Day One

          Today I taught for the first time! I had two classes of CE1. The primary schools in France are divided into CP or “cours prepartoire” (age 6), CE or “cours elementaire” 1 (age 7) and CE2 (age 8), and finally CM or “cours moyen” 1 (age 9) and CM2 (age 10). Before elementary school, schoolchildren go to “maternelle” (ages 3-6), and after elementary school, they go to college for five years. At 16, they start lycee for three years and if they pass the baccalauret, they go to university for three years. The CM1 kids all presented themselves to me, carefully noting their names, ages, and where they are from. Some of the children hesitatingly told me their favourite activities, much to the delight of the teachers. We translated their names into popular American English names and they practiced presenting one another. In CM2, the teacher was a substitute and welcomed me to the classroom with “je vous les lais” or “they’re all yours!” My jaw dropped because I had asked the teachers several times if I should prepare anything and they insisted that I not. Luckily, the students wanted to introduce themselves and that took up a good chunk of time as we reviewed how to do that. It’s hard not to write on the board because I lose track of what I’m saying and what verbs I’m using. I know I’m supposed to speak to them only in English, but doing so was much more effective when I gave directions or explained something in English and then we translated it into French together. When I explain grammar or what something means, it has to be in French. For example, it was hard for the students to grasp what “I’m (age)” meant. In French, you would say, “J’ai (age) ans.” In English, you cannot translate that as “I have (age)”. I was backwards translating “I’m” as “J’ai” until the sub teacher explained that to translate it logically you would say “Je suis” or “I am” – he lamented after class how difficult translating even simple things like age can be across languages. Once we got through ages, he told me to teach them something, so I attempted to teach the body parts head, hands, feet, and the directions up, down, left, and right. He was helpful in making the kids think of where they had seen those words before – in football and in the sports brand Head. I tripped over myself in using “feet” and “foot”, which is of course simple in English and totally confusing for French speakers. My first lesson, for being unplanned, wasn’t a disaster but it was certainly unnerving. Wonderfully enough, English for French children is not a chore – they seemed genuinely eager to learn, but I was warned that once the novelty of my presence wears off, teaching will be more difficult. The teachers advised lots of games and songs, which is perfect, and perhaps even more fun for me to plan than for the kids to do!

Les sports

         Given my wine and cheese diet, my lack of a gym, and my inability to run for more than 8:35 minutes (latest record), I’m joining all the sports clubs in town. Tonight was volleyball, which I assumed was a casual gathering of mediocre players and lots of beginners. I was wrong. Instead, I turned up to the gym to find a team of women who are trying to get on the regional championship team. However, only a small group of them are devoted enough to come to the practices regularly. I was lucky number six – my poor partner got stuck with my uber rusty skills and general confusion about the coach’s directions as I realized I don’t know any body parts or how to speak sports French. I kept telling my scrimmage teammates and screaming “je l’ai” or “I’ve got it” which I thought was equivalent to the “mine” we use in English volleyball. After usually not having the ball, or if I did have it, frequently whacking it in the wrong direction, I learned I should be saying just “J’ai”. The players are youngish and super nice. They weren’t (visibly) offended when I accidentally called several of them old. They patiently showed me how to set properly and I actually got way better as I warmed up…not a terrible game for not having played volleyball in eight years. Volleyball is twice a week and I’m going to attempt to play badminton twice a week on another hopefully casual team with Kat and Laura. My badminton experience is limited to one day of high school PE badminton, but I will embarrass myself playing any sport that enables me subsist on bread and cheese.

Stage

We woke up not so bright but very early to take the train to Grenoble for our training. I met all the other assistants in the region and realized how lucky we are to have cheap housing, let alone any pre-arranged housing at all, and to have such welcoming and helpful “personnes des resources” around us. Everyone else is struggling to find anywhere to live because it’s so expensive to live in HS. The stage didn’t give us much helpful info in terms of teaching itself, but I think we just need to get into the classrooms to figure things out. Nestled in Alpes, Grenoble is beautiful. We stayed in Autrans, which is up above the city in the mountains, but I want to go to back to explore Grenoble.

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.