I feel charged with recounting energy after a progressive dinner in the foyer (common room) this evening. It wasn’t progressive in terms of the food, but rather in the way that people tend to steadily stream in while I cook on my camper’s stove behind the snack counter each evening. This is a simple tradition I began when I realized there are certain exceptions to the astounding quality of French food, in this case coming in the form of a forgettable supper in the canteen some weeks ago. Not wanting the students to think I was avoiding them at mealtime, I’ve since stocked my foyer cabinet with tasty baguettes, spices, and several gallons of olive oil, defying the allure of McDonald’s français with my spatula in one hand and herbes de Provence in the other. Despite attempts to start preparing ingredients just when the students have left for their canteen dinner, the window of cooking tranquility is often narrow as many return after only 10 minutes, having inhaled their meal at a rate that would qualify them for Olympic-level eating competitions. Being a lowly assistant I cannot unlock the glass doors to let them in, so they patiently wait and watch with utter fascination as this American paces back and forth in his natural habitat, foraging for food and producing combinations they would not imagine serving to their worst enemy. As a person who’s very new to frequent cooking I take no offense—it’s downright hilarious to be observed in this way, and more often than not the students work hard to find ways to make me laugh through the muted glass. When the surveyeurs finally let them in, a few of them always line up at the counter to see what I’m up to and patiently grace me with some practice in French conversation. To date, these are some of my fondest memories of being in France.
So nostalgic, that last sentence! In truth it’s pretty far from over, which is awesome. The novelty of being an American at Charles Allies has started to wear off, and I don’t mind that at all. It means I’m steadily assimilating into my home. Home’s a strong word--one I didn’t think I’d find myself using in association with Pézenas. At first, this village seemed to be such a temporary and strange place for me that I never thought I’d get settled into it. It took a long absence for me to realize how attached I’d become. After my first 4 weeks of work, schools throughout France closed for the Toussain holiday, a gaping void of 15 days vacation starting 20 October for which I would have traded my left kidney to have during my high school days in Wisconsin (a decision I might have regretted later, but only after hundreds of hours of blissfully jumping into enormous leaf piles and dreaming of Brett Favre touchdown passes). I ask you to hold back your sympathy when I say that, due to a series of weather-related circumstances and a stroke of luck in the online-plane-ticket-pricing game, I found myself in the Canary Islands for seven days out of this not-so-much-earned holiday. What can I say? It was freakin’ sweet! I laid out on the sand next to the mountains, jumped in the Atlantic for some much-needed snorkeling/fish gazing, and took note of the “bikinis-optional” culture of Spanish beaches (for research purposes only). Easily the most amazing experience was my first-ever scuba diving expedition, which is one of those things I’ve always wanted to do, and now that I’ve done it I’m positive that I want it to be a big part of my life when I get back to the States. This is a tangent I might explore in later writings as it was truly eye-opening, and exponentially increased sales of Jacques Cousteau books in Pézenas.
After four days in paradise, though, I felt something that I never thought I would feel in such a situation: beyond the luster of palm trees and sun, the bustling activity of people on the holiday of their lives, I felt…lonely? What? With what fortune had provided me—this amazing experience in a faraway land that so many people would give so much to have—my extroverted side began to long for someone to share the beauty with. Particularly with a great deal of honeymooning couples out and about, I missed Nikki, my girlfriend and my heart, a lot. But really any one of my friends or family members would have completely changed the experience, a person to look at and say, “that’s so cool!” when the sunset painted the clouds a deep pink like I’d never seen against the darkening menace of an oncoming storm in the middle of the Atlantic. Unless you recently stole a bunch of money from me, if you’re reading this now let me say this: I wish you could’ve been there. I am so lucky to have had the chance to witness so much natural beauty in such a remote part of the world.
If anyone asks me what it was like to visit the Canary Islands, without hesitation I’ll always say, honestly, unforgettable. But the most enduring experience, perhaps, was returning to my once-strange village of Pézenas. My friend and fellow assistant, Pablo, had driven me to his home city of Barcelona to catch the flight, and gave me a ride back as well after spending time with his family while I was away. It was a joy to talk to him again for the first time in such a long time, in English no less after feeling so isolated having no knowledge of Spanish in the Canaries! We wound down the familiar main road that slices through the vineyards that had me so captivated when I first arrived over seven weeks before. Instead of giving me an adrenaline rush this time, however, my pulse steadied, as I knew that the familiar cafés, boulangeries, and cobblestone alleyways were just around the corner. Pablo dropped me off next to Charles Allies, at the entrance with the wall I always have to jump over because I keep forgetting to ask for the key, and the stairs that are not evenly measured and cause me to slip and fall time and time again. Even with a 50-pound pack, I couldn’t help but smile this time as I pulled myself back up and cursed the stair engineer’s failure through my grin. Trodding up to the third floor of the dormitories to my beloved 14’ x 8’ penthouse, I opened the door and felt a wave of relief. Though I was alone, I knew it wouldn’t be long before I heard the bells ringing, the students yelling, and life returning to campus. While I know my time here is fleeting, it’s good to know that I’ll miss it when it’s all over. 1700 miles from the Midwestern United States, I’m somewhere I never thought I’d be: Home.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Un Peu de Background
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.
...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.
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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