I'm on Strike!

Today is a national day of strike where all the major labor unions decided to cooperate (which is rare it seems) allowing all the different sectors to strike on the same day. Goal: Tell Sarkozy that they can bring the country to its knees whenever they say the word?? In fact each sector has their own list of demands that they are sending to the government. The public schools demand that the government stop laying off teachers and support personnel. I'm actually a little unclear if as an American citizen I can officially go on strike in France but I didn't feel like working today and the few students who weren't on strike certainly didn't feel like working either. So there you have it. Now I'm going out to enjoy the sunshine.

This and that

It’s not exactly that nothing interesting has happened over the course of the last month and a half that I have not shared anymore French exploits. On the contrary, during my winter vacation, I spent a week with some of my dearest Missourians bumming around Northern France then another few days kicking around Marseille in the South. Back to school brought (and frankly is still bringing) some of my most intense boredom to date. The week school started up again, I came to school on Monday (not a long walk, I live in the school remember) and worked my one hour. I was finished for the day by 9 am. Then, the region was racked by a blizzard and ice storm (translation: about 1 inch of snow that got compacted into some icy spots on some of the roads.) In fact, this maybe more than anything else reminded me of my Missouri roots. Just like home, they cancelled school for the rest of the week. I didn’t get the chance to go to the supermarket, but I can only imagine (and hope against hope) that there were long lines of French men and women going into survival mode, fighting for the last jar of foie gras on the shelves.

What have I learned about myself so far during this little voyage? Probably the most important of all revelations is that when you put a dozen 15 year olders together in a room, even if they are probably really decent people in real life, they collectively take on the maturity level of 2nd graders. Personal interpretation of observation: just say no to ever teaching in high school. Consequently, my favorite part of my week is when I get to work with the teachers who are trying to improve their level of spoken English so as to be able to teach classes in their respective subjects to the students in English in years to come. Not only is it nice to talk to people who don’t act upon every impulse that pops into their brain, but I also can talk to them about things that are a little interesting to me. Example, I made the assertion the other day to a group of teachers that in English, we have a wealth of redundant words – often one word having a latin root and another with an anglo-saxon origin. I said this because sometimes French people sound a little bit overly formal when they speak English because they will logically know and choose the English word with a latin root which is almost always exactly the same as a French equivalent. The effect, though, makes them sound a little stiff, like a dry university professor who has been locked away in a tower of learning for too many years without listening to real people talk. Interestingly, though, it’s contagious. My speaking French here has started influencing my English in the same way. I catch myself always just a bit too late. Realizing that these days I am “recounting” stories instead of “telling” them and “regarding” instead of “watching/ looking at”. What!?

Oh, the dangerous, dangerous Arctic!

Interestingly, the Arctic has been the theme of my last several days in Northern France. This strikes me as ironic because, in my opinion, here it is about as un-Arctic as it can get. It’s never below freezing, just foggy drizzles all the time. Nevertheless, the North Wind has been calling my name and I can but follow the siren’s voice.

I went to Paris on Saturday. The goal of the visit was to go on a guided tour of an exhibit about the art of the native peoples living in the regions around the Arctic Circle at Musée Quai Branly – the quite impressive museum in Paris dedicated to indigenous art. Because the visit was guided I had to reserve and buy my ticket well in advance. Well, I was eating lunch with a friend at this great Italian restaurant, and time just got away from me. When we looked at the time, it was 14h (yes military time here) which meant that I had exactly 1 hour to get to the museum which was in a completely inconvenient location to access by metro for my 15h reservation. Plus, I had to stop by a “Best Buy” type store which is where you pick up the tickets for such spectacles that you reserve online. Anyway, after finding out at the store that I couldn’t get a refund for the ticket I was committed to making the mad dash to the museum in the 20 or so minutes that remained or lose my 15 dollars. I hopped on the metro and after promptly drifting into a dream world, only remembered to leap out of the train at my stop as the doors were closing. Then with 8 minutes left, I ran/sprinted the ¾ of a mile to the museum in my sweater and overcoat along the banks of the Seine. I arrived in such a state of disarray. Of course I didn’t see the tour group, and only after a series of texts with the acquaintance who was waiting for me, did I find them. I was sweaty and basically just embarrassed. So during the explanations of the ivory artifacts that were carved mostly into animal shapes, something struck me and continued striking me. It seems that the Inuits had a real liking to carve the semblance of “Fucks”. Hmm, well that’s just vulgar, I probably would have thought normally. But to be honest, from the context, I could tell that it was the name of some Arctic animal. As the visit went on, I eventually figured out that a phoque is a seal. Great, mystery solved.

Well, yesterday, I had prepared an article about polar bears to teach to some students in the “European Section” which means that they speak much better English than the other students and we get to discuss interesting stuff – like how Global Warming is affecting the animals that live in the Arctic. As we go through the articles, in general, I stop periodically and if there is a word that I don’t know in French, I assume that they won’t recognize it in English and we stop and I try and get them to explain it in English if there is someone in the class that knows it. If not, then I try to explain it in English. Well, we came to the part of the article that described the polar bear’s diet, and well, guess what? They eat mostly seals. “Do you know what a seal is? Who knows what a seal is? Oh, great you do D. Could you explain it to the rest of the class in English,” I said. Picture to yourself, a group of sophomores, 16 years old. Now, picture D. I think he is a year or 2 younger than the others, maybe he skipped some grades. Anyway, he is 6 inches shorter than the other guys and looks like such a little boy with such a baby face. In his soft voice he responded quietly, “It’s a Fuck.” I had to turn my head a bit, to hide my smile. After taking a few seconds to fight back the giggles, I calmly said, “You know, you really need to be careful with that word.” Anyway, everybody knows what a seal is now.

Lo! To be a one man Diaspora!

Thanksgiving may be my favorite holiday, despite the dirty dirty story that its fluffy tale of cooperation and friendship seeks to sweep under the carpet of our national consciousness. For this reason, you can imagine, that it was a little bit of a bummer to not be at home. However, at some point last week, I decided, that I’d be damned if I didn’t celebrate it. So, I went to the grocery store and constructed as authentic a menu as possible in this Thankless country. How’d I do? Well, first bummer, is no cranberries in France. I wasn’t even able to confirm their name in French. Everybody I talked to said that they had a vague idea of what fruit I was describing and each invariably gave me a different name for that tart little berry. Concession number two, my kitchen is itty bitty, and I didn’t really feel inspired to cook a grand feast for 10 so, turkey was out of the picture. I settled on an itty bitty chicken that was somewhere between the size of a cornish game hen and a normal chicken. The form, at least, evokes the image of that turkey ideal of which I am so fond. Stuffing, not a chance. Hot rolls, come on, I can’t make bread. I managed mashed potatoes with a pinch of salt and a dash of ingenuity. My kitchen is ever so poorly equipped – no electric mixer, and of course no potato masher. However, in the end I pulled through by cooking the hell out of those potatoes until they were so (nigh too) soft. Then I set about mashing those MF’s using only an empty, stout Dijon mustard jar. Delicious. Also, didn’t have a rolling pin. No problem, in the realm of pie baking, oh man, this wily veteran’s got some aces up the sleeve. A powdered balsamic vinegar bottle came through so big time, and my pumpkin and apple pies turned out not too bad, not too bad at all. Some green beans and some toasted French baguettes (that, I’ll be honest were more blackened than toasted, whoops) rounded out the menu. I shared the meal with three friends and we ate a veritable feast. There is an unfortunate French way in which to say, “I’m full”. It’s something like, “J’ai mangé jusqu’à ce que les dents du fond baignent.” Translation, I ate until my teeth in the back were swimming. Gross, but true, I guess. Afterward, I had that old familiar stupor and I almost wished there was a football game on the TV to watch - almost.

France, not so different from home.

Don't be fooled. This is in no way a pumpkin pie. T'is but an imitation. My pumpkin substitute is this squash-y type thing called (in French) a Potimarron. It looks a little bit like a pear shaped pumpkin but smaller, and gets its name because its flesh has the nutty taste of chestnuts (marron in French). To be honest, it was damn good. Wish we could get us some potimarron in the states.

My hallmates, Dominique and Kira, hopefully enjoying the meal that I practically forced them to eat.

Catherine holding the carcass of the little chicken I roasted. I've never cooked a chicken before (in this manner, after putting it in the oven, I transferred responsibility to her).


As American as ... Hmm, I can't remember the rest of that phrase.


I had the good fortune of witnessing the elusive Frenchstudentus groovicus, in their natural high school dance habitat - getting down in the high school cafeteria. Interestingly, their mating rituals are quite similar to their close relative, Americateenagerus awkwardus. The dance concluded with John Lennon's "Imagine" where everyone in the room formed a large circle, put their arms around each others' shoulders and swayed to the music. Not bad, not bad.



Uh oh, Kira and my close brush with the law... When they saw us posing for photographs in front of their vehicles...
Quaint Chateau Thierry. However, do note the most uninspiring monument in France. It seems to be simply a large, phallic concrete pole, sticking out of the ground. I have no problem with phallic monuments in principle, consider the Eiffel Tower for example, however, this just seems a little too random.


I've tried, and I can't give you a single reason Why not. Except perhaps that they close at 8 pm. Come on, that's not the American way.

Aw, cute.

A Delicate Discussion

Yesterday I was in class with my older students. They don't really see me as a teacher, instead more of a peer - which might get problematic over the course of the year, we'll see. But the atmosphere of the class is, on the whole, quite quite informal. This particular class I haven't gotten to work with for the past month due to a combination of vacations and the teacher's schedule. So, they are just still a little bit behind some of the other older students that I have in other classes who are actually making good progress forming simple sentences. So my tried and true intro at the beginning of class to get some conversation started is to ask, "What did you do this weekend?" I moved down the line of students until I got to D. and asked him the same question. With a thick French accent he responded, "I negotiate in my ex-girlfriend to make love." I had to pause to process what he said. My first impression was, "well this certainly is not the kind of thing we talked about in French class back at Middlebury." Second, I was utterly confused. What the hell does this sentence mean? So I direct a series of simple questions at D. asking things like, "Did you want to make love?" "Did your ex-girlfriend want to make love?" etc. But the other students in the class were getting a little rowdy by this point and kept interjecting their interpretations of the situation with words like, "Fighting" and "Pay". My jaw kept dropping, as the discussion turned into pandemonium, my imagination jumping to the wildest interpretations of D's negotiation process. I decided after a few minutes to cut my losses and move on, I still don't know exactly what he meant.

Oh My God!

Some of my classes are better than others. In one of my classes we are discussing the symbiotic relationship between clown fish and sea anemones. And in some others… well, we’re still working on attributes. Those students, moving right along to tell the truth now that they know the word for punctuality. These kids are tricky tricky. When I ask a new question the first person to answer has the uncomfortable task of stringing together a response sometimes needing to do the, “What is the English for _____?” Well, after that first student discovered his best attribute was his punctuality a surprising number of students down the line assured me that their best attribute was their punctuality as well. We are moving on though – straight to the interview day of judgement next week. Therefore, over the past few days we’ve been reviewing everything we’ve talked about so far: work experience, their education, likes, dislikes, attributes and now their faults. I tell them, this is great because you can answer it just like you did the attribute question, you just have to choose something bad about yourself. In my first class today A. said, “I don’t have any faults. I am perfect.” I responded, “Your biggest fault is your ego.” In the afternoon class, N. said, “My fault is that I am… what is English for hee- pair-act-eef?” “Hyperactive,” I said. Then I paused and thought about N. He barely ever spoke above a whisper and seemed just about as calm as someone could be unless they were on tranquilizers. “My fault is that I am hyperactive,” N. said. I interrupted, doing a few second impression of what it meant to be hyperactive, flailing my arms about wildly, and engaging in a series of facial ticks. I asked him if that is what he meant and he said yes that it was. Fine, who am I to impose my opinions on others. Well the period stretched on, and I don’t even remember the context, but I responded to something someone said with an emphatic, “Oh My God!” At that point N. absolutely LOST it. He burst into hysterics, unable to sit upright or respond to any inquiry. I guess he really did have a hyperactive side in there somewhere, neatly hidden until someone says something to cause him to erupt. So, in fact, I was in on the joke. A book I have warned me that sometimes French people are amused by this phrase because of a homophone that exists in French. Though, I don’t remember if the book said that people could go into convulsions. I wanted to make the students explain to me in English what was so funny. Does “God mean something else in French?” I demanded. “It’s a sex toy!” a few students blurted out. Wow, I thought. These students don’t know the word for “carry” but are proficient to discuss vibrators. Hmm, maybe I’ll plan a discussion about S&M next week.