Bon bon bon

Bonneville is very bonny, but not very villey. There is nowhere to go out. Apparently everyone between 17 and 30 has left for Annecy, as every single person tells us to go there. Annecy is the local college town and it is beautiful (we took the train through it) but it’s also an hour away. We’ve been casually seeking out anyone remotely close to our ages, which meant when I opened my bank account, I spent half the time trying to get the receptionist to invite us out with her, making us sound like complete losers who had no where to go. Embarrassingly, it didn’t work but I did learn where to go out if we got ourselves to Annecy. We went to a fabulous fondue dinner at Kat’s teachers’ house. She and her 17-year-old daughter then took us to a bar in their town. Not only was no one carded, but no one seems to care if teenagers drink here. In fact, they’re encouraged to have a glass of champagne or wine before dinner to appreciate the art of alcohol. The attitude is so much healthier than in the US and they said there are far fewer drinking problems here as a result. And, a 17 year old knows more about alcohol than I do.

Bienvenue chez les ch’tis (speakers)

Schoolyard chants in French woke me up this morning – school definitely starts at 8am here! I lured myself out of bed with the promise of a chocolate croissant. 90¢ of heaven of pastry heaven. I got my first daytime glimpse of Bonneville as I inhaled my croissant and contemplated buying five more. It’s a charming little town and looks just like the pictures. The main square is being redone, which is a shame because otherwise it’s picture perfect. There are some chain banks and phone shops, but the shops are mostly independent. A third are flower shops, a third are insurance offices, and a third are hair salons. Seriously. And everything else is a patisserie. Following my mini tour and not so mini croissant, I met my teacher and we went to the superintendent’s building, which is in one of the primary schools. I’ve been bombarding poor French teachers with emails all summer and now I’m finally meeting them – to apologize for my incessant questions, of course. The superintendent and the secretary are just as lovely as my teacher. I already love them because they told me my French was better than the last assistant’s. I had loads of paperwork to fill out, which Chantal the secretary had already done for me. I got my teaching schedule for the four schools – with a grand total of twelve hours par semaine. Apparently my time here will be spent eating croissants rather than teaching. The school told me to find the Orange shop for my phone and internet, go to the mayor’s office and arrange the housing papers, go to the bank and open an account, and get insurance today. Their emphasis on the insurance explains the ten insurance offices I’ve spotted so far…I can’t count how many times I’ve promised I will lock the door. Frustratingly, I have to wait til my bank card comes to open a phone and wifi plane but they let me open a pay as you go account and now I have a French phone number! I signed the lease papers at the mayor’s office for my insanely cheap apartment, went to the bank to make an appointment, and went to the insurance office to start an account. Everyone I spoke with today was so encouraging of my French and very patient. I kept interrupting myself to ask if I was saying something properly but they were so patient. The woman at the insurance office is super stylish and I asked where she shopped, hoping it was some local and semi inexpensive shop, but, of course, it was Comptoir des Cotonniers. She also taught me the most popular Savoyard word: “souci”. I’ve heard “pas de souci” lots today and simply nodded in clueless response, but I know now that means “no problem”… so exciting to learn my first Savoyard slang word! I returned home to meet my roommate from Belfast! Laura is hilarious, completely fluent in French, knows how to pronounce my name, and wasn’t fazed when I invited myself to Belfast within five minutes of meeting her. We went back to the mayor’s office and insurance office (which is in an apartment building and hard to find. Laura was amused that I figured out where it was by stalking a French woman and wandering into a building and somehow finding the office) to finalize papers. Then we found the grocery store, Intermarche, and had a deliciously stereotypical wine, cheese and bread dinner. We watched the French film “Chez les Ch’tis” which mocks Northern French accents. It’s quite funnay, as Laura says, and lets us in on the national humor…despite half of it going over my head. This was a blockbuster French film and it’s so different from American blockbusters – it has an independent, quirky feel, and you either have to be French or sitting next to someone who speaks/gets French to appreciate it because it’s clever. I highly recommend it, especially because it made me feel better about my weird accent.

Bonjour et bienvenue à Bonneville

Finalement, je suis arrivée! I flew into Geneva, where my luggage was not lost and where I was admitted to the EU by an incredibly hot border guard, who grossly inflated my sense of how good my French is with his charming compliments. I choose to ignore the fact that I was only being complemented as an American who could manage to get by in a language other than English. I took a train (which, Dad, did leave the station at precisely 3:13 because it’s Switzer(watch)land) to downtown Geneva. I was told the bus station with trains to France was several blocks down from the train station, towards the lake. Schlepping my Longchamp, backpack, and two massive suitcases, I made it out of the train station and made my first Genevois friend by asking for directions, which were very patiently given as he helped me with my bags. I had to wait for the bus for several hours and unfortunately couldn’t walk around Geneva with 125 pounds of luggage, but I did make my first call from a pay phone! The experience was not glamorous. My turtle of a self couldn’t fit into the booth with my backpack on so I basically did the splits in the booth and left all my luggage sitting outside and out of view, which in retrospect was a poor decision given I had no energy to chase anyone but this was Switzerland and everyone in my 2 hours formed opinion was so nice they would have probably called to report lost luggage. I had to use the pay phone to call my teacher so she could collect me from the train station. The train ride was beautiful as the Alpes are remarkably imposing. The sheer height of them in contrast to the lows of the valleys is breathtaking, or was breathtaking when I woke up from my nap at 5:30pm amidst a bus full of normal, commuting French people. The bus to Geneva is quite a good deal – very comfortable, only 8 euros, and 45 minutes. I got off the bus with all my luggage and found myself in the middle of a parking lot. The bus driver and a local woman noticed my confusion and the kindest woman offered to drive me into town after I explained what had happened and that I had no cell phone. She called my teacher’s phone and drove me to her. I thanked her profusely because without her I would have literally been stranded at a U-turn in the middle of the country with no phone. I then said I would love to get coffee with her sometime and continue chatting – she had been telling me about her job in Geneva – when I realized the way I had phrased my casual coffee was the way you phrase asking someone on a date in French. But continuing with her gracious French-ness, she was so sweet and I had made my first French friend! My teacher and her son were at the former bus stop to greet me and they, too, demonstrated that French graciousness as I accidentally kissed left to right hellos and almost kissed them both smack dab on the lips. After that, they drove me to the school where we will be staying and dropped off my suitcases. Then we went to her house, where she lives with her partner who is also one of my teachers, for a delicious dinner whipped up in ten minutes. I hadn’t been in a French house for a while and loved observing all the differences between French and American homes. French homes are cozy – space is used economically but never to the point of clutter. Pieces of furniture and patterns don’t necessarily match the way the Ethan Allen American style mandates it must, but everything somehow goes together. After two glasses of wine, the husband kindly walked me home. I made my bed with the square French pillows and collapsed.

Hello, across the pond

Stuffed with (surprisingly good) Camembert (from France) and (appallingly bad) red wine (from California, thank god), thanks to the practically empty flight, I arrived in London! And smack dab in the middle of a sparkling Harrods in the airport. After picking out new flats and a pair of sunglasses, I regained my bleary-eyed (from the makeup I forgot to take off on the plane) senses and instead purchased Hello! It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a young woman in a country for two hours must be entirely up to date on said country’s gossip. Whilst reading, I was comparing the British Hello to its American sorority sisters, like OK! and In Touch that’d I just read. Despite it’s subjects having posher accents, the British and American magazines are equally trashy. Yet the British magazines tell a sensational story about a celebrity, not just a paragraph or a sentence catch-up of what everysinglepersoninHollywood is doing/eating/wearing at all times. I doubt that there are more celebrities in the US, but we are clearly so preoccupied that we only allow each celebrity a line. Like the French comedy skit Bref, British Hello! talks and talks and talks about every single detail of this one celebrity’s marriage, when en bref, they just got married. Obviously, I read the entire magazine cover to cover.

I see London, I see France

Off to Bonneville today following a fabulous weekend of feasting and Real Housewives marathons in Boston with Patty and Laura! I'm a mere three hours early for my flight and lounging around at the Boston airport. After carefully analyzing my food options, I opted to forgo the requisite last American meal at McDonald's for a semi-soggy Asian salad. Aiming slightly higher on the haute cuisine scale, I searched for a delectable dessert but was forced to substitute fro-yo for a ridiculously overpriced Starbucks frappachino. Yet another great choice on my part - ordering coffee before boarding a redeye...two glasses of wine on the plane it is. My gate was changed, which I didn’t realize because I was busy reading about Kourtney Kardashian's difficulties with baby daddy Scott, so I missed the new assignment. Luckily I still have two hours to kill, so I wandered to what I thought was the new gate and befriended the couple listening to Hindi radio without speakers next to me to discuss our gate assignment. I figured they would be fellow friendly travelers who also happen to be very punctual. I started jabbering about Heathrow before realizing they didn't speak English and then I switched to signing out our new gate assignment, which made no sense to neither my new friends nor me. They have now titled their iPad away from me. It’s both thrilling and terrifying to have a one-way ticket to Europe. I can’t wait to get to France and see Bonneville, to meet my fellow assistants, teachers, and students, to eat French food and actually learn how to drink wine properly, to speak French all the time, to go Greek island hopping and make hostel friends, and to learn more about myself as I assimilate into a new culture but will I be an American girl in Bonneville or will I be une fille americaine a Bonneville?

Would you please speak tomorrow?

At 16, I begged my parents to send me to France and, sick of my whining, they agreed. Our French family friends arranged an exchange between their goddaughter and me – after two years of high school French and eating lots of Nutella, I was off to Paris for a month! Apprehensive about my lack of French, I practiced speaking aloud on the plane over…to myself. Having done countless self presentations in French class, I could almost introduce myself comme des françaises de souche and was an expert at saying “Je ne comprends pas” (I don’t understand). Pessimist that I am, I decided my key line should be, “Pouvez-vous parlez plus lentement?” or, “Could you please speak more slowly?” I rattled it off to myself millions of times on the plane, in between practicing how to say random vegetables. I deboarded the plane in what is a humiliating outfit to remember – a teeshirt that seriously said “Ooh la la” and had a picture of the Eiffel Tower and a poodle, a pair of walking shorts with extra pleats, and extraordinarily pointy red and pink shoes, which I thought were to die for because I had bought them in Paris. There was a reason they were on sale. Unaware of the multitude of fashion faux pas I was committing, I found my French family. I immediately had no idea what they were saying. I had been eagerly anticipating the opportunity to use my now-perfected line and I had a chance within 30 secords of my arrival! I blurted out, “Pouvez-vous parler plus lendemain?” and was met with confused stares. The poor Barbettes had to explain to me, in what was basically sign language, that I had asked them to speak tomorrow, not to speak more slowly. Despite hours of me looking like a nutcase on the plane to practice my one line, I had replaced the t with a d. Luckily, after my first faux pas in French, I had an amazing exchange, learning lots of French slang, how to dress properly, and how to eat a vat of Nutella in three days, and became obsessed with somehow becoming French.