station when I finally got to my town... that's not a complete listing! I could go on! So French people aren't snooty, aloof or unhelpful, agreed?

Tomorrow I buy sunscreen (after one day, I have more freckles on my arms than I ever have in my life; I'd just soon maintain my prestige as palest person in town), sign my lease (which I think is called bail in French... au contraire, don't you think?), and open a bank account. Maybe that will all be fun too...?

PS I miss you, my dear friends from home! All your Facebook & blog comments have been warmly appreciated, believe me!

My Little French House by the Sea

2009-09-24T15:06:00.001-04:00

2009-09-06T22:27:00.000-04:00

Surely you've heard by now: I'm moving back to France. Late September through sometime in May will find me in a smallish city on the coast of the Mediterranean. If all goes as planned, I'll share a little vacation villa not a mile (kilometer[s]?) from the beach with another young woman who is in France for the same reason I am: to be an assistant English teacher at the local schools.

If you're wondering when I became a beach bum with a penchant for the pedagogical, don't worry, I'm not -- yet. There is absolutely nothing about this adventure that I feel qualified to do, and that is exactly why I'm going.

I will work with French high school (lycee) and middle school (college) students, mostly high school. As of right now, I like teenagers. Updates to follow.

When I was preparing to study in Paris during my senior year of college, I remember being so overwhelmed by the nausea of paperwork that I thought, "If I had known what this would be like, I would not be doing this!" Of course by the end of the first day, jet-lagged and full of wine and cheese, it was already worth everything. For the next three months, nearly everything fell on the "worth it" side of the balance. So I keep reminding myself.

Hopefully the visa form and the slew of mysterious-acronym forms will be canceled out in the bus ride between the airport in Marseille and my new hometown (the drive between Marseille and Cassis, a neighboring town, is stunning, and it won't be less stunning the second time). From then, each day will probably be a shifting balance between "worth it" and "not worth it," ending without a doubt on the "worth it" end. There's no chance this will be a wasted year; I just mean that it will be hard.

The balance is completely on the panicked side for now.

However, what could be so difficult it couldn't be fixed with some pain au chocolat (that is a chocolate croissant, my friends, and my undoing) or Mediterranean sun? I ask you.

I am excited to be speaking French again (such as it is...), and to be living somewhere different enough that every routine will have to be reinvented. I won't speak too soon, but I might enjoy teaching English (remember, I come from a family where debating the meaning of the word "runcible" is typical dinner conversation).

I leave in just over two weeks. You can find me here (often, most likely), or my other online haunts, and please be in touch!