I’m starting to develop a serious urge to start writing about all the Frantastic things that are happening here, but first let me lay out a few facts. About 8,001 people live in Pézenas, and the 8,001st lives on the 3rd floor of the student dormitories at Charles Allies Professional High School. He enjoys the local cuisine immensely, and uses his patchwork linguistic knowledge to maintain a pseudo-teaching position, thus allowing him to continue tasting all things local and delicious. (Back to the first person) After about 4 weeks of being here, I have to say this place has begun to have an incredibly positive effect on me. At the very beginning I enjoyed it because of the climate, the sea, and the little lizards that spastically cruise around the pavement like they own the place. But very quickly I found that, based on horrifying testimonies from other English assistants in the region, I am very fortunate to have been specifically placed at Charles Allies. The people here have made this an amazing experience, not necessarily the consistent weeks of 70 degrees with sun.
...Okay, that’s a lie. Like the unification of Jif Super Chunk peanut butter and Smucker’s raspberry preserves, it’s the combination of the two that makes this a truly unique adventure. Moving on!
One surprising evening I met a couple from Indiana at a local café. When they looked at me incredulously after I mentioned, in true Midwestern diplomatic fashion, that our Minnesota Gophers had humiliated their Hoosiers the evening prior, our conversation quickly shifted to the question, "What are you doing here?" In America I believe the equivalent to this would be, "Why are you not wearing pants today?" It’s a pertinent issue that demands investigation. Because as appealing as it seems to visit a quaint French village with a rich history, vibrant weekend markets, and more scenic vineyards than bidets, Pézenas finds itself smack dab in the middle of about 10 other villages which offer nearly the same or better experience. To the southeast, most honeymooning couples would find the beaches of Sète plus manifiques, and everyone else would probably want to re-enact battle scenes from the movie Gladiator in the Roman arenas of nearby Nîmes. It’s hard to believe that a city like Pézenas, with buildings dating back to before the days of J.C., simply wouldn’t be unique enough to warrant some serious tourism. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not calling upon the people of the world to rediscover this place. On the contrary, it works absolutely in my favor. A tourist walking the streets on a weekday in October is about as common as a baguette being cooked in a microwave. As a result I have often found myself being treated as a local, until I start trying to speak the local language.
In truth, my French is not that bad. I was a bit concerned when a student asked me how many years I had studied French, and I came to grips with the frightening reality that I’d been hitting the books de grammaire for nine years. Nine years and I can’t understand a word anyone is saying, I thought. There’s a nice little title on my college transcript that says “French Minor,” which I probably milked dry of any credibility a long time ago. Fortunately, like so many things, “minor” has a fantastically different spelling in French: “sous-spécialisation.” So in my mind, that’s got to have added at least a couple more weeks of swagger. Either way, I’m learning. There are days where I wish I had the camera out because I just explained to a group of students how the Green Bay Packers almost won the NFC Championship last year. But then there are days where I almost completely shut down and can’t even grab a single word from a colleague’s conversation and run with it. That’s okay, says everyone, and I believe it because most of them can’t understand my language…another eye-opening experience to add to the collection. On those days, it’s nice to know that I have that 3rd-floor room in which to retire, and a place to rest my brain until I’m ready for the next moment of discovery to find its way in.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
J'arrive Part II
(Also written 24 September 2008)
During the smooth, 3.5-hour train ride from Paris to Montpellier, I sat across from Michel, a doctor from Quebec, and a young French woman who I believe was a student and seasoned world traveler. I learned three important items from our conversation: first, apparently it’s possible to help out with the vineyard harvest in my new hometown. That would be a bit different from tractor rides at the local apple orchard back home. Second, my French is rusty and often met with blank expressions; third, people from Canada rock. Michel had a mesmerizing Quebecoisian accent when he spoke English, and on top of that he provided a lot of encouragement for my upcoming journey. What was probably an everyday exchange for them was a mind-blowing experience for me. Over the next seven months, I would be meeting with and living amongst French-speaking people from all over the world. My comfort zone was being seriously violated, but I couldn’t have been more excited.
That afternoon I arrived in Montpellier, which is similar to Minneapolis in population but refreshingly different in every way I was hoping for. ALL of the buildings were old, with Godfather-Part-2-style shingling and wonderfully cliché time-blanched walls. I scarcely had time to enjoy my first café when I was whisked away by a friendly, English-speaking Marie-Pierre “MaPi” Estaban, head of the language department at my future workplace. I’d received a warm reception from her via email before departing, but this was unprecedented. Every question I asked in transit was met with more than I bargained for. Along the way another English teacher, Patricia, took the second leg of the journey to the school. She talked to me in a reassuring Franco-Irish accent about day-to-day life in the south of France. I may have missed a few points as I gawked at the enormous vineyards on either side of the highway with gorgeous mountains and the Mediterranean Sea beyond, but her and MaPi’s gesture was more than I could have asked for as a newcomer. People don’t really work here, do they?
After I had dropped off the wonky roller suitcase and backpack in my on-campus apartment at the Lycée Professionnel Charles Allies, Patricia left me with the headmaster, or “proviseur,” M. Augier. We talked about the essentials: “l’argent” (money), and “manger” (eating), along with a brief history of the school as he pointed to an 8” x 11” printer photo of the school’s namesake, Charles Allies, taped and unframed on the wall in his office. At the end of our conversation, M. Augier mentioned something about it “all being very French,” which I took to be a good sign given the country we were in and the language we were speaking. He had a comfortingly official guise about him, and he became increasingly welcoming as the introductions progressed. He also didn’t speak a lick of English, which gave me great practice with the language. Before I knew it, the time had come to manger le diner.
In France, every meal is ceremonious. This is something that I would learn no more than 1 hour after arriving at Charles Allies. Jet-lagged and dumbfounded by the sheer brainpower required to speak so much French in real-life situations, M. Augier led me into the school’s canteen that was, at the moment, packed with a queue of hungry students. As we headed straight for them, a few of them licked their lips, though later I decided this was out of pure coincidence and not cannibalistic desire. Unfortunately, that didn’t make it any more comforting when I found myself surrounded by them, with only M. Augier to protect me. Maybe it was a lack of confidence due to fatigue that made me feel absolutely intimidated to be among them, accusing them of preferring American flesh over delicious boeuf Bourgogne. Whatever the excuse, my friendly proviseur broke the ice and cordially introduced me to all of them right then and there, which was met by many smiles and even a few confident “Hellos.” It was unforgettable, for many reasons. And it might have been that moment where a lot of doubt about my decision to leave America began to melt away.
It’s surreal that all of this has happened in such a short amount of time.
During the smooth, 3.5-hour train ride from Paris to Montpellier, I sat across from Michel, a doctor from Quebec, and a young French woman who I believe was a student and seasoned world traveler. I learned three important items from our conversation: first, apparently it’s possible to help out with the vineyard harvest in my new hometown. That would be a bit different from tractor rides at the local apple orchard back home. Second, my French is rusty and often met with blank expressions; third, people from Canada rock. Michel had a mesmerizing Quebecoisian accent when he spoke English, and on top of that he provided a lot of encouragement for my upcoming journey. What was probably an everyday exchange for them was a mind-blowing experience for me. Over the next seven months, I would be meeting with and living amongst French-speaking people from all over the world. My comfort zone was being seriously violated, but I couldn’t have been more excited.
That afternoon I arrived in Montpellier, which is similar to Minneapolis in population but refreshingly different in every way I was hoping for. ALL of the buildings were old, with Godfather-Part-2-style shingling and wonderfully cliché time-blanched walls. I scarcely had time to enjoy my first café when I was whisked away by a friendly, English-speaking Marie-Pierre “MaPi” Estaban, head of the language department at my future workplace. I’d received a warm reception from her via email before departing, but this was unprecedented. Every question I asked in transit was met with more than I bargained for. Along the way another English teacher, Patricia, took the second leg of the journey to the school. She talked to me in a reassuring Franco-Irish accent about day-to-day life in the south of France. I may have missed a few points as I gawked at the enormous vineyards on either side of the highway with gorgeous mountains and the Mediterranean Sea beyond, but her and MaPi’s gesture was more than I could have asked for as a newcomer. People don’t really work here, do they?
After I had dropped off the wonky roller suitcase and backpack in my on-campus apartment at the Lycée Professionnel Charles Allies, Patricia left me with the headmaster, or “proviseur,” M. Augier. We talked about the essentials: “l’argent” (money), and “manger” (eating), along with a brief history of the school as he pointed to an 8” x 11” printer photo of the school’s namesake, Charles Allies, taped and unframed on the wall in his office. At the end of our conversation, M. Augier mentioned something about it “all being very French,” which I took to be a good sign given the country we were in and the language we were speaking. He had a comfortingly official guise about him, and he became increasingly welcoming as the introductions progressed. He also didn’t speak a lick of English, which gave me great practice with the language. Before I knew it, the time had come to manger le diner.
In France, every meal is ceremonious. This is something that I would learn no more than 1 hour after arriving at Charles Allies. Jet-lagged and dumbfounded by the sheer brainpower required to speak so much French in real-life situations, M. Augier led me into the school’s canteen that was, at the moment, packed with a queue of hungry students. As we headed straight for them, a few of them licked their lips, though later I decided this was out of pure coincidence and not cannibalistic desire. Unfortunately, that didn’t make it any more comforting when I found myself surrounded by them, with only M. Augier to protect me. Maybe it was a lack of confidence due to fatigue that made me feel absolutely intimidated to be among them, accusing them of preferring American flesh over delicious boeuf Bourgogne. Whatever the excuse, my friendly proviseur broke the ice and cordially introduced me to all of them right then and there, which was met by many smiles and even a few confident “Hellos.” It was unforgettable, for many reasons. And it might have been that moment where a lot of doubt about my decision to leave America began to melt away.
It’s surreal that all of this has happened in such a short amount of time.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
J'arrive
(Written 24 September 2008)
I have arrived in France. With a sickening jolt and a distinct tearing sound that resembled that of an airplane tire being ripped to shreds and launching debris into sensitive flight instruments, my co-passengers and I sliced down through the fog and into Paris-Charles de Gaulle airport. After a brief taxi and a tearful adieu to my nuclear-power-plant-auditing neighbor, I hit the ground hobbling with a wonkily-wheeled roller suitcase and a backpack that looked to be in heated competition with my body mass.
Charles de Gaulle is named after that famous sausage-loving former president (not to be confused with that former sausage-loving famous president) who did enough for France to have a maze of glass-enclosed, spongy moving walks named after him. As my feet pressed unsettlingly into these conveyor belts of luxury, I found that as I ventured further and further into what I imagined to be the heart of the structure, the signs for baggage claim and transit became progressively more French, dropping the helpful but unrealistic crutch of English translation that I knew would inevitably have to be abandoned. This language transition turned out to be not only pleasantly challenging but also extremely rewarding, as I was briefly convinced that I had crossed two continents using a series of squish-walks. The business of epic travel wasn’t so hard after all!
Being blissfully content with my first 20 seconds as an independent tourist, my descent into the train station was met with epic failure. Navigating through a major international airport was one thing, but buying a pack of chocolate snack cookies? That was another matter. My luck with American vending machines has been a mixed bag, often due to a lack of consideration for any environmental variables aside from my craving for a sweet and buttery snack. Today, though, I was in a new country, learning new things and turning over new leaves. Why not kick it off with a change in automated consumption? And when I discovered the unique and straightforward scheme that is French vending, I knew I had picked the right place to start. You see, instead of the no-nonsense, insanely-fast-paced method of American goodie selection, wherein buttons pushed are laser-engraved commitments etched in diamond and mistakes are met with mercilessly incorrect candies, French vending machines believe in second chances. A reassuring confirmation button appropriately marked with a red “R” adorns each device, and you don’t have to push it until you’re darn good and ready to devote yourself to said snack. Unfortunately, I was so impressed by this system that I forgot to take the items that I had so proudly purchased. Like an arcade junkie coming off a high-score performance of Ms. Pac Man, I walked away with an air of quiet confidence, certain that I had gotten my money’s worth. And directly behind me, an audience of hungry travelers mobbed the complimentary cookies that had materialized before their eyes.
At this point I had not been in France for more than 54 seconds, but it was clear that my sensitivity to all of these great cultural differences could have adverse effects on my ability to keep my wits about me. The day was far from over, and there was plenty of time to get lost in the life of the French.
I have arrived in France. With a sickening jolt and a distinct tearing sound that resembled that of an airplane tire being ripped to shreds and launching debris into sensitive flight instruments, my co-passengers and I sliced down through the fog and into Paris-Charles de Gaulle airport. After a brief taxi and a tearful adieu to my nuclear-power-plant-auditing neighbor, I hit the ground hobbling with a wonkily-wheeled roller suitcase and a backpack that looked to be in heated competition with my body mass.
Charles de Gaulle is named after that famous sausage-loving former president (not to be confused with that former sausage-loving famous president) who did enough for France to have a maze of glass-enclosed, spongy moving walks named after him. As my feet pressed unsettlingly into these conveyor belts of luxury, I found that as I ventured further and further into what I imagined to be the heart of the structure, the signs for baggage claim and transit became progressively more French, dropping the helpful but unrealistic crutch of English translation that I knew would inevitably have to be abandoned. This language transition turned out to be not only pleasantly challenging but also extremely rewarding, as I was briefly convinced that I had crossed two continents using a series of squish-walks. The business of epic travel wasn’t so hard after all!
Being blissfully content with my first 20 seconds as an independent tourist, my descent into the train station was met with epic failure. Navigating through a major international airport was one thing, but buying a pack of chocolate snack cookies? That was another matter. My luck with American vending machines has been a mixed bag, often due to a lack of consideration for any environmental variables aside from my craving for a sweet and buttery snack. Today, though, I was in a new country, learning new things and turning over new leaves. Why not kick it off with a change in automated consumption? And when I discovered the unique and straightforward scheme that is French vending, I knew I had picked the right place to start. You see, instead of the no-nonsense, insanely-fast-paced method of American goodie selection, wherein buttons pushed are laser-engraved commitments etched in diamond and mistakes are met with mercilessly incorrect candies, French vending machines believe in second chances. A reassuring confirmation button appropriately marked with a red “R” adorns each device, and you don’t have to push it until you’re darn good and ready to devote yourself to said snack. Unfortunately, I was so impressed by this system that I forgot to take the items that I had so proudly purchased. Like an arcade junkie coming off a high-score performance of Ms. Pac Man, I walked away with an air of quiet confidence, certain that I had gotten my money’s worth. And directly behind me, an audience of hungry travelers mobbed the complimentary cookies that had materialized before their eyes.
At this point I had not been in France for more than 54 seconds, but it was clear that my sensitivity to all of these great cultural differences could have adverse effects on my ability to keep my wits about me. The day was far from over, and there was plenty of time to get lost in the life of the French.
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