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.

Wowzer, what a few weeks!

Every once in a while I feel like calling Nicholas Sarkozy (the French President) and asking him if he wants his money back. I went on vacation the 25th of October. I came back to school for the 6th and 7th of November. Then we had a weekend. I worked Monday November 10th. Today, the 11th is a national holiday and I never work Wednesdays. Seriously, where are my responsibilities? Nonetheless, I have had a very eventful few weeks. From a doctor’s visit at the regional hospital (Laon (a city) is the prefecture (seat) of the departement (county) in which I live). It was quite a little adventure getting there. I had planned to take the bus, but when the bus drove right on by the bus stop where I was patiently waiting at 6:30 in the morning, I decided that I had better choose another method of transportation – so I took the more expensive and roundabout train. That little day trip was interesting. Of course, Laon has a beautiful cathedral. I am starting a little collection of lofty breathtaking gothic cathedrals. There are about as many here as there are Kum and Go’s (the classiest of gas station chains) in SW Missouri. My uncle Delton may be interested to know that the Knights Templar built an octagonal chapel in this fortified medieval city. I had to spend the night because my medical visit was first thing in the morning. After being sent the wrong way, ie. into a sick ward, I found my way to the Secretary’s office. Got that little visit rolling with a chest x-ray – seriously France sure treats its nationals well; here I have been in there country for 1 month and they INSIST on checking me for lung cancer.

Then it was off to Paris for a few days. At the hostel I met an American who went to Bates (a New England NESCAC school) before transferring to UVM: small world. Also in my hostel room was a wacky old Frenchman who didn’t speak, he just slept. One evening when I came back to the room at 6ish he was sprawled out on his bed snoring away. The next morning when I came back from breakfast at 9 there he was, still snoring away. I was getting dressed after taking a shower when there came a furious banging at the door. I cracked to ask if everything was alright, this wacky old Frenchman pushed his way into the bathroom went straight for his hairbrush and set about the futile task of taming his wild shock of Einsteinian hair while I stood there in my underwear with a shocked look on my face. I met an Australian mother and son and unwittingly belittled their plan to go to Disneyland Paris, seriously though, why would you want to do that if you just had a few days in Paris? I went to a cocktail party for Barack Obama supporters the Monday night before the election. I was shocked to find that at the swanky bar, that I could never have afforded had it not been free and open to all, there was not an American expat to be found, as I had expected. Instead, it was a room full of hundreds of French people voicing their support for an American presidential candidate. Bizarre. The entertainment was a group of four black American men singing spirituals and gospel standards like Swing Low and Oh Happy Day. The cherry to top off the surreal soiree was the “France for Obama” buttons that I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to buy even though the 5 euro price tag made me cry a little. Who is this Obama that he has people who can’t even vote rallying behind him? After the Obama party, I saw Leonardo Dicaprio on the Champs Elysees (albeit across 8 lanes of traffic, imagine a miniature Leo) during the premiere of his movie, “Body of Lies”. What a wacky wacky city.

I spent the election night in my little high school glued to my computer screen watching MSNBC online. I drank a bottle of (real) champagne when they called the election at 5 am my time. I had been awake the entire evening. Thank goodness for skype and my friends on the other end of the line or else I would have felt like I really had a problem – starting at 5 am is a new one even for me. Over the next few days every person that I knew congratulated me. Everyone here told me that it would be impossible for someone coming from Obama’s origins to ever reach the presidency in France. That made me feel so proud of our country that we can out progressive what I had considered to be on the cutting edge of so many social fronts. Friday, I prepared a little article about Obama and the elections for one of my classes. They are really weak though, I forgot about that fact. I included the quotation from his acceptance speech where he promised his girls a puppy. It was wasted on these kiddos though. I asked, “You don’t know what a puppy is???” Someone ventured a guess, “It is a poupee? (the French word for doll)” “NO!! Come on now, it’s not a freaking doll. It’s a baby dog for God’s sake!” I didn’t say that, but I wanted to, so badly.

Friday, for my birthday, some teachers took me out for my birthday at restaurant in town. I started with a glass of Champagne. It must have gone straight to my head because my tongue just let loose. My French has been steadily improving over the past month, but I had a series of serious setbacks – I just was talking to fast to keep up with myself. Within the period of the 2 and half hour dinner my French friends informed me, after I had recounted a conversation earlier in the day, that I had told O. (a middle-aged lady who works in the science laboratory) that I wanted to have sex with her. My intention was to simply say, “I’m hot.” I had just returned from a long run. My face turned a shade of red to be sure. Then, they asked Kira and I if we had started dreaming in French. I reached for the wrong word (wanting the word for conversation), I grabbed the word for relationship and said, “I have sex in French in my dreams.” My face turned a second shade of red. Then, discussing class, I informed them that I took small groups of students and worked with them individually. Strike three. Apparently the way in which I formed the sentence translates as, “I take small groups of students and have sex with them.” My face turned that 3rd shade of red. The external manifestations of this embarrassment were the glass of water that I knocked on the floor, the forkfull of food that I dropped on my cuff and the carafe of water that I knocked over and which proceeded to fill Kira’s plate rendering the floating remnants of her salad thoroughly unappetizing and in the end, inedible. My food was good though.

Today, I went to the grocery store and went through the checkout line only to be told (in a not so nice tone) that I was in the easy-pass line and she wanted to see my easy-pass card. I showed her my card and she said, “That’s not your easy-pass card, that’s a fidelity card. You have to buy an easy pass card so you can use these lines, it’s a privilege. You getting in front of all these people who have their easy-pass cards is not nice.” After refusing to accept my apology and giving me a long long scowl she checked me out after I assured her that I would never do it again. Sheesh, how do you say bitch in French again? This afternoon, I had lunch with my friend Guillaume who is learning and speaks pretty excellent English. He has some problems with pronunciation though. Imagine: we have many more vowel sounds than they do in French - many don’t even really exist. Plus, you can’t know how a vowel is pronounced just by reading the word. You can’t even surmise how the vowel might be pronounced by looking at a similar word. Take the example of the word country. I think that is the word Guillaume had in the back of his mind when he said, “Count”. My eyes got wide, and I immediately told him that he could never ever say that again.

Views of Champagne and Sugar Beets

My best attribute is...

So I'm working a lot with these older students in the Electrotechnics program. Side-note, I feel like an idiot because I don't even know if electrotechnics is a word in English, and moreover, I don't exactly understand what their types of things they are learning - could it possibly be electrician type stuff? But because they are on a more technical track, I'm working with them on practical things like, how to present yourself in a job interview. It's pretty tedious. For some of these guys, it's just not clicking. Last week I was asking about past job experience - fine. A. described his job as a security guard in an office building. I asked him to describe what he liked most about his job, and he responded (asking for help a for a few words with the phrase, "What is the English for __Insert French Word____"). When we finally got his response translated, put together correctly, it was something like this, "My favorite thing about my job was getting to search the bodies of pretty girls." I asked, "A., imagine that you are interviewing for a job right now. Are you going to tell your employer that your favorite thing about your job was feeling up women?" He said, "Yes, of course, it shows that I have a good humor." Today, the Question du Jour was, "What is your best attribute?" So, "What's your best attribute?" I asked W. He responded, "My best attribute is my regularity." I laughed and told him, without explaining my chuckles, that he meant to say punctuality. At least I assume he meant punctuality. It would be a sad thing if all someone had going for them was their regularity - though better than nothing, I guess.

Je suis bien tombé…

I am the proud owner of a brand new bicycle. Somewhat proud. It’s not like my bike at home. It doesn’t go fast. It’s a hybrid. It has a rack on the back so I can carry stuff. It’s my utility bike that I absolutely need to go places like the supermarket or basically anywhere. My school is on top of the hill looking over town and it’s such an annoying walk – wah wah wah. So, being the rational young man that I am, I also purchased a helmet when I got said bike. I wear said helmet, too, on all my excursions around town. [Background, My high school is a compound of several large buildings that are surrounded by a fence and you have to go out through one small red gate that’s specifically for pedestrians the other big gates are just for cars. You can’t smoke inside the compound so you most exit through the pedestrian gate. As water follows the path of least resistance, so do the smokers. They stand on either side of the gate as close as possible to the school without breaking the rules. It seems that the students do the same. I don’t know if it’s a case of follow the leader, but they cluster around the gate in huge groups spilling further and further into the 1.5 lane one-way Rue des Chesneaux that passes in front of the school.] It seems that I most always start and end my excursions on the hour when students have a short break before needing to hurry to their next class so there are always droves of them standing by that damn gate that I need to walk out. They all know me, that American in their classes and they stare at me like an animal at the zoo, the helmet pushes them over the edge though. First of all, no biker wears a helmet in France, except for the road bikers who were decked out in their spandex of whom I have seen very few. It should be expected then that I get all sorts of comments and laughs about my head attire, and I do. Teasing aside, I went mountain biking with a few teachers Wednesday. I felt bad for them because they were kind enough to invite lost old me along, and here I am with a bike that is a little bit more a mountain bike than a road bike, but still – not meant for such trails they took me down which were many – we were gone for 4 hours. They took me on the Grand Tour de Chateau Thierry. Feeling it necessary to take me to the American Cemetery and American Monument commemorating the American role in the battle next door in Belleau Wood in WWI.

Change of gears (so to speak). In class this week, I finally settled into my routine – taking students out of class and working with them in small groups. Some of the students that I work with have already graduated high school and are currently in a technical program at the high school which gives them some kind of training in electrotechnics (I am unsure how to translate electrotechnique and I feel like an anglophone imposter everytime someone asks me how to say it English). So, this group of students are 20 years old or so. Anyway, I met them on Monday and we were doing a question and answer session: ask me what it’s like in America… One student asked me, “Woould yu leek tu go tu zee poob weet me an my freenz Thuursdai?” After an awkward pause, I said that I would have to check to see if going to a bar with my students was expressly forbidden, could lead to the termination of my contract, get me deported from France, etc. After a talking with a teacher who said he didn’t see anything wrong with it (and offered to come along if it would make me feel more comfortable! – I told him I could handle it), I accepted the next day. So, I expected that Thursday, I would go with S. and his friends to the bar for a beer or two – I was a little off the mark. First was S. house where I had a beer with him and J. (nicknamed Tonton [uncle]). Then it was off to Carrefour (the supermarket) where we bought frozen pizzas and a bottle of whiskey. Then it was off to L.'s apartment to fetch him and R.. Then it was off to B.’s where we spent a few hours eating pizza, drinking whiskey, and hard cider. Then it was off to the Comptoir Latino (Latino Counter), which I am happy to report was much more up my alley than Bar du Centre-Ville. I had one beer (half pint – 3.50 euro [~$5], ouch) before finally excusing myself to head back to school. It was midnight and I hadn’t yet prepared for my classes that started at nine the next morning.

So, somehow, I have fallen into all sorts of people who are interested (up till the present at least) in being friendly, and have been met with almost exclusively positive reactions. For instance, I went to the market this morning and a man selling apples gave me a kilo of apples for free, I guess because I spoke passable French, also he lived in Washington State for a year, learning how to run an orchard, I think is what he said, and was excited to hear that my brother was living there now. Unfortunately, I had to turn down an invitation to go the movies with a group of teachers tomorrow. Why? Because, L. invited me to his birthday party…

Castles and Xenophobes

Chateau Thierry, so named, as you might have guessed, for the Medieval Castle (Chateau=Castle) that dominate(s/d) the hill overlooking both the old downtown and overlooking the Marne. There are various placards posted around the hill and throughout the archaeological site that explain the history of the castle, the evolution of its fortifications through the centuries and what famous endeavours it figured into. Unfortunately, I can't tell you much about this because, while I am able to get around alright in everyday situations ie. ordering coffee or asking for directions, for some reason in college they didn't teach us many words relating to the fields of masonry or the military so I didn't really get much out of those little paragraphs. I do think that the building was begun in the 12th century and Joan of Arc marched triumphantly through the gate (look at the photo that I posted a few days ago) in 1429 during some battle in the 100 years war. Besides that I'm not so sure. Anyway, the castle itself is gone, I believe you can see its foundations on the top of the hill, but the surrounding ramparts are still in pretty good shape. The end effect is one where I am able to squint my eyes, pretend that the year is 1300 and imagine the good life that the lord and lady must be living inside (compared to me the lowly serf). Well, inside the walls kind of feels like a city park with a path around the outside and lots of pretty good sized trees. Only the extraordinary view from the top of the Medieval walls and turrets displels that more pedestrian semblance. So I went on a little run yesterday making a little circle on a path around the bottom of the castle walls before i passed over the mini bridge which passed over what once was a moat, through the double gate and onto the interior grounds. I jogged around the inside and when I was ready to head back I took the alternate way back which was ... through a narrow opening in the side of one of those turrets, into an unlit stairway smelling of centuries of must down the spiral staircase whose stone steps have had their edges worn smooth by countless people running up and down through the ages, and finally out of the second narrow arched doorway out of the turret at ground level outside of the castle. Again, with just a pinch of imagination I could have continued down the second flight of stairs (which actually only exists in my imagination) and walked into the dungeon with the rows of prisoners chained to the walls. So, yes, different scenery here compared to what I am accustomed.

To briefly discuss xenophobia, that is fear of foreigners, let me recount an anecdote. In the months leading up to my departure to France, and the numerous times that I got to explain to people where I was going and what I would be doing, one of the most common reactions that I came across was that I should be careful about the French. After all, they hate Americans. Right? I was of the opinion, perhaps a living a little on the sunny side of life, that there would be ignorant Frenchmen just as there are Americans and those that I would be interested in meeting would accept or reject me based more on my character than my nationality. Fast forward to a few nights ago. Kira (the German assistant working at my school) and Shireen and Sandra (the English and German, respectively, assistants at the other high school in town) wanted to have a Wednesday night on the town. However, it seems that this place closes up even earlier than Vermont, which is certainly saying something. Almost all the establishments advertising themselves as bars, whether they are or not is up for discussion, close at 8 or 9 at night. One place, however, was open – the Bar de Centre-Ville (the Downtown Bar). It is decorated like I always imagine Back Home Again (a Lord of The Rings themed restaurant ran by a religious cult in central Vermont which has been much touted over the years by Kristin). Yes, let it suffice to say that the landscape painted on the wall in what appeared to be tempra paint could have been done by someone with much less skill than me and certainly with less taste. Anyway, not all the French are super-chic. There’s some pretty rough ones too. It appears that they like to congregate at Bar de Centre-Ville. A fairly international table, 2 Germans, 1 American, and a girl from Trinidad and Tobago. When the bartender asked us what we wanted to drink, the girl from Trinidad asked for wine but kind of mixed up the words which got him off to a rough start. He called for a plump man on the patio who spoke English to come translate for us. The other 3 of us certainly spoke better French than he English, yet we were forced wait patiently as he struggled to understand a question such as “How much?” and come up with a way to tell us. So then we became the center of all attention in the bar. A woman behind us with a particularly low voice. Certainly lower than my own – I did many double takes to check for the presence of an Adam’s Apple, there was none. She must have had a rough life. The evening certainly took a turn for the interesting when she threw her miniature pinscher into our booth and whom she proceeded to instruct to bouffe (eat) the foreigners. When we got the dog thing straightened out (it was just as confused as we were), we spent the next 20 minutes or so listening to this woman railing against us and were pleasantly amused as she went through the list of nationalities that she thought that we were. It started off as Quebecois but by the end of the evening she had decided quite certainly that we were English. 0 for 4. Unfortunately as we were leaving Shireen bent over and petted the dog making little noises and told the woman how cute her dog was. Perfect encouragement for one more harangue before we left. So, the moral of the story is that we will not be going back to Bar de Centre-Ville and that xenophobia is not just aimed at Americans, the Brits and the Canucks get theirs in good turn as well.

Visuals

I live on the top floor of the high in which I work (Lycee Jules Verne). Yes, I actually have two balconies. Regard, the East. Note Medieval portal.



Now the West. I believe the hill in the background is covered with Champagne vineyards.



And every town should have its name written in flowers along the banks of a river. Am I right?

Red Tape? More please!

Thus came to an end my first week in France. Much as I would like to blame my strange sleeping habits on jet lag, I have adjusted to the new time zones. If only every adjustment moved at such a natural pace. Of course, I studied a significant amount of French in college - enough to say just about anything that I need to - albeit sometimes in a rather inelegant manner. So why, then, was I surprised to hear that here, in France everybody speaks, well, French. Maybe surprised isn't quite the right word, but nonetheless the auditory sight of everyone around me jibber jabbering away in that other language that I speak reamains somewhat surreal. Oh yeah, nobody spoke English in Madagascar, but I knew that I didn't speak Malagasy, so there was no real point in straining my ears and my mind trying to decipher the words flying back and forth through the air. If people needed me they new they could reach me in French. Life was easy. Now, though, I actually do speak the language that everyone around me does, although about 30% as well. What hidden instructions may be hidden in each and every interaction I have with someone. What long list of things will go wrong if I don't correctly comprehend each little detail. Enter stress stage left. Never before have I been so hyper-conscious of the words coming out of my mouth nor of the words filtering in. When I went to a one day orientation for all the language assistants stationed in Picardy (the region in France in which I live), speaking English again was like a glass of iced tea on a hot summer day or [insert simile of choice].

On a less psychological level, this country is in love with its paperwork. I already applied for and received a visa before I left - but it's only good for three months in France - not sufficient for my seven. Therefore I have to apply for my carte de sejour, my residence permit or green card if you will. Fine, well, before I can apply for carte de sejour I have to have opened up a bank account in France. Well, apparently it's the national law (or something) that you have to have a carte de sejour before you are able to open an account. Well, with a little fancy footwork including signed contracts from my school, attestations that I had a place to live in France and some who do you know type stuff going on, the bank account is in the process of moving forward. Now getting back to my carte de sejour, I have to have a medical examination (before which I have to have enrolled in the social security program here which also requires a bank account) and a translated copy of my birth certificate. Of course the translator lives in another town, so the delays add up. Luckily for me though, on a rough week I only work 12 hours a week and suffice it to say that while my contract started on Wednesday the expectation that I be in the classroom ready to go (thankfully) did not. So, with many a trip to the office to beg (the secretary) Sylvie's help, I am on my way to successfully, I hope, navigating that treacherous sea of paperwork.