the rest of the story (so far)

Ok, now that I have my computer up and running on French power:

The rest of the story.
(by the way, it sure feels good to type on an “international” keyboard as opposed to the French keyboard, zhere everthing you type co,es out like this; It cqn be very trying; I zonder if other countries use the “internqtionql keyboqrd” or zhether they hqve their own qnd “internqtionql” just ,eqns “English;”)

Dqy I mean day two: I was tired. I mean really, really tired. And stupid. This is the word professor McGonagal used. I don’t think it’s as strong, or at least it can be used in a more temporary sense, in Scottish. I was introduced to lots and lots of people whose names I didn’t remember at the time (I’m getting a little better), and then set about trying to find a place to live. I fixed a rendez-vous (not necessarily of a romantic kind, in French) with a man in town for 12:30. Whoops, it’s already 11.

***long complicated story follows. If you don’t want to bother, skip down to the ***

So I get on the bus and get down there. Looks like I’m in the area just in time. Only I was so out of it last night (and this morning) that not only do I not know the man’s name, I have no idea what his street number is. But I have his phone number.

So I go into a bar-tabac (think bar/café/ convenience store w/out the food) to ask where there is a phone. Right across the street, silly. So call him. He isn’t there. I call his mobile. He still isn’t there. I wander around for a bit, wondering if I should just give it up. I find the phone again and call him again. He asks where I am and if he should just pick me up in his car. Don’t worry, Mom, I told him I’d prefer to find it myself. He’s there and gives me directions, telling me the name of the road. It is not the road I thought it was. Silly me, didn’t ask how to spell it. Kept asking people where it was. Nobody knows.

I call again. Am I sure I don’t want him to just pick me up? Yes, I’m quite sure, thank you very much. Just tell me the address.

Beep. Silence. My phone card has just run out.

Now you can’t use just any phone card in a French telephone. It must be a France Telecom card (or at least have a toll-free French access number; well, I didn’t think of that and it’s a good thing I didn’t because then I wouldn’t have been able to call all of you later on when I did.) So I go into the bar-tabac to buy one. I’ve decided on one and go to pay when, what do you know, they can’t accept my bank card. It has a magnetic strip, and all the cards in France now have microchips. And no one takes American travelers checks. I am exactly 20 cents short of the price in Euros. Also, all the banks and post offices are closed until 2 because it is lunchtime. Now I could have easily found an ATM machine, I realize that now. Maybe I was too tired to think. Maybe I didn’t want to find out that none of them worked either. More probably I was so focused on not panicking or breaking down crying from the sheer frustration of it all that I wasn’t thinking too hard. I was also very, very hungry.

Nothing I can do about the appointment. Time to eat.

Step into a nice little boulangerie-patisserie restaurant. Make the waitress understand that really I don’t need the salad and the cheese and the desert, just a nice little quiche. Try not to gross people out too much with my table manners. Refuse mineral water; luckily the waitress seems to understand and brings what must have been tap water. I try to sneak the bread into my purse when no one is looking. At this rate, you never know.

I’m feeling much better. The monsieur trying to pick me up is now busy until five o’clock. Fine. I will see him then. A tout à l’heure. Just as well, I have an appointment to see another place at seven, which I was very smart to make before I even came here and realized the murky swamp waters getting around here entails. Call other places. Most are full, as most house students and all the students have just settled in ahead of me. So much for waiting until you get there to find a place. Arrange a meeting for early tomorrow. Bon. Walk around a whole lot. Then realize that there may be no more busses to get back into the country if I wait that long. Call back Monsieur. 12:30 tomorrow. Fine. Change 7 o’clock to Saturday morning.

***so, bref, much ado about nothing accomplished. I walked around all day and yes, used up another phone card for nothing. Wrote it all off as a learning experience.

I was glad I saved the bread though (ha, don’t you wish you’d read the whole story now?) because I took a nap and ended up sleeping through most of dinner. When I went begging they gave me a little cheese and a big hunk ‘o bread, didn’t charge me. Waved and said hi to the students, who didn’t seem too interested. Oh well. Back to sleep. Woke up again around one.

Day three:
Boy do my legs hurt.
But no worries.
Found a bank. Looked at two apartments. One was very nice, beautiful view, quite affordable with the right paperwork (I qualify for housing assistance). Monsieur turns out to be a lawyer. His wife teaches French as a second language. They have a six-month old baby and a six-year old. The upstairs is reserved for students, and there is already a Chinese and an Indian girl living there. He suggests it might behoove me to try to learn Chinese, as it has the largest population of speakers.

The other place has a chapel.

Guess which one I pick.

Ok, mom, it’s not as bad as all that. This place is the same price as the other without all the paperwork (trust me, I’m wading through enough French paperwork as it is. I think that envelope you gave me for my papers has doubled in size), has probably a little more space, I only have to share the bathroom with two or three more people than in the other place, and the fridge and microwave they gave me can be augmented by a hot plate, which one of the teachers said she’d lend me, so the “kitchen area” is pretty much the same. The room is essentially a dorm, located in the Rouen Diocesan center, which was once a seminary. Their real chapel has been converted into an, albeit beautiful, amphitheater. (Ok, theater with stadium seating. They call them amphitheaters around here, even when they are indoors), and there’s a little room with the altar and the blessed sacrament and an icon of Mary, with benches and appropriate lighting and little portable kneelers and cushions. Quite functional. The lady who showed me the room seemed ready to bend over backwards to make sure I had everything I needed. She also, while she had me trapped in the “amphitheater” gave me a lecture on how there will be an ecological catastrophe if Americans don’t mend their ways. I’ll get right on it as soon as I have regular internet access.
So it’s not a hike to Mount Everest to get there (unlike the other place), They don’t want $75 dollars to house visiting friends (unlike the other place COMEVISITME), and it’s still right close to down town, metro stops, shopping, restaurants, cathedrals, the place where Jeanne d’Arc was burned, etc. But it’s a safe area with lots of nice students and it’s warm don’t worry about me mom.


Day four: Saturday

Went to look at the other place. It’s a little out of the way, and I’ve already decided.

Bummed around town some more. Called John. Ran into the Benedictine sisters of the Blessed Sacrament (sweet), bought a rosary.

Had dinner with some of the other English teachers. We’ll call them Pierre, Anastasia and Maude. Pierre is very single and lives with his Labrador (must be very popular dogs in France) – she’s adorable. And very well behaved. Except during the cheese course. Anyway, I’d heard when you go to people’s houses to have dinner in France you can bring flowers. Not wine, you silly American, that’s like bringing a can of green beans. So I consult a florist on what to bring a man who’s hosting a dinner and she puts together this Calla lily with these orange peppers and some palm leaves and bamboo- voila. Suitably masculine, and affordable, flower arrangement. See photo. (If you guys (John, Justin and Tom) don’t know what they are, you might want to look close as there’s a good chance you’ll be wearing one next August 12. But not purple.)
Maude picked me up. We got lost. It’s out in the country past all these roundabouts (grand points) and she’s no better with maps than I am. Ok, she is, because she knows the area better. But we still had to call Pierre several times. He welcomes us in, takes our things, he’s cooking something delicious. But let me explain a little better the cast of characters.
Anastasia is incredibly stylish. She puts together these awesome outfits and has this bobbed hair the shade of Axelle Red’s (John knows what I’m talking about. I don’t think she sings like her though.) I saw her at work in jeans and this green blazer that looked like a rag rug, over a sweater, with these earrings- she looked so posh! And you’d think she’d be snobby but she isn’t in the least (see next entry). She also is the one who is lending me the hotplate. She brought the guy she is cohabitating with, Paul, who is also very nice, but a little quiet. Reminds me a little of some of the engineering guys back at school, except he’s actually much more into the humanities and is also teaching them in a Lycée (but not English). Maude is quite soft spoken, with short curly hair and glasses, dresses more like I do. Pierre is quite professorish, in a friendly sort of way. He reminds me a little of our Physics teacher back in highschool, enthusiastic and buoyant about his subject, with a quiet and kind voice. Only less into the Beetles.

In fact, everyone was so cultured, talking about the theater and books and opera music. Seriously. I felt like I could sum up Jeff Foxworthy’s comedy in “You might be a redneck if you’re: American.” Not to bash America. I just felt a little behind. I guess these are teachers; that isn’t to say all random people in France are the same. Teachers also seem to work in better conditions here (more about that later), and so seem to attract stronger students (who aren’t necessarily living off the moral benefits of teaching- thank you to our wonderful teachers, don’t think I’m degrading what you do). Definitely more the haute PBS crowd. I did, however, understand a good 70% of what was said, and we did talk about some books I knew. Like the Da Vinci Code. They all thought it was full of “conneries” (B.S.), though they said nothing of its historical or theological aspects. They were appalled at how he had the layout of Paris all wrong. You cannot simply look around you and see the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower and whatever else he said was there all in one place. Paris is a big city, and its wonders are, well, a little more spread out. You also cannot run straight from L’Arc de Triomphe into the bad part of Paris. Apparently the bad part of Paris is mostly way out in the suburbs (side note- they’re trying to explain to me how new teachers always end up teaching in the suburbs, which are like our inner cities. I said the suburbs I had been in weren’t so bad, and mentioned where I’d stayed last time was in France. They laughed at me. I think I’d said something akin to “Big cities in America aren’t so bad. Why, I stayed in Buckhead in Atlanta…”) All this was corrected in the French translation of the book (which is everywhere around here).

We also talked about Harry Potter some: formulaic, they said, but mixed well so it worked. Can’t argue there J) Funny- when I say “Harry Potter,” no one knows what I’m talking about unless I try to use a really really exaggerated French accent. Maybe I should just pretend to be Fleur.

Points to me: They were all impressed I knew what Proust’s “Madeleine” was. Thank you, Haiku U.

This was all sitting in the living room drinking the aperatif- I had orange juice, others had wine or vodka- with some crackers. This lasted a good 45 minutes. Eventually we moved onto the salad (entrée)- tomatoes, avacado, lettuce, and tuna. Great. Then was served the entrée (plat principal)- Lamb (mea culpa!!!) and Potates Gratin à la Dauphinoise. Think Potatoes au Gratin only better, with a subtler kind of cheese. Then came the compulsory cheese and bread. Don’t remember what they all were, but there were three kinds. This was where the Labrador decided she was invited. She kept poking her nose up through my arms by my plate. And finally: desert. Tarte aux pommes- not quite apple pie, with a pearsauce (like applesauce but with pears) from Pierre’s grandmother’s orchard. Besides being cow country, Normandy is also apple country and this is apple time. Then back into the living room. We’ve come full circle. We talk another 45 minutes over tea and coffee. It is now 1:30 am and I’m stifling yawns. Finally people decide they have enough work to do tomorrow to get ready for Monday that the party must break up. “French kisses” all around. Much nicer than clubbing. For me at least.


Day 5- Sunday

Went to mass at the Cathedral, Nôtre Dame de Rouen- it happens to be the feast of its dedication. Choristers who look like miniature monks complete with scapulars, organ, incense, the whole nine yards. But I’m sitting on the side, close to the altar so the echoes don’t interfere with my comprehension too much. I’d planned to be at the Benedictines- but once again, I’d neglected to look at the bus schedules when making plans. You’d think I’d learned by now. But you know this is me, so no, you probably wouldn’t think. I only get a little lost on the way to Anastasia’s. She lives in town, right off a metro stop. I would have been fine if I hadn’t been running late and too impatient to actually wait for the metro (fewer of them, being Sunday). But she spots me from afar and takes me home. Again, aperitifs, don’t remember what kind of crackers we had with it, only that I ate a lot of whatever it was, then salad, some sort of Asian dish with noodles- she apologized that it wasn’t particularly French. It was good anyway. We skipped the cheese and went straight for the heart- tarte aux fraises (strawberry tarte). By this time, Anastasia’s friend, “Jeanne” had shown up. Jeanne, Anastasia explained, has a tendency to catch accents as one catches a cold. Having spent several months in Texas, Jeanne had a rather Texasish drawl. It sounded like some Texas- Minnasota hybrid to me, but was definitely understandable and quite American. Jeanne is also studying to be an English teacher. All the other English teachers have very British accents, and use rather British words, like “till” and ‘brilliant,” and , as Pierre would use as an example of things British people try to get French people to say when they’re trying to be funny, “French Envelope.” (If you don’t know what it means- don’t worry about it.) Anyway, another nice time sitting around with coffee and tea. Everyone else smoked but were very nice about opening the window and blowing it away from me…I’m so pampered! Anastasia even let me use her phone to call home. She swore it didn’t cost too much…I hope so.

Day 6- Monday
It’s la journée des assistants. Lots of other people milling around speaking languages other than French. At least seventy Americans, a few British, Canadians (including 3 who had duel Canadian/Polish citizenship. Who woulda thunk there were so many Polish-Canadians?), New Zealanders, Jamaicans, Indians, in addition to the assistants for other languages, Russian, Arabic, German, Spanish, Portugese, Italian…quite exciting. And overwhelming. It didn’t seem like we accomplished much other than being welcomed in all the different languages and having all our paperwork explained to us very quickly in French. Too quickly for me. They tried to go over everything with us in English later, but for some unknown reason they decided to split us up into primary and secondary schools, and then into European English/ other English. And then we found ourselves in front of a nice British lady who could answer none of our pressing visa questions, because the nice American lady went with the primary school people. I’m still trying to figure out why they didn’t just split us up European/other. Oh well. Note of explanation: It’s a whole lot easier to work in France if you’re from the European Union (so the Polish- Canadians had the advantage). The French paperwork monster likes to prey on us étrangèr(e)s. In case I haven’t complained about it before, France has all the benefits and problems of both a parliamentary government and a democratic government. Result: you can’t so much as buy a lottery ticket without an attestation de whatever, and a photocopie of it, 2 photos d’identification, your passport and two copies of it, all of last year’s paystubs, and photocopies, your first grade report card (and a photocopy of it), the receipt and report from your most recent oil change (and a copy of it)…well, you get the idea. The great thing is that none of the actual administrators want to deal with all this either, so they refuse to make photocopies of anything themselves. I’ve heard so many French people have complained about bureaucratic paperwork that I don’t feel out of place contributing…
But yes, no one could tell us anything about visas. I still don’t know how to go about getting my birth certificate translated. We tried to call the prefecture, where I’m going to apply for my titre de séjour, but they said their next permanence de telephone (time you could call and talk to a real person) was October the 17th. The Embassy could tell me nothing, except that if they didn’t specify that the translation had to be official, I was probably ok, but that didn’t necessarily mean that after waiting in line starting at six o’clock in the morning (and that isn’t an exaggeration: that’s the time I was told I should probably be there to ensure that I wouldn’t stand in line all day until the place closed without being seen.) they wouldn’t say “oops, you need something else, come back another day.” AAARRRGGGGHH!
Day 7- Tuesday
There was a strike today. Only one out of every three busses were running, so lots of students were absent. A lot of the teachers were taking part and weren’t at school, though I hear most of the strikers work at the university. I asked one of the students what it was all about and they just shrugged and mumbled something about the French liking to strike. One of the teachers said it was more or less a bi-annual thing. There is almost always a major strike of some sort in the Fall and in the Spring. One of the main issues here, I finally dragged out of someone, was that someone was considering doing away with professional substitute teachers and making other teachers fill in when someone was absent for too long. Now, French teachers work pretty good hours compared to American teachers- they actually have time built in for planning lessons. And this is with their 35 hour work week, 5 weeks paid vacation in addition to summers, etc. Not that this isn’t the way it should be. But they pay for this: for their great pay and working conditions they seem to have fairly large unemployment rate. And then there is everything getting interrupted twice a year for strikes. Another of the teachers mentioned that the students strike sometimes too- but not as often. She could only remember it happening about three times in the last eight years. The average French citizen seems to know quite well how to defend his/her rights. But some of the other teachers seemed to feel pressured into throwing themselves into the mob. There seems to be a lot of pressure to join unions and be really active in them.
I decided I had to do something downtown. Big mistake. When the bus finally came we got deadlocked in traffic. I got off fairly early and walked the rest of the way (my poor legs), and kept trying to avoid the crowds like a good safe American traveler, but they were everywhere…parades and signs and drums and slogans. Nothing that seemed more dangerous than your average fourth of July parade…but it was no ordinary day.
Wednesday Thursday Friday: observing classes. Lots of questions, some offered spontaneously, others fairly dragged out of the students by professors: Where are you from? Have you ever been to L.A.? Do you like Bush? Do you like Eminem, 50 cents, Snoop Doggy Dog? Why are you here? Why do you study French? Do you speak any other languages? What’s the weather like where you come from? Was your area hit by Hurricaine Katrina? How many brothers and sisters do you have? Does your brother speak French? Do you like French cheese? Do you like Rouen? Have you been to France before? Do you like Paris? What French movies do you like? What French actors do you know? How long are you staying? Are you going to be a French teacher? An English teacher? What are you doing after you leave here, anyway? Do you like Tony Parker? Céline Dion? Johnny Hallyday?
They seemed rather disappointed that I didn’t know who Tony Parker was. Ok, so you quiz me: Name a basketball player, any basketball player currently playing, and I think the only name I could come up with is LeBron James (sp?), and only because you really can’t avoid it in Cleveland. I didn’t know San Antonio even had a team (they do, don’t they?) much less that they had a French player, a player from Normandy, in fact. Que je suis conne! So please, Val, or anyone, please educate me: can you tell me anything about this team or this player? Or better yet- send me a bubblegum card!
A bit exhausting, though exciting. So many can hardly communicate at all in English, and some seem fairly comfortable with it. So many classes seemed to have 2-3 people asking all the questions, smiling, nodding, and everyone else staring blank faced. I just couldn’t speak slow enough!
There is much to be strategized.
Saturday:
Bummed around all day. Slept late. Had an adventure finding a clock radio. Anastasia told me to try Monoprix. Monoprix told me to try LeClerc (I heard L’eau Claire). I take the metro and wander around this mall for about an hour looking for L’eau Claire, kept asking directions from people who seemed quite convinced it was very simple to find. As it was. LeClerc is a huge supermarket, which in France amounts to a super Walmart, only people are walking around with bread and dogs in little baskets under their arms, and you can find Moliere and Antigone in the book section, in addition to Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. Several detours, but I have my clock radio, for a meager 5 euros, and have been listening to France Bleu, which seems to play everything from Aretha Franklin to Céline Dion to REM to MC Solaar (France’s own rap star) to “Sexual Healing.” There was also this great Franglais song à la Dean Martin that went something like: “you are for me, for me, for me, formidable!”

Sunday: Went to mass at St. Romain (I think), was kicked out much more nicely (Excusez moi, mademoiselle, mais on est en train de fermer) than I was at L’Oratoire St-Joseph in Montréal (ON FERME.) Bought a piece of apple cake from some girl scouts (I think they were girl scouts). Would have bought the madeleines but they wanted 8 euros for them. Talk about inflation. Ate reconstituted noodles in a plastic cup for lunch. And for dinner. Bought a nice new soft baguette and walked around eating it. Cleaned up a little. Read the newspaper. Apparently the French soccer team played last night and may or may not be qualified for the world cup. I have to admit I’m interested to see how they did. Allez les bleus! Went to vespers chez les Benedictines, which was great except they kept switching between Latin and French and I couldn’t keep up. I think there were only about ten of them. Some seemed on the young side, but still…if you’re so inclined, pray for vocations for them! (and you can call John and thank him, Mom, that you don’t have to worry about me joining their numbers)

Ok, so I’m now up to date (whew.) Sorry if I bored you. I’m trying to do an entry a day. Maybe I’ll do a week in review for those who really don’t feel like analyzing what I had for desert every evening. Have a lot more I want to comment on but it can wait for now. Tomorrow I brave trains and trams to get to my doctors appointment, necessary for my titre de séjour, as I am from outside the European Union and therefore may not be healthy enough to stay in the country. Or that’s what the nice British lady kept joking at our meeting. And it’s in Paris. They tried to get it closer, but no dice. I plan to make a day of it, at the least. Bon soir à toutes et à tous.