y2k11

Christmas, Dave and Emily’s visit, New Year’s in Paris, Foosball world cup, masquerade ball! So much has happened since I last updated – hand it to me to drop the ball… again. Let me try to recap in the least boring way possible.

Christmas day was spent at Keri Ann’s house with four American girls and one British boy. We got there around 3 pm, at which point we popped the champagne and started our day with mimosas. Basically the entire day was spent drinking, cooking, eating, dancing, singing, and playing silly card games. What better way to forget that you’re 4300 miles from your family on the day you most want to be home? Around 1am I took my computer outside into the freezing, dark night to skype my family chez Helgeland (Keri Ann’s internet was only working outside). Illuminated by a streetlamp I got to spend a good 15 minutes on speaker phone with the entire Helgeland clan (minus my immediate relations). The fact that all I could see of myself in the video window was my face on a black background was made slightly creepier by the fact that Torger doesn’t have a webcam, so I couldn’t see any of the 11 or so people addressing questions to my floating head. Regardless, it was definitely the highlight of my Christmas, making me perhaps equally happy and sad (not to be there). Another highlight came just before, when in the last ten minutes of Christmas I declared that we should all sing our favorite carols. We went around the circle and as a group sang each person’s favorite song. After maybe 3 classic Christmas favorites, we arrive at Misty, an assistant from Idaho. When asked her favorite Christmas carol, Misty, without hesitation, launches into a song which begins “America, America, how can I tell you how I love you.” No, Misty, CHRISTMAS songs. She starts again. We skip her, finish up the circle and at 11.59 sing Silent Night in at least 2 languages (at this point my French neighbor has joined us). Then we learn Misty’s Christmas favorite:  America, America, how can I tell you how I love you? You have given us your riches. We love you so. Sung to the tune of Rose, Rose (alternately, Hey-ho Nobody Home, or the Delta Gamma Round, for the anchor inclined). After learning this song, Misty and I proceeded to improvise several new classics, mostly revolving around the theme of washing our hair, feet, hands, and various other body parts, in snow. Apparently white Christmas is the most hilarious thing, ever. Fortunately most of these songs made it into videos, so we can publish them and send them to all the major Christmas labels.

boxing day morning - the graveyard.

Between Christmas and the New Year, my good, nay, great friend David Davidson came up from Spain with his girlfriend (and also my friend/physics lab partner extraordinaire) to check out France and visit one Lindsey Arrington. We passed a leisurely few days exploring Nantes and living the French dream. Sadly for Emily the weather was very ‘Nantaise,’ aka exactly the same as Salem, Oregon. Grey, drizzling, and cold. Sorry, Em. New Year ’s Eve we got up bright and early to catch a 5am train to Paris, where we spent the day checking out the tourist sights and snacking. After seeing far too many people posing as if to hold the pyramid at the Louvre in their hands, I decided that from now on every time I’m in a picture in front of a famous monument, I’m messing these poses up.

why didn't you guys tell me it doesn't look like i'm holding it?

A probable cause of the huge amounts of kitschy photos was the huge amount of foreigners. Due to all these foreigners, I called the UK, Emily called America, and Dave called Italy, Russia, and I think Germany, so that every time one of these accents/languages was heard, a point was gained. By the end of two major holidays in the city of lights, Emily was far ahead of both Dave and I, although slightly surprisingly, Dave was well ahead of me. Who knew the Russians loved Paris so much? We checked into our hotel, which I had booked for one person, around 5pm and decided to have a nap before heading out for dinner and the big celebration at the Eiffel Tower. On our way out to dinner, around 8pm, the doorman actually chased me out of the building when I didn’t realize he was addressing me to confirm that it was just me staying in the room. “Just one, not three – right? Just you.” I assured him I would be staying alone and we went on our way. This was going to be a problem. I was hoping that rules were as lax here as they seem to be stateside (even Canada side, where Dave theverysame Davidson and I once fit 5 into a room reserved for 2). During our meal we worked through several plans to trick the doorman, who we deduced was going to be working all night long, but finally ended up settling on the fact that he would already be t’d from having to work new year’s eve and trying to trick him would only further annoy him, thus leaving us to wander the streets of Paris all night. Around 9:30 we get on the metro, 2 bottles of horribly fruity champagne in tow, and head to the Eiffel tower. We’re scheduled to meet Annika and her family at 10, and because of the absurd amount of people at the tower, we’ve set a location, assuming cell service will be shoddy at best. I, being a genius, don’t realize that Trocadero bridge is NOT, in fact, the quaint small bridge we had crossed earlier in the day, but in fact an enormous plaza that I have never actually been too, so the meeting place is a joke. But first, we have to get out of the metro. We arrive at our stop and squeeze out of the doors into the tightest packed space I have ever encountered. Wall to wall people in every direction, moving no faster than a meter a minute towards who knows what exit. Dave and Emily and I do our best to stay next to each other, which mostly works out. Emily has latched onto a tall man in front of her, I’ve been latched onto by a not-so-tall man behind me who seems to think this is a good opportunity to pick up women, and Dave is being pushed along with the flow of people sans problème. At one point I actually fear that I will be crushed and trampled against a wall, but after maybe 30 minutes of surprisingly jovial shuffling towards the universal destination (the location of which I am entirely unaware), we make it to the street and follow the general crowd, hoping they are headed to this mysterious bridge.

not, as it turns out, a small bridge

 I try to call Annika but there is absolutely no connection with tens of thousands of people trying to meet up and one big, famous cell tower to bounce the calls off of. We decide to give up on that and settle in with a great view of the tower, eerily illuminated in the thickening fog. Surprised that no one around us is popping champagne and wary of the large groups of French Military Police milling about, we decide to save the champagne for … later. I decide to give finding Annika one last go and wander down the hill to the actual bridge, which is blocked off by yet more military police. After nearly giving up hope for maybe the 5^th time, I sight a beret, and knowing from facebook that Annika’s dad often wears such a beret (creepy), head in that direction. This is not, as it turns out, Annika’s dad, but lo and behold, Annika is right behind him. There are less police here, and the Geilens have definitely taken advantage of that fact, now into their third(?) bottle of REAL champagne, plastic flutes and everything. I embarrassedly get out our 2 euro strawberry drink and pour up 3 plastic dentist cups for my crew, and we wait for midnight. I have to say, after all the hype, 12 am rolled around and I was a bit let down. The tower sparkled. It sparkles on the top of every hour, all year round. Where are the fireworks?! Where is the singing!! Where is something special to ring in y2k11!!?!?! The Minnesotans in front of us that we’ve befriended are pretty sure that something happens at 1am. Don’t ask me why we believed a coupla northerners about the Parisian new year’s tradition, especially with something as far-fetched as a 1am celebration – that doesn’t even make sense. None at all. But we stay – why not? We still have a bottle of peach drink, after all, and nowhere to stay. 1am rolls around, and whaddya know – they turn off all the lights and the tower sparkles. I mean really sparkles. It was beautiful. It was magical. It was worth it. Out of the light mistiness of a big city night, the sparkling outline of this country’s most well-known symbol. After 10 minutes it stopped, but the lights didn’t come back on, and this was almost better than the sparkling. The Eiffel Tower is ALWAYS lit up. The city lights were diffused enough by the fog that you could still see the silhouette, and without modern lights it felt like the Paris I never imagined – the one you see in movies and postcards – old and crackling but magnificent.

magical!

 Annika’s parents graciously offered us a place to stay in their rented apartment, so we accompanied them back to the Champs-Elysees, ate some gouda and soup, and went to bed earlier than I ever have on new year’s eve. In the morning we went back to the hotel to check out, and by the look the doorman (now dubbed, ‘the falcon’) gave us, I’m fairly certain he was trying to figure out how we snuck past him, not once but twice, to stay the night but come in from outside in the morning. We spent the day goofing around Paris, just wandering the streets and relaxing, before I sent Dave and Emily on their train to the airport. Needless to say, this was an excellent visit, a much needed taste of home, and a shame to see end.  

This is already far too long, so if I update in the next month I’ll get to those other things. Probably.

Even more pictures!

I'm 23 now, but will I live to see 24?

I’ve been in a choir since 4^th grade. I have never not been in a choir at Christmas time – until now. I’ve been craving Christmas carols, and I recently realized that I normally am singing them not only in my school choirs, but in church choirs. So last Sunday I decided to go to church with Jenna, in hopes of singing some good ol' Christmas songs (but in French).  Jenna somehow found a Baptist church in Nantes, a feat which amazes me. I figured since they’re Baptist, they ought to love singing. Well, they do love singing. I recognized at least 3 of the praise songs from home (but in French). We asked someone beforehand if they would sing Christmas songs, and he told us, “They’re singing one, but the kids think they’re too old fashioned, so just one.” WHAT? Christmas songs never go out of style. So I sat through this service and only got to sing one Christmas carol, and I didn’t even recognize it. I see why they don’t like carols, though – this song was hard. It was way too high and had way too many words in too short a space. So I was pretty bummed out after the service. Jenna was talking to another woman about how we always do Christmas songs in American churches, and the woman said, “Oh, well there’s a carol service tonight at some such church.” Some such church is a ten minute walk from Jenna’s house. “Oh, and it’s in English.” WHAT? So around 4pm I came back to Jenna’s and after a bit we headed out to find this some such church. It really is just down the street. We walk in and run into some girls Jenna’s met who are on a mission from Bethany College, as well as a few people from church that morning. So the service gets going and the Pastor of the church, who is Scottish, tells us all about how it’s a tradition in GB to gather before Christmas and sing, and they’ve been doing it here for the past 4 years. The whole service is bilingual, but all the songs are English. And when I say English, I mean British. Fortunately Jenna and I have an advantage over the Bethany girls – we already know the weird hymn tunes to Away in a Manger and Little Town of Bethlehem. We are surprised by Angels We Have Heard on High, however. We don’t even realize what it is until the chorus – not “glo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oria,” but “co-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ome and worship” England is so weird. I also wanna shout out to Dr. Long and the Willamette Chamber Choir – without you all, I wouldn’t have known Once in Royal David’s City or Lo How a Rose Ere Blooming. Cool. Basically, this was the coolest and best part of the holiday season so far, if not only for how fortunate we were to completely stumble upon it. Thank you, GB, for getting homesick and thus making my homesickness a bit more tolerable.

Tuesday, as you may know, was my birthday. Not just any birthday, but my 23^rd birthday. 23 of Blink 182 and Coolio fame, as I’ve beaten into the ground over the past week on Facebook. I’ve not been looking forward to this day ever since my best friend’s birthday in October, when I really started to pay attention to Blink 182’s words of wisdom – “Nobody like you when you’re 23.” Also, spending yet another birthday away from family and friends is never something to look forward to. But my few remaining friends in town outdid themselves once again, and I actually had a very lovely day. First good birthday in 3 years, I’d say. I started if off at midnight with a mug of Cointreau cocoa, the remaining Russian Tea cakes, and Love Actually. Fairly lonely. After a few hours of sleep I got up to see the lunar eclipse (on the solstice, none the less, I’m sure there were people dancing naked and burning things somewhere). However, weather prevented me from seeing anything, so I went back to sleep until 11am. I ate a whole bunch of chocolate and then went into town to meet Richard for lunch. We had pizza (this was my second artichoke pepper and goat cheese pizza in 24 hours, I had the very same with Annika’s parents the night before), and it was delicious. After we went to the Jardin des Plantes, which I’d never been to, and found some goats to feed. I’m fairly certain that I’m a goat whisperer, because these were the 3^rd set of goats I’ve hung out with since August. I mean really, this is getting weird.

my new friends

 After the goats, I headed to what Carly had dubbed the Peter Paul and Mary church (Cathédrale Saint-Pierre-et-Saint-Paul), where I met Carly for ice-skating. French people love ice-skating. I think I’ve ice-skated more in the last 2 months than in the 4 years before that. This was an outdoor rink, special for the Christmas season, and it only cost 1euro for skate rental. Cool. So we ice-skated for a bit, then headed to the Christmas markets to get some praline peanuts (bringing back memories of airlines of old) and a carton of scalloped potatoes with ham bits. Delicious. We then headed to the theater to see Nowhere Boy, that movie about John Lennon. It was pretty enjoyable, especially because it was freezing outside and we still had some peanuts to enjoy. A good way to spend 2 hours. After we headed to pasta box and ate boxes of pasta, then over to Carly’s, where we drank Cointreau cocoa and wine. Keri Ann showed up followed shortly by Jenna, and I enjoyed the last few hours of my birthday lying around with my friends in our pajama tuxedos. A good birthday, all around. I believe I will make it to 24, no matter what Blink 182 says. As it turns out, the song ends with “No one should take themselves so seriously with many years ahead to fall in line. Why would you wish that on me? I never want to act my age.” Agreed.

maroon tuxedo - keeping me warm since 2009

dix

“I don’t have arms, but I have friends”

                -speech bubble from an armless stick figure on a poster about discrimination in one of my schools.

I apologize for my absence of over a month, I have absolutely no excuse, besides that so much has happened that once I missed a week, it just seemed too daunting to catch up. So rather than try to recap the entire fall season, I’m just going to tell you about my friends – I’m lucky enough to have both arms and friends.

Last night those of us who are still around gathered at Carly’s place for a white elephant exchange. The east-coasters (both the residents of the house) call this a “Yankee swap,” which was appreciated by our british friends. I spent the day going to various groceries to find ingredients for Russian tea cakes, my holiday classic (snickerdoodles have far too many non-french ingredients, so I didn’t even try). Powdered sugar is sold in a plastic jar here, and costs nearly 4 euro for no more than a cup. Don’t even get me started on Pecans. I finally gathered everything that I needed and whipped up some teacakes in the foyer’s kitchen, then headed over to Carly’s. We ate treats and enjoyed the Christmas spirit, and I introduced the gang to Cointreau-cocoa, which if you haven’t tried, you should. It’s much like a chocolate orange, in a glass. Delicious. So we’re all sitting around in Carly’s room, sippin on our cocoa, and then the lights dim, and I look up to see Carly walk in carrying a cake, candles and all. All my friends are singing me happy birthday and I’m left speechless, caught entirely off guard. I’ve never been surprised for my birthday before, and I can’t even begin to express how happy this made me. I was planning on a pretty terrible birthday, basically all alone in France, but my friends went above and beyond to make sure that didn’t happen. I blew out the candles (or tried to, as it turns out French trick-candles are impossible to put out, even after pinching with wet fingers they light back up), and then was showered with presents, each one a new surprise. I can’t believe how many people got me gifts, when I was only expecting to walk away with a candy bar or plastic trinket from the white elephant. As it turns out, one of my gifts was a tiny elephant that when blown into makes the sound you would expect a 2 inch elephant to make. I cannot say thank you enough to these people who have made my time here bearable, and my birthday wonderful. You guys are the best, you’ve completely outdone yourselves.

Another gift was broccoli to go with the Ranch dressing that Misty brought. They don't have Ranch here, and I  had told Misty that I liked cooked broccoli with Ranch. Now everyone else does, too.

After the birthday festivities were through, the white elephant began, and having drawn number 1, I picked my package and got some chocolate eggs filled with toys. This was one of the more polite white elephants I’ve been to, with very little stealing, and even less crappy gifts (aside from the package of screws, everything was pretty excellent). In the end I came away with a chocolate santa, which I promptly ate the head of, and because whoever had the eggs forgot to take them home, I got those too. A few people went home at this point and the rest of us started singing Christmas carols. When ‘Away in a Manger’ came along, we all started singing, but soon realized we were singing two different tunes. Apparently in England, they use the traditional hymnal tune. Same for Little Town of Bethleham, I think. This led us to ‘God save the Queen’ vs. ‘My country tis of thee,’ which of course resulted in the Americans trying to remember all the words to the latter. Once we hammered that out, we all headed home. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday surprise, thanks again, team.

Things that have happened since I last updated, which I can tell you about if you’re interested:

A trip to the LC club, the biggest dance club in Nantes. Power week – ten straight days of going out. My neighbor letting us into a church at midnight to listen to him play the third biggest organ in Nantes. Karaoke, twice. A trip to Ancenis. Iceskating. Hosting Thanksgiving for 35 of my friends. Thanksgiving in Angers. KeriAnn's gangsta birthday, durag and all. Last weekend in Angers before the kids leave.

I may write about some of these things anyway, but let me know if you want an update on anything specifically.

neuf

It’s not dad, it’s dadcula.

This is just one of the gems to come from the age old Halloween favorite, Hocus Pocus (featuring SJP and Bette Midler). Today in France everything is closed, because it is the Toussaint, or all saints day. That makes yesterday Halloween, which isn’t celebrated over here. Yet somehow I managed to spend 24 straight hours fete-ing the day, and let me say, it was excellent. But let’s go back a bit.

I stayed in Angers until Wednesday afternoon, during which time I basically just drank a ton of wine. I mean a huge amount of wine. Just tons of it. After the goats we got back to Annika’s and searched out more wine, then ended up seeing ‘the social network,’ which is one of the better films I’ve ever seen. I highly recommend it. Monday and Tuesday nights were pretty standard – wine, pasta boxes, wine, couscous, wine.

I was pretty upset when the wine was gone

Wednesday I said farewell to Sue and the gang and caught the train back to Nantes. I had to stand in the aisle because the train was so packed, not one of my favorite train rides. I decided to leave on Wednesday because Thursday was announced as a huge strike day, and at least half of all the trains were cancelled (in France, they announce their strikes beforehand so you can be prepared). So on Thursday I went into town with some friends to shop around. Around 3 or so Carly and I went into H&M, and everything was normal. Twenty minutes later we were headed for the door and we noticed no one was going out of it. We approached and got through the people to see the street filled with smoke. We went outside and saw a good thousand people marching through the street, wall to wall, with signs, loud speakers, and drinks. The French word for protest is ‘manifestation,’ which I found entirely appropriate – twenty minutes ago this street was empty, they all just appeared out of nowhere. So we followed the march back into town and Carly headed home. I decided to search out a fabric store for my Halloween costume, and I somehow stumbled into the center of the protest. The marchers were coming down this hill and convening in a park next to the tram line. I’m worse than anyone at estimation, but I’d say there were upwards of 5000 people milling about.

Now let me say a word about protests. If I had been in America, I might have been nervous for my safety in a crowd like this, especially a crowd that’s there to flip the bird at government. But in France it’s entirely different. It felt more like a tailgate than a protest. I felt like I was at the end of a marathon, the marchers coming down the hill were arriving at the finish line and being rewarded with a cold drink and a hotdog, and the celebration could commence (seriously, there were people cooking hotdogs). There was even a van driving along in the middle of the march selling wine for 50 cents and beer for a euro. On top of all this, it was a family friendly event, with children all about carrying their own protest signs. One baby carriage had a sign attached to it that read something to the effect of “protect the future for me.”

At one point some kids got out smoke flares and stood in the street with them. No big deal, I guess, the police standing near didn’t seem concerned. This all continued for about an hour, but around 6pm the crowd began to disperse. By 6:30 there were less than 100 people left. They want their early retirement, but nothing will get between the French and their supper. The remaining protesters piled up the cardboard and paper that was lying around and lit it on fire in the middle of the road  - again, no concern from the police. Kate brought her camera, so hopefully I can procure some of those photos.

Friday Celeste, Carly and I decided to take a day trip to the lovely town of Clisson. Unfortunately the early train was cancelled (thank you, grève) so we milled about Nantes for a few hours before catching the noon train. During this milling we found a great fabric store where I got my Halloween costume for a mere 8 euro, not bad! Upon arrival in Clisson, we realized it was a ghost town. There was no one in sight. There were tumbleweeds. Someone was whistling the theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (these last two statements are false, but really, it was deserted). We wandered into the center and saw the remains of a morning market being packed into trucks. We asked someone where the tourist office was, and we were told it was closed. Awesome, Clisson, see you later. We found the office and discovered it was closed til 2.30. Of course, why didn’t we realize, this is not a ghost town, it’s just lunch time. The entire country closed from 12-2. It’s ridiculous. So we found the castle (also closed), looked at a church (not closed), and then decided to wait out the lunch break with some wine. At 2.30 we found the tourist office and were told of all the wonderful things to do in Clisson, including the Castle, which as it turns out, opens for the day at 2pm.

It was bomb. Seriously, this castle was awesome. Half ruins, half slightly more recent, and mostly filled with grass, it was lovely. After the castle we crossed the river and visited a gorgeous park before returning to the gare to catch our train home. I can’t really explain how lovely it all was,but here are some pictures.

This brings us all the way back to Halloween. Saturday some kids from Angers came to stay at my place, so once they were settled in and after dinner I headed over to Kate’s place with Carly, around 7.30. We set the place up a bit and got into costume, and around 9 or 10 the people began arriving. I was telling someone about how French people are terrible at dressing up, how they don’t really do a costume, but rather put together a bunch of goofy things or parts of costumes in a totally nonsensical way. At home we dress up in a costume, here they just dress up. So Kate’s French friends arrive, and one is dressed as a pirate, in a totally comprehensive costume. I’m surprised. Except for some reason he has blood all over his neck. The other one is a different story. He’s dressed in scrubs, cap and all, and has a syringe full of cherry wine. This is great. He also has a knife through his neck with blood running down, and light up antlers that are actually skeleton hands. Good try anyway, French guy. We played upside down bobbing for apples (apple from a string on the ceiling) for which the prize was an 85 cent bottle of hard cider. There were four apples but I only brought two bottles, fortunately the first winner wasn’t too keen on the 85 cent part, so I was able to regift it to the third winner. I’m pretty sure 5 or six people got the last one, by the time I took it down it was mostly just a core. We had a grand ol time, and by 3 am there were 6 of us left to stay the night in Kate’s livingroom/bedroom.

Sunday around 9 Carly sat up and announced that she was done sleeping, thus commencing the laziest day of my life. We sat/layed around for a good three hours, watching youtube videos and listening to music, before finally getting out of bed to clean up a bit, and then getting back into bed for another hour or two to listen to yet more music, only this time some of it live (turns out Kate’s a pro on the ukulele). It seems that the only thing that could possibly prompt us to move about was our stomachs, and around 4 we made a brief exodus to find some kebabs. We were back within 40 minutes, at which point Kate put on Hocus Pocus (which explains the beginning of this post). Finally around 6:30 we got up the strength to leave, thus ending our literal 24 hour stay chez Kate (daylight savings).

Woody Allen, Artemis, Cowgirl, Shadow, Robot, Devil, Cat, Dunno, French ER guy, Cruella DeVille

Best Halloween abroad I could ever ask for. Good work, team.

huit

“I am a hero. I am American. I am a cowboy” 

This is how I introduce myself to the children I teach. Not really, it’s a phrase from an English work book one of my profs gave me to see what they’ve been learning. Turns out the British accent is way cuter than ours, so of course they’ve been learning British English. The cover of the book is the union jack, for crying out loud. Aside from simply implying that all Americans are in fact, cowboys, the book teaches some other ‘british-isms’ that are gonna be interesting to work around. They’ve been taught GArage instead of gaRAGE. They spell “color””colour,” and this phrase is found a few after the American cowboy phrase:

“I’ve got a blue pen. Have you got a rubber?”

They’ve also been learning the verb got. In my mind, this isn’t a real verb. I know it exists, but I don’t think it should be taught to kids. They say “have you got any sisters?” Who says that? Maybe it’s just a British thing, but man I don’t like it. Also, Ten Little Indians is in this book. I’m pretty sure that song stopped being PC a good ten years ago in the states.

But enough about my qualms with British English.The BBC America taught me enough about the differences in the two to find the whole thing more humorous than annoying. So obviously I’ve started going to school, finally. Well, sort of. This past week I was supposed to sit in on classes at all three schools. Monday I went to my main school, the Salentine. It’s sort of a small school, and I think the kids are fairly well off. I work with only three classes, so each class gets to see me twice a week. In one class the teacher introduced me as English, and when I said ‘actually, I’m American,’ all the kids sat up straighter and made various ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ type noises, while the prof said ‘oh that’s even better!’ Apparently at least one of my classes prefers my culture. Let’s hope they can spell color. I work with one class of teeny tiny little kids, probably 5 and 6. In this class the prof put up a world map on the board and asked if anyone could come up and point to America. All of the hands in the room shot up. But here they don’t raise their hands, they point to the ceiling. It’s like being in a southern Baptist church service after the pastor asks “and where gonna go, lawd?!?” I’m telling you these kids are equaly excited about knowing where America is. One girl ‘raises her hand’ every time the teacher askes a question and she gasps when she does it. I really think she might be trying to remove her shoulder from the socket with how hard she reaches. AS it turns out, this is the girl who was chosen to show the class where America is. She came up to the board, and after a few moments of serious consideration, pointed right at it. It being Russia.

One thing I’ve noticed about teachers here is their methods of discipline. Maybe it’s just because I was such a well behaved kid (no really, I was an angel), but it seems to me like these kids are in general incredibly rowdy. They talk while the teacher is talking, they get up and walk around the class whenever they feel like it, and it often takes multiple requests to get them to do what they’re asked. My profs at the Salentine are really nice people, and in general they seem to be great teachers, but at least 3 times in all of the classes I sat in on, the prof would straight up yell at a kid. And the weird part is, this didn’t seem to phase the kids. When my elementary teachers would yell it was like the apocalypse. You did not mess around for at least 3 hours after something like that. And it would never happen more than once or twice a month. Here, it seems like it’s just part of the regular teaching method. I’m not sure if it’s normal, but I don’t like it.

My second school called me Monday afternoon to tell me that they were on strike and not to come in Tuesday. So after a long mid week break, I went to my third school, the Ferrière, on Thursday. This school is bigger and less well off than the Salentine. I work with five classes here, so they only get to see me once a week. I also noticed that the teachers were much friendlier. I only heard one yell all day. After my two hour lunch break, I was crossing the street back to the school and I heard tiny voices yelling ‘salut!’ I turned around and a group of 3 girls from one of my morning classes ran up to me and very excitedly started testing out their English. It was mostly just ‘hello’ and ‘how are you?’ followed by giggles and running away. When I got into the schoolyard this same phenomenon recurred five or six times, several of which involved the same groups of kids. They would run up, say ‘hello,’ giggle, and run away. It was precious, and I don’t even like kids. 

After school I walked 8 blocks to the post office only to discover that the package I’d received was too heavy too carry back that distance. During this walk I passed by a wonderful example of how serious this grève has become. It’s not just the students who are grèving; the sanitation workers haven’t picked up any trash for a good two weeks now. I walked by a park that was entirely littered with Styrofoam boxes. As I got nearer I could smell what they contained, and I unfortunately got close enough see. 

Fish. Fish heads, fish guts, fish skin. It was disgusting. The piles of trash in town have grown taller than me. I’ve been told that the government has to clean up the trash because it’s becoming a health hazard, and here the government means the military. So there are military guys out shoveling fish heads into trucks. Weird.

The weekend, briefly:

Friday morning I was awoken by the peaceful sounds of a jackhammer on my roof. Literally. They’re doing something to the roof of the foyer, so there’s a guy with a jackhammer and a blowtorch from 8 to 6. That evening I ate with Celeste and Cecilia and went to the circus to meet Kate and Richard, but we’d missed the free marionettes by then, so we enjoyed a 1euro glass of wine and then left. The girls watched a free show which involved guys in zoot suits rising out of bushes next to the giant elephant and playing 50s wedding music, then we headed to meet up with some others at a house party where we played a one person long game of 2 truths and lie, a game of 21 which involved a rule to use only the formal vousvoyer, and one of the longer lasting rounds of ‘I’ve never’ I’ve ever played. After missing the last tram home, we called three taxis and somehow my group got the only one that showed up within the hour. We went back to the gay bar by the castle but alas, no Isaac, and I headed back to Kate’s for the night.

Saturday I felt similar to my first day in Nantes, but this time I couldn’t blame Amadhi. Around 2 I packed up my bags and lugged them into town for some more free events at the circus, which included a ‘duo abracadabratesque’ who made far too much use out of their spinning mic stand (think stooges), as well as a supposedly comedic knight on stilts. We didn’t stick around long enough to discover if he was actually funny, and after some vegetarian fajitas I caught the last train to Angers. Sunday I joined Sue and the AHA gang on an excursion to a mushroom museum, goat farm, and cave dinner (if you followed my blog two years ago, this dinner was the exact same thing). Highlights include the tour guide telling us how to use mushrooms to slyly knock someone off, consuming somewhere between a half and a whole bottle of wine in the cave (circa 3pm), and “caressing” goats at a cheese farm (caress is French for pet…). The goats rather enjoyed chewing on my fingers, and one of them ended up breaking the skin. Needless to say, we’re no longer friends.

“I am an American. I am very strong. I am not a cowboy.” Not possible, this guy doesn’t exist. (turns out it was Popeye).

sept

The grève, remember it from a few posts back? It's still goin on, and goin strong. As much as I want to write a big long post about how it's affecting my life, I'm gonna let the status updates that have been flooding my facebook news feed take this one (that said there will probably be a post to follow, when I'm feeling more motivated):

Annika, October 15

7:48 am

la question du jour? Est-ce que je vais travailler aujourd'hui ou pas?

(The question of the day? Am I going to work today or not?)

9:45 am

et la réponse est non, je ne peux pas travailler aujourd'hui parce que tous les étudiants bloquent l'éntrée

(and the response is no, I don't have to work today because all of the students are blocking the entrance)

Celeste, October 15

Cool that when I arrived to school this morning the students had blockaded all the entrances with couches and trash. Hundreds of students standing outside with me amongst them until a French professor came and rescued me and drove me to the one entrance the students neglected to blockade...ohhh the French and their greves.

Keri Ann, October 16

The kids blocked off the schools, they have little security guards making sure none of the teachers get in the school. No joke. I love France

Sophie, Monday morning

got up at 5a.m. for NOTHING! First train to work isn't until 12.30p.m.! Bloody strikes!!!

Carly, Tuesday Afternoon (with a link to her blog, hope she doesn't mind!)

 I hear that in American news, you're more concerned about terrorist attacks. Really, this doesn't concern those of us here in France. Here's why:

On Vit le Reve: On Fait la Greve!

Kate, Tuesday evening

‎... you know how i love a little social unrest.

Misty, Tuesday evening

these strikes are so crazy!! i walked past a pile of burning tires today...not sure what good it did, but very noticeable (the smell at least).

Richard, Thursday morning

My class at 8:00 on a Monday morning - evidently not here

(followed by a photo of an empty classroom)

As you can see, this thing is sort of a big deal here. If you're interested, here's a Times article as well as a link to a the blog of a friend who is much more eloquent than I, and who hopefully wont mind my linking it!

In France, Labor Strikes Head for Showdown

www.nytimes.com

Richard's Blog

six

The French take longer to say goodbye than Paul Jackson with Return of the King. Friday we went to visit our schools and meet our teachers and directors. We were leaving one of Surbhi’s schools and between the first implication of intention to leave and our actual time of departure, I swear at least half an hour passed. It was the most painful thing I’ve experienced since being here. Honestly, it was like each time we turned towards the door someone had an entirely not relevant story to impart as if it were crucial to our survival in the big world outside the classroom doors. It was extra painful because not only was this bond of friendship totally useless to me seeing as this was not my school, but there was only one school after that standing between me and my lunch, as well as my bed. I unfortunately didn’t come home as early as I hoped from a super bizarre concert thursdy night, and all I could think of all day was crawling back into my most inviting bed.

On a side note, I had a very silly encounter at this same hard to quit school. After the horribly drawn out goodbye, we knocked on the door to a classroom to introduce Surbhi to a prof. The door opened to reveal 20 or so 5^th graders staring deer-in-headlights at us as if we were a total spectacle, having interrupted the class in such a way. There was silence to accompany to stares, but not total silence. Only one sound could have made the situation more perfect, and there it was. There were, quite literally, crickets chirping. It was the most wonderfully awkward experience one could have, unfortunately the French haven’t a word for awkward, so of course it was wasted on them all (upon further inspection I noticed the frog tank at the back of the room from whence came the chirping of the inhabitant’s lunch.)

Friday night I tried to go to a circus/costume ball/dance party which was preceded by some sort of mime theater, but the combination of arriving late and the 12 euro entry fee kept me out. Instead we watched a trance DJ and his huge projection screen while enjoying a glass of pretty cheap wine in the street. I’m still blown away by the looseness of drinking law here. The aforementioned Thursday night concert was at a university, where there were more people outside than in, just sitting on the curb or standing in the grass (or even the street) drinking from wine bottles and beer cans, and the occasional 5^th of whisky. And this is normal. But I digress, back to Friday night. After the trance we met up with some friends at an Irish pub where my friend Kate and I somehow got into a fairly long conversation about baptism and Catholicism with a British boy who was raised catholic and finds baptistism (?) rather bizarre. Apparently religious debate isn’t everyone’s favorite bar conversation, for it ended up just the three of us. Shortly after their departure, we gathered up this girl Misty who’s from Idaho and refers to Cider as ‘apple beer,’ and headed across the street to locate the others. We descended the brick staircase at the club across the street and found ourselves in a cave with blasting beats and flashing lights, but no sign of the others. At this point our desire for food took over our desire for friends, so we headed to the kebab shop up the street, where Misty made friends with the Turkish owner and became intrigued with a tiny sampling fork, which she proceeded to use as a sword in a tiny duel with the aforementioned Turk. Food arrives, we leave, Misty having learned to count to maybe five in Turkish, and we spot the gang outside the cave club. We chat with some Brazilian boys then some swiss boys who teach Misty a phrase which they claim means ‘you’re really cool’ but we later discover means something entirely different, and seeing as it’s near 2 and the others have again departed, we head home.

Saturday was drinks at my place with some of the girls. Highlights include rum-and-coke-and-peach-and-tonic, which I’m told is a pretty foul combination, cookies that smell like dog biscuits but taste slightly better, Carly breaking one of my two bowls by knocking over an empty bottle onto it, Shakira video after Shakira video, and Triforce ice.

This morning I was awakened by the bells of Saint Thérèse. This video isn’t much to look at, so I suggest doing something else while listening, but that is the view from my window, and the big red brick building is the church. This week I actually do work, kind of – I’ll be sitting in on four hours of classes each day Monday Tuesday and Thursday. Then Friday until November 4^th is Toussaint vacation, which I certainly need. Because this whole time I’ve been in France hasn’t been vacation…