The Best Thing Since Sliced Bread

         During our food talks in class today, one student asked me why sandwiches in the US are triangles. I confirmed the question. "Triangles, as in a triangle?" The class nodded in response. Last year, the English assistant was from Trinidad and Tobago; apparently, she showed them pictures of sandwiches cut tea-style. The entire class thought that bread was produced in triangular shapes in English-land. I burst out laughing, thinking of how difficult it would be to match two slices of bread perfectly - sandwiches would be sloppy joes, indeed. I drew a piece of sliced bread on the board, took two different colors of chalks, and showed how bread could be cut diagonally or vertically. They were amazed.
         Then I got to thinking, why do we have sandwiches cut in triangles, or, for that matter, in rectangles? Luckily, NPR hosted the great sandwich slicing debate several years ago and determined that, "Chefs, foodies, an architect and even a mathematician all told us that diagonal rules." The diagonal cut exposes the interior of the sandwiches and tantalizes your senses. It also allows crust-haters to avoid the crust, and graceful eaters to avoid shoving a huge side in their mouths. NPR also posits that triangles are superior because they are reminiscent of the Holy Trinity and the Star of David... Read for yourself! Who knew sandwiches were so much fun?!

Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!

        Today, it was "lions and tigers and bears, oh no!" We learned about farm animals in class, which seemed to bring out some tensions in the barn...
        Animal lessons are fun because a) the kids love them b) the animal noises are different in French, and c) I get to pretend that I'm six. I thought my pig impression was perfectly snorty but you should hear French kids impersonating piglets. We played Simon Says to remember the animal names but differentiating between chicks, hens, roosters, ducklings, and ducks proved difficult. We made frog noises for some of them and a yoodle-ish sound for another. I should have practiced my noises before this afternoon! Keeping calm and oinking on, we played the whispering version of Simon Says, so "meows, woofs, and moos" were hilariously deafened. In French, you say "chouchouter" for whisper - and the onomatopoeia works just as well. The kids were very polite barnyard creatures.
         Until we got to "donkey." I asked, "What is a donkey?" and was told "Benjamin."
         Horribly enough, I burst in a pig-impression snort, but so did the teacher. Benjamin, however, did not join in. Then he threw back a "you're a pig" and a girl was called a cow. I lost track of the animal slurs after that.
          It was clearly time for the all-inclusive, happy "Old MacDonald" song. And boy, did Old MacDonald work his magic. Soon after, donkey, pig, and cow were all singing in harmony.

Near Death Experience for Mice and Elephants

          I recently wrote about the trials of mounting the trails via "tire-fesses" as they say in French (direct translation: pulling your derriere). Today, I was faced with another tribulation. Literally. I was hit in the head with a chairlift.
          The gendarme's "sortie" today was at Les Gets. It's known for having a beautiful village and it's more challenging a "station" than Praz du Lys. And it has chairlifts or "telesieges".
          I was assigned the two worst listeners in our group. Taking little kids up on huge chairlifts is risky enough when you can fully communicate with them so this was clearly an accident waiting to happen, given my lack of French. I thought the operator was making sure the kid on my left got on the chairlift, so I took care of the kid on the right. Unfortunately, so did the operator. My silly trick that you can make a "G" with your left hand, which means it's the "gauche" side (I taught this to the kids to help them remember right and left, because the "L" trick works in English, too), did not come in handy. The kid on the left got whacked in the head with the chairlift. Seriously, thank god he was wearing a helmet. Luckily, he is 6 and was fine two seconds later. After disrupting the chairlift line yet again, we finally got on our way. I made them both promise to play statue and not move at all, having horrible images of one of them falling into the depths of the snow banks from fifty feet in the air. Then I lectured them on how to get off the chairlift properly and I asked them to recite back my instructions. I thought we were all clear. We were not. Upon reaching the top of the mountain, I lifted up the bar. We had planned to lift the bar, wait until I said "go" and then slide off. Of course, as soon as I lifted the bar, they both jumped off. Panicking, I also jumped off, which was incredibly dim-witted of me, but I was trying to go for a "one for all" teamwork-y attitude. I couldn't abandon my team, despite my horrible directions, could I? And this left three of us in the middle chairlift drop-off point, with chairlifts full of people zooming towards us. The chairlift man started swearing loudly. The kids played dead and lay down, apparently my French instructions were finally correct. They weren't hit with the chairlifts and the man pulled them out to safety. I, however, had star-fished literally in the smallest space between snow and chairlift. I could feel the chairlifts skimming my back. And no, it was not a nice massage. Because I couldn't stand up, I didn't know how to get my skis out of their position in a sprawl in opposite directions. The chairlift operator literally dragged me out face down onto the mountain. A more humiliating experience could not have been had. I was crying of laughter and the kids were crying because they thought I had died. No one was hurt, although I managed to kill what slim shreds of dignity I had left on the French slopes.
           Post-catastrophe, skiing went well! We learned to play "mouse and elephant". You play mouse when you are crouching down to make your perpendicular to the slope tracks and elephant when you stand up to turn. It's great that tips for 7 year olds work so well for a 23 year old!

One Night in Paris!

      Sarah and moi went to Paris this weekend!
      I arrived Friday on the train. I originally bought tickets online but needed to arrange to get back to Bonneville in time for my Monday classes, so I went to the train station. The woman at the SNCF booth completely changed my tickets and saved me a huge amount of both time and money - traveler's tip: sometimes in person purchases are better! I forwarded this to Rick Steves and am hoping my simple point gets international recognition!
      I spent the evening with Christelle, my former hostess of "Would you please speak tomorrow?" fame. We had a lovely evening catching up with her and her parents. She made amazing chocolate treats for dessert - one was chocolate cornflake clusters and the other was a Nutella cake! I had brought back American measuring cups and a baking book for her in hopes such delicious treats!
      Sarah popped over from London on Saturday morning. We checked into the ritzy Saint James & Albany Hotel-Spa (thank you Groupon!). Saturday started off as a shopping spree. We hit Haussmann and meandered/bought our way through the floors of Galerie Lafayette. I always forget how amazing the ceiling is - look! I was tres good and only bought one practical and gorgeous dress! We went to Fnac (like Best Buy) afterwards to pick up our Louvre tickets. You can buy Louvre tickets (and loads of other attraction tickets) in advance through their website and then go to any Carrefour (like Safeway but deluxe) or Fnac to pick them up. Paris wasn't too crowded this weekend, but in general, the Louvre lines are daunting and this was a great idea.
       We went to Fellini for a massive Italian dinner, complete with Chianti to toast - can't wait to try it in Italy!
        On Sunday morning, we Mona Lisa'd. The Louvre is simply incredible. I wish we'd had the whole day (or week!) to browse...you still wouldn't get to see everything and to imagine that it's just one museum! Next time, seeing the history of the Louvre is on my list. There's an exhibit at the bottom explaining its history and I've always meant to go and forgotten!
        We had homemade crepes (savory and sweet!) with Christelle and her husband for lunch and then lugged ourselves over to the Eiffel Tower. As if it weren't magnificent enough on its own, in the snow, it's spectacular. At night, the lights are on and glistening in the snow.
        We hit the Marais next and shopped the boutiques and had L'as du Fallafel again, per my very strong recommendation. Then it was training home for me and plane-ing home for Sarah! The train was delayed because of the snow and I met a lovely couple from Nice who gave me nice Nice tips! I took the night train, which is similar to an Amtrak sleeper car - you get a little "couchette" to sleep in, complete with a sleeping bag. Perfect Parisian promen-day! (That doesn't work, does it!?)

Ski School

         Once upon a time, an amateur skier went on a ski day with a group of expert ski instructors and the head of the Ecole du Ski Francais. Unfortunately, this is not a fairy tale. This was my life today.
         Post gendarme skiing Wednesday, one of the directors invited me to ski with them Saturday. I thought it was a casual skiing day.
         Wrong. It was with the "moniteurs" or the extremely competent skiers who graciously lead the sections of the gendarme ski classes, teaching all levels. The head of the ski school was teaching them how to teach.
         Martine, the woman who a) speaks perfect English (a huge plus at 7am) and b) arranged for me to attend, brought her daughter. Her daughter is about to take the baccalaureate (or high school exit exam) in skiing and is going to Switzerland next year to teach skiing. This is the equivalent of an American high schooler going to ski school at Tahoe and then going off to Vail to teach skiing. She kindly skied with me all morning. I told her I'd be her project for the morning. She let me go on one blue and then decided we were doing all reds and some blacks. (The level of runs, categorized by color goes up from green to blue to red to black aka death). She taught me excellent tips that I was occasionally able to use, when I wasn't busy screaming "ah" or praying. Black in France is NOT the same as black in the US. 

         Then we had a huge, hearty lunch and the head ski instructor insisted I go with them in the afternoon. I warned him that despite having told the gendarme that I was excellent, I had realized post skiing in France that I should demote myself to beginner or "needs significant improvement". He laughed (mistakenly) and made me go with them. And soon learned the gravity of his mistake.
         They went on reds and stopped every ten minutes to learn a new technique. I promised I'd be fine skiing along and reminded them constantly that I'd hold them back, but they kindly brought me along. They all ski flawlessly, but he was teaching them how to teach kids to perfect their skiing: from the direction of their shoulders to the position of their poles. They kindly waited for me every time, and, of course, I turned into the dummy for the afternoon. I did not properly position my poles or my shoulders. This is because I was trying not to die by somersaulting downhill in skis. The head instructor occasionally had me follow his path because he knew I wouldn't be able to carve a black diamond by myself, but, alas, I even failed at following the exact "traces" (or path) that he'd made.
         All the "moniteurs" were incredibly gentle and gave me tips but one instructor was particularly encouraging. Mr. Black Diamond kept shouting me "Come on, Maggie!" and thought me capable of following them with they did their final run in formation, like synchronized swimmers but skiing. Luckily, I lost them. But that meant that they were all waiting for me at the end. I thought I pulled off my late arrival well, because little did they know that "Maggie" had just landed in a huge pile of snow. Except, of course, that I was half covered in snow. Mr. Black Diamond noticed and invited me to join his group when I am not needed with the little kids. Their new goal is that I achieve all my "flocons" or snowflakes by the end of term. French skiing lessons, check!
        At the end of the evening, the lovely Martine drove me home and I went to the Bonneville basketball game. They are sponsored by McDonalds, which I've always found to be an ironic sponsor, but thank you corporate responsibility. The Bonneville team won but I can't remember the score, because I was distracted by the creature they have as a mascot. It could be a bear, or a wolf, or a dog. It dances very well. And it apparently raises enthusiasm! Interesting evening, to say the least.
         I joined the Bonneville ski club, which skis every Sunday. Today we went to Saint Gervais, which is a massive resort composed of three mountains. It was another beautiful day in the Alpes!

Pras du Lys

Moi!

Sur la Table

      Tonight we attended a Universite Populaire series about nutrition. The speaker runs a center for green, holistic eating in Auverne, in the south of France. She discussed the changing role of food in the world, and the potential loss of culinary culture in France. Culinary culture is integral to the French identity. Meals are shared time when ideas are exchanged and food is eaten. Eating quickly or alone, which are becoming more and more common, abandons the former. The table "served" as her metaphor. Without a table, she argued, there is no exchange, there is no intellectual, cultural, spiritual nourishment, and thus the "physical" nourishment of merely ingesting food is, too, incomplete. She offered the case of the library: Imagine a library in the US. There are signs everywhere that say or symbolize "no eating or drinking". In France, she posited, this would be superfluous, for a French person would never think of eating alone. It's true, isn't it? I've noted before how much I admire (what I believe to be) the French way of cooking: three larger meals a day, no snacking, emphasis on eating as a family or group of friends, and the balance of all food groups, plus wine! She ended with the difference between saveur (taste) versus savoir (knowledge): in France, and throughout the world, we must strive for a "petite gout" (a little bit) of both.
        In other news, one of my classes presented me with a delightful surprise today! They sang "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" and "O, Christmas Tree" by themselves! Their teacher had them practice over break. A very merry day, indeed!

Praz de Lys, but Hardly a Fleur de Lys

         Well, I've joined the police. Or the "gendarme", as you say in French.

         But I am not an officer. I'm an "accompagnatrice," which is as hard to pronounce as it looks. The gendarme de Bonneville hosts a ski association. On Wednesday afternoons, they take about 80 kids to the mountains. It meets at one of the schools and students and adults hop on huge buses to go up into the mountains. I found out that several of my students are in the club. They all saved seats for me and introduced me to their parents. They still use the informal "tutoyer" towards me, meaning that I am just as popular outside of the classroom (or that they really do think I'm ten). They're all in very advanced groups of skiing, despite being nine. Depending on the amount of stars each child has (from one to fourteen "flocons" or snowflakes), they join one of fourteen groups. Each group has an instructor and four adults - the French police take ski-babysitting seriously. French children don't have school on Wednesday and almost every kid here knows how to ski because the grammar schools do ski trips at least once a year. This gendarme group is one of the best in the area because it goes to all the resorts in the area. Today we went to Praz de Lys. 

Unknown skier blocking my photo of Mont Blanc, which is the highest point in the background. 

            I started with the youngest kids today, luckily enough. My skiing skills, which I had heralded as "excellent" when applying for this program, would not have merited me a "flocon" today. First of all, as soon as I tried to put my skis on, my students loudly informed me that they weren't going to fit my boots. I insisted that they would because I had just had them fitted. I was wrong. After creating a debacle, I trudged back down to find a ski shop. The ski shop I stumbled into had the nicest people who refitted my skis. Back up on the mountain, I rejoined my group and skied with the little kids, who were excellent skiers. They did little snowplow exercises all afternoon. 

          All was well, except for the lift issue. The flatter slopes at this resort use one person, bar ski lifts. The bars hang from the cable and you put the bar between your legs and it pulls you up the mountain. Unless you accidentally cross your skis, in which case it pushes you into the mountain. This happened to one poor little boy every single time. And me, twice. It hurts. But we both got used to it (ish).
          In the midst of skiing, the instructor for my section kindly turned me into the seventh student. And I got fabulous ski lessons. Apparently I "stick my derrière" out when I ski. Thanks to her lessons, I ski "normally" now. On the baby slopes, of course.

         After skiing, all the adults have a little snack. They brought cakes, pastries, chocolates, and pies galore...and my chocolate covered raisins were a hit. And, most importantly, as they had been telling me all day, they brought out mulled wine.

Blurry but picturesque photo from le bus.

Le gateau des rois

         Last night marked my triumphant return to choir. And it was my most successful choir experience ever...we didn't sing. We celebrated the new year and the choir at a local restaurant, where, for a mere 15 euros, we had kir (a delicious, sweet aperitif), couscous and sausages, chicken and mixed vegetables in a spicy tomato sauce, and la galette des rois, and lots of red wine. Apparently, the red wine from the Rhone region can be inferior to that of Bordeaux and Burgundy, but if you know how to find the right vineyards, the quality is the same and the price is lower. That was definitely true last night! We had a lovely Côtes du Rhône AOC, which is the main appellation of the region. 
         In France, Epiphany is readily celebrated with le gateau des rois. Le gateau des rois, in Haute-Savoie, is a brioche filled with a francipane interior (an almond paste). You can try the recipe here. Inside the cake, there are hidden two figurines, or feves, and whoever finds them become the king and queen. Sometimes there are four feves and an evil set of royalty. Feve means "bean" in French and originally, beans were placed in the cake, but they have been replaced with plastic and porcelain figurines. Fun fact according to Wikipedia (I was probably also told this last night, but I haven't yet mastered listening to ten people speaking to me in French at the same time), "the French President is not allowed to “draw the kings” on Epiphany because of the etiquette rules. Therefore, a traditional galette without figurine or crown is served at Elysée Palace in January." Kat was tres chanceuse and found a feve, except that she almost bit into her figurine (la galette des rois is served throughout January, so it must be a busy month for dentists.) Her little figurine read "King of the Pickles." A sour kingdom, but she's now Epiphany royalty!
         The restaurant was charming and quintessentially French. The interior at first seemed ad-hoc, but the result is a functional, familial, and welcoming setting, where the emphasis is on the food, not the furnishings. In the US, I find myself judging new places harshly, wondering how people have critiqued the older wallpaper on Yelp or whether I would recommend the restaurant given the mismatched tableware. In France, such things are often de jure. Certainly the ambiance of a restaurant impacts one's enjoyment of a meal to a certain extent, but really wallpaper and tableware are just things. This same approach, from my albeit limited experience, applies to French homes, too. Furniture, artwork, wall colors, etc. seem to be more carefully selected and maintained. Whether the table's wood matches the chair's wood is irrelevant. Most importantly, ladies, this applies to clothing. We wonder why French women don't get fat. First of all, none of the French women I know snack. They eat balanced meals three times a day, with all food groups making an appearance. (And they drink red wine in moderation!) But most importantly, they expertly tailor their clothes. Clothing is never too tight, it's like the Goldilocks version of fashion - everything fits just so. Shoulders and waists are always defined. French women accent every outfit with scarfs and jewelry. They invest in well made clothes and have them tailored, shunning disposable wardrobes. Disclaimer: I speak from a very subjective, limited perspective but I admire French style beaucoup (right in time for the sales that start tomorrow!).

Gangnam Style in Bonneville

       Back in Bonneville! After a lovely two week break chez moi in Englishland, I've returned to France, with skis, more winter gear, and chocolate covered raisins galore for my teachers. I have vowed to buy all food I share now, post potluck fiasco.
        The dreary-eyed first day back at school turned out to be a delight. I forgot how much I liked being the most popular person in the 3rd grade class. They were all taught how to say "Happy New Year" and every class at every school sweetly cried the greeting at me the minute I entered the classrooms. In my first class, I attempted to teach "The 12 Days of Christmas" which did not quite out as Christmas Sampler-y as I'd hoped. Singing about partridges is not a nine year old's idea of fun. Singing and dancing "Gangnam Style", however, is. After dutifully singing my song, they asked if they could do their own. Enter Psy's masterpiece, which had 25 nine year olds doing the dance and belting out the lyrics. They told me that they spend all of break practicing. We had several minutes left in class, so I thought I'd take advantage of the opportunity to teach an English song. I started teaching the song and, of course, quickly got to the word "sexy". I think I explained that it meant funny. Their poor future spouses.
         In more minute, yet no less entertaining class news, I was invited to a Beyonce concert in Miami by an eight year old, who "might" be going in two years with his sister. And, in another class, a student shoved a pencil case in my hands to ask what it said. It read "take me", in English.