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.