I’m currently sitting on the TGV (high speed train) on my way from Montpellier to Paris where I’ll fly out tomorrow morning for the US. Weather the past few days has been a bit precarious in northern France with snow causing some travel problems in Paris, a city not quite used to winter weather. We’ve even had an arctic blast of weather down in the South of France where daytime temps went from 12ºC (54ºF) to around -5ºC (23ºF) on some days. Apparently the South isn’t all beaches and palm trees as you might think. I’ve also been tracking the surprise blizzard I had not anticipated that just roared into DC and up the East Coast. I’m hoping I won’t face any flight problems with this since I leave about 24 hours after the snow will stop, but I’ll keep you posted on that one.
Unexpected as it is, this bit of winter weather is making for a nice journey northward as I look out the train windows: Christmas music playing on my computer, snow covered French countryside, and Christmastime at home getting closer and closer. Can’t beat it. See you all stateside.
In order to get my kids practicing their spoken English and learning important American figures, I’ve put together an activity I call “Who Are You?” In the game, each student receives a piece of paper with an answer followed by an unrelated clue. I start by reading my clue and whichever student has the answer to it on their paper stands up, reads it, and continues with their own clue. The game goes full circle throughout the entire class so that everyone identifies himself or herself until it comes back to me again as the last answer. These clues can range from historical figures to athletes to pop stars and other celebrities. I’ve also thrown in some important cities and events in the later, more difficult rounds.
My class and I got a pretty good laugh one day during this game when a student threw in their guess to a clue that was being read. The clue was “You were a former senator from the state of Delaware and are now the Vice President under Barack Obama.” Most students knew that it was “the other old, white-haired guy besides John McCain” but couldn’t remember his name. One brave and slightly misinformed student decided to volunteer her answer by responding, “I am Steven Spielberg.” I think they might be on to something. Money, popularity, diversity, and Oscar statuettes in the White House. Sounds like a recipe for success.
With about half of the school year finished, all of the Language Assistants have come to realize just how different the French education system is from our own, especially education in America. This post goes out to all the teachers and people working with young kids reading my blog- Mom, Jennifer, Wake professors, and L Rob to name a few.
The most noticeable difference in the French system is that it is very, well, systematic. The entire primary, middle, and high school experience is geared toward preparing the students for the Baccalaureate exam. The Bac is similar to our SATs, but way more intense and carrying much more weight on your future. One thing I do often with my students is to discuss texts on a variety of topics ranging from consumerism to fashion design to marketing, depending on their concentration. Without fail, every time I ask a student to present an article to me, their Bac training kicks in and their first words, as if scripted and ingrained into their minds, are “This is a news article from (insert source) written by (insert writer) published on (insert date). The title of the article is (insert title) and the subtitle is (insert subtitle).” While this may seem like nails on a chalkboard to many of us in the States, this is the preferred method of presentation when discussing an article in France.
Another major difference is how the teachers are allowed to treat students. While I haven’t experience this firsthand, several friends of mine in primary school have told stories of teachers telling their kids to shut up or even picking them up out of their chair and tossing them in the corner for punishment. Be reminded that this is public school. If that happened in America, teachers would find themselves in court faster than they could say “I am not a crook.”
One difference that I just came across this past week at our Fête de Noël (Christmas party) for all the teachers was that they do not shy away from bringing wine to school. The party was at noon on Thursday, and there were about 10 bottles of red, white, and rosé being passed around the teacher’s lounge. At 1pm, about half of the teachers cleared out to go to their classes while the rest stayed to continue the fête. Let’s try to introduce this to American schools and see what happens...
Different as it may be, each day is an adventure as I walk through the gates of Lycée Ernest Hemingway to see what awaits me . Ah, la France.
Being a Christmas buff and not able to put up many of my own decorations this year, it was a given that I had to make it to the Fête. As most travels in France begin, I found myself at the train station one Saturday morning with a few friends, bags packed and tickets in hand. We arrived in Lyon around noon only to find that, surprise surprise, there was a grève. For those of you who don’t remember, that means a strike. For those of you who do remember, you might be worrying. Don’t. Just another day in France. As we would say here, “pas de soucis” (no worries). Of course the only metro line that was on strike was the one we needed, so we found a combo of buses to get us to the apartment of the French friend we were staying with. Once there, we were off to explore.
Lyon is split into three quartiers by its two rivers: the Rhône and the Saône. The eastern most section is the more modern area known as Part-Dieu. Between the two rivers lies the Presque-Île, or the “Almost Island”. To the west sits Vieux Lyon (Old Lyon) and the Fourvière hill that overlooks the rest of the city (in this case, my “highest point”). I can’t do the Fête justice by describing it with words, so I’ll highlight some of my favorite parts and direct everyone to the pictures below and my Picasa photo account to check out the full experience.
Le Marché de Noël (Christmas Market)- an essential of any French city’s Christmas celebrations.
La Fourvière- seeing the city from above was amazing, especially on the first night of the Fête. Here, you can see the giant Ferris wheel, two rivers, and various other light displays below.
The light buoys in the Rhône- these flickered the entire night after dark and lit up one of the prettiest parts of the river.
The food and drink- From the mulled wine to the baked potatoes stuffed with goat cheese and peppers to the bouchon Lyonnais with typical Lyonnais dishes, we were without a doubt well fed on this trip.
To check out the rest of my Fête de Lumbers pictures, go to www.picasaweb.google.com/johncmcgowan.
Joyeux Noël et très bonnes fêtes à tout le monde! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone!
Anyone living in France knows that one of the most inevitable parts of life here is the infamous grève: a strike. The French love to strike. Whenever. And wherever. Transport strikes, civil servant strikes, student strikes, even teacher strikes. Currently, most major museums in Paris are closed due to a museum worker strike, including the Louvre, the Musée d’Orsay, Versailles palace, and the Centre Pompidou- pretty much all the major museums you’d visit on a trip to Paris.
Ever since I started teaching, I’ve been receiving mass notices in my mailbox at school about an education reform the Minister of Education and President are trying to pass. As it were, teachers across the country are not happy about this. In a situation like this, first come the “manifestations”, or gatherings to discuss and show early dissent for whatever is going on. That happened both last month and yesterday. Then come the mass-mailings to the responsible party expressing dislike for a certain idea and threatening to oppose it. That happened today. The final step is the grève, which was hinted at in the latest notice I read this afternoon. In the form letter addressed to the Minister that the teachers’ union urged all of us to send, they said:
“We ask you to immediately renounce this reform, and we declare that we are prepared to take any action necessary to stop it, including a strike lasting until its withdrawal.
Hmm, a strike lasting until the federal government gives in? Could be fun… I’ll be tracking this one closely.
Since coming to Montpellier, one thing I’ve learned is that as a person under 26 who travels, teaches and likes going to movies and concerts, there’s a discount card for just about every situation I could find myself in. To be honest, my life is starting to feel more and more like an iPhone commercial. Need a discount on the train? There’s a card for that. Want free entry into museums? There’s a card for that. Reduced price movie tickets? Yup, there’s a card for that.
One of the many cards I’ve gotten is called a Tutti’Pass, something that gives me access to 4 “spectacles” on the 2009-2010 Languedoc-Roussillon Orchestre and Opéra calendar for only 15 . So far I’ve been able to see a production of Mozart’s The Magic Flute, as well as a performance by the Montpellier National Orchestra (where I somehow ended up sitting in the third row). Although I’ve been to a fair amount of performances back home, I’ve never seen an applause ritual quite like what they do in France. At the end of both performances, the entire crowd broke into raucous applause, but soon all the clapping seemed to magically sync up until everyone in the entire theater was clapping in unison. While this seemed somewhat cult-esque at first, it was pretty cool to have a thousand people all acting as one. Not only do they do this, but the encore claps go on for about 15 to 20 minutes, which meant 10 curtain calls for the cast of The Magic Flute. 10. I think by the end the actors just wanted to get us out of there. On the bright side, at least it was applause and not booing…
Last week I was working with a few groups of students new students, so I did the traditional “Introduce yourself to me” activities including but not limited to favorite activities, sports played, places you’ve visited, places you’d like to visit, movies, and types of music. After giving me their likes and dislikes, a group of two 19 year old boys I was working with were interested in what type of music I liked, so I told them that I liked a lot of different types of music: rock ‘n roll (classic and current), jazz, pop, hip hop, bluegrass, and classical, to name a few. They were right there with me until the last genre, after which one asked, “Oh, classical? Like Michael Jackson?” Close, but not quite. I think he just missed that era of music by a few years…
I may or may not have to take a day to teach these kids Music 101: Introduction to Classical Music. Hopefully they’ll know Michael Jackson from Mozart by the end of the year. Maybe not.
From day one, the American assistants were all determined to take the Thanksgiving holiday international and show the world how we did it. The basics were all covered. Turkey, check. Potatoes, both mashed and sweet, check. Stuffing, check. Pumpkin and other pies, check. We also encouraged all guests, including our various international friends, to bring a favorite dish from their Thanksgiving meals or from their home countries, so needless to say the food was aplenty. Between the second (or in my case, third) helpings of main dishes and the unveiling of the desserts, we decided to have our Norman Rockwell moment. So around the living room we gathered, and each person in turn said something they were thankful for. There were the traditional thanks to the hosts of the party and to the Americans for inviting everyone and introducing them to one of our traditions, but hearing some of the things that people chose to be their point of thanks was truly refreshing. One person gave thanks for there still being people as welcoming and open as all those in present company that made the evening possible, while another gave thanks for the sheer diversity that was able to assemble (in addition to the list of nationalities mentioned in my previous post, we added Bulgarian, Greek, Jamaican, and Algerian to the mix). Still another thanked not only those present, but his family back home that made it possible for him to be in France for the semester. One person even gave thanks for simply being alive to enjoy an evening like that, having just recently lost a close friend.
Hearing things that were at once so honest and so simple gave me a newfound sense of appreciation for the Thanksgiving holiday. And ironically enough, it was due in large part to being away from everything that I am usually thankful for that helped me realize this.
As for myself, I was thankful not only for everyone here that made this Thanksgiving-away-from-home possible, but for the fact that we all will walk away from our experience here with friends scattered across the globe, willing to welcome us if ever we’re in the neighborhood.
1/2 of our Thanksgiving spread. The appetizers and desserts took up their own tables.
Being that Montpellier is a big university town, and being that I’m in a program that attracts people from around the globe to teach their respective languages, I’ve had plenty of opportunities for cultural exchange. One thing I’ve noticed from these interactions is that no matter how cliché it sounds, I’m still amazed that people from different countries really aren’t all that different. For example, at any given time in our group of friends, you could look around the room and see one or more of the following nationalities represented: American, French, British, Australian, Austrian, Maltese (yes, it’s a country- look it up), Mexican, Canadian and el Salvadorian. And that’s just the core group. But despite the geographic diversity, we always seem to find that one twenty-something is the same as the next. We are never at a loss for conversation, laughs, stories we have in common from home, a desire to eat good food, or a love for travel and exploration. Of course, there are the moments when we hit a cultural roadblock (like not knowing the slang specific to a certain country) or an “oh my god” moment (like when I found out that prefects actually exist in British schools, not just in Harry Potter), but these always make for a laugh and in the end.
Our winning trivia team, code name: "Maltese Magic"
On another note, I’ve come to appreciate even more how we as Americans have a very different view of our cultural identity than others. For example, I am 50% Greek, 25% Irish, and 25% German, but I consider myself American through and through. However, after talking to two full-fledged Greek people since being here, they don’t quite understand what that means. When I said to them, “Oh I’m half Greek,” they first asked if I speak Greek, then proceeded to demand why not when I admitted that I only knew a few words, then one even tried to tell me I wasn’t “Greek” because I did not know all the ins and outs of Greek life. Despite still practicing typical Greek traditions with my family each year, apparently I didn’t have that intangible and essential gene built into me that made me “Greek.”
It seems that by saying you are of one origin or another, to them that hinges more on having an undying loyalty to said country and its way of life, rather than a simple appreciation for where you come from, as do most Americans. All Americans have gotten the “What is your background?” question that asks what percentage of each “old country” a person is, but for most other citizens of the world, this question is redundant. In short, modern Americans are mutts, and we love it. Let's be honest: where else can you simultaneously claim the right to celebrate Greek Easter (complete with lamb and baklava) and St. Patrick’s Day (complete with green beer and shamrocks) as legitimate parts of your heritage?
So the other day while returning from a bike ride with a friend, we saw a group of joggers, one of which was wearing the typical short runner’s shorts, a long sleeve t-shirt…and a scarf. Riddle me this: why is the scarf at all necessary in that case? Clearly it was warm enough to be wearing shorts, and the scarf was in no way a “sporty” design. There may also have been tassels. It's unclear. I was too bewildered to notice all the details. Let me know if you figure this one out...
After several encounters with this same situation, I have finally come to realize that in Europe, if someone tells you your destination is not walkable, 9 times out of 10 it most certainly is. Whether you’re feeling athletic or are trying to save money on public transportation (both of which have applied to me at some point), saying that you are walking to a given location will often draw looks of bewilderment or hurried advice on which bus or metro lines to take.
On a similar note, many French people seem to find the idea of commuting utterly perplexing. While this idea is common to most Americans and even the more metropolitan Parisians, many people from smaller towns do not grasp the concept. For example, I work in a small town in the South of France called Nîmes, but chose to live in the livelier, younger, and more entertaining Montpellier which is a 25 minute train ride away. No matter which end of the train journey I find myself on, the first question from people who learn my situation is always, “Why?!” I guess things like this seem normal when you hail from a country where an hour commute to work, a 5 hour commute to school, and a sometimes 10+ hour ride to vacations is not unheard of. Gotta love the Europe.
Barcelona is on the Mediterranean coast of northern Spain in a region called Catalunya. Catalunya stands out as an area of Spain very distinct from the rest of the country. The primary language here is Catalan, not Spanish, so all signs are either bilingual (Catalan and Spanish) or trilingual (Catalan, Spanish and English). One of Barcelona’s most striking features is its architecture, which was heavily influenced by the work of Antoni Gaudi. Gaudi’s buildings can be found throughout the city and are actually the center of several very touristy bus trips in Barcelona, but his (almost) crowning achievement is the temple of the Sagrada Familia, or Sacred Family. I say almost because Gaudi died in 1926 after being unexpectedly hit by a tram during the construction of the temple (as if anyone expects to be hit by a tram). With the creative genius behind the structure now gone and work still to be done, construction continued for a time under the direction of other architects but ultimately ended long before its completion. The task has been taken up once again by the city of Barcelona, so the temple is constantly under construction as visitors go to and fro admiring what currently stands.
I could probably write a novella about the symbolism and genius behind the architecture of this church, so I’ll attempt to keep it short. The inside of the church takes the columns necessary for roof support and models them after the trunks and branches of trees that reach up to the ceiling, which itself resembles the leaves of a forest canopy. The outside features three façades, all detailing different stages of Jesus’ life: the Nativity, the Passion, and the Glory. The Glory façade is the only of the three still unfinished. Biblical scenes and moments in the life of Jesus are carved into the stone on the outside of these façades, including the arrival of the three kings to the manger, Judas’ betrayal of Jesus, and Jesus’ death. The current plan is to have the remaining work finished on the church by 2026, the 100th anniversary of Gaudi’s death.
As I mentioned in the previous entry, my quest in each place I visit is to make it to the highest point the city has to offer. In Barcelona, the obvious high point is Mount Tibidabo, lying just north of the city center (Friends fans will know this name from “The Story” used often by Joey). After a metro ride, a walk up a winding road (which could have been a bus, but we were on a budget), and a rickety funicular, we arrived at the top of Tibidabo. To be found here: an old church perched atop the summit and an amusement park. How those two things seemed like logical next-door neighbors is beyond me. Nevertheless, stepping inside the old church, hearing the winds high above the city swirling outside around the dome and realizing that I was the only person towering above a city of over a million people was a pretty cool feeling. The views from the mountain were well worth the journey as they gave a glimpse of all of Barcelona’s major buildings and neighborhoods stretching all the way to the shores of the Mediterranean.
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Another great moment for me, the eternal Olympics fan, was making it to the Montjuïc Park, site of the 1992 Barcelona Summer Olympics. The facilities set atop the hillside park are still in use for a variety of other events, sporting and entertainment alike, including European football (soccer) championships and Bon Jovi concerts (who knew?).
Check out the entire collection of my pictures from here and the rest of my time in France on my Picasa page: http://picasaweb.google.com/johncmcgowan
The next stop on our voyage through España was the southern city of Granada. Brief history lesson: Spain was originally conquered by the Roman Empire, followed by Muslim invaders, and recaptured slowly for about 800 years by the Catholics. Granada was one of the last Muslim strongholds in Spain until 1492 when Boabdil, Sultan at the time, sold the city to King Ferdinand for a handsome price. Late that night, Boabdil gave the keys to the city to Ferdinand’s forces and the next morning, the residents awoke to church bells instead of the rooftop call to morning prayer. “Granada” is Spanish for pomegranate, which is the symbol of the city.
That being said, Granada is an extremely diverse and beautiful city with much history. Within a few blocks from each other, there are Arabic, Jewish, and Gypsy quarters, not to mention the center city commercial district and a mountainside gypsy colony (see below). The different types of architecture and culture that meet inside the city, as well as the mountains surrounding the entire city, make it a picturesque and striking sight. And that doesn’t even include the paella and sangria, which was the best we found anywhere in Spain. We spent Halloween in Granada and our hostel put on a very impressive party, featuring traditional decorations and costumes, as well as homemade paella in a huge dish and sangria in a giant cooler. Delicious.
One of the most impressive sights in Granada is the Moorish palace on the hill, La Alhambra. Built while Granada was still in Muslim control, the architecture is unique from any castle I’ve ever seen, with intricate and detailed décor throughout. La Alhambra was also the place where King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella gave Christopher Columbus permission to embark on his journey that would lead him to discover America. With the conquering of the city and the discovery of America, 1492 was a pretty big year for Spain.
My goals in every city I visit is always to make it to the highest point, whether it be natural or man-made. In Granada’s case, the highest point was the mountain on the north side of the city known as Sacromonte. Sacromonte straddles the remains of the old city wall atop the hill, around which a village of gypsies have dug out caves in the mountain for housing. Yes that’s right- gypsy colony living in the mountains. Naturally, I decided that climbing this mountain for sunset would be an awesome thing to do for my “get to the highest point” quest, and so began the trek through Gypsyville. We began following the roads up through the civilized part of the city, after which we took to the winding dirt paths that ran through various gypsy front yards. We came across one such gypsy who, after looking extremely confused as to why a few Americans were racing the clock to climb the mountain at sunset, asked us for a cigarette. Being confident enough in my Spanish after a few days in Spain to respond, I told him “No fumar. Lo siento.” What I tried to say was “I don’t smoke, sorry.” What came out was, “You’re not allowed to smoke, sorry.” Good thing I continued running after that. Needless to say, we made it to the top for an awesome sunset.
One of the biggest surprises in Granada came in the form of cookies. Made by nuns. Secret nuns who never show themselves to the world. We were given the tip by the guide on our walking tour and decided to check it out. We followed the signs to the “dulces” (sweets) and entered the small foyer of a stone building. Inside: one chain connected to a bell on the wall, an intercom, and a turnstile window. After following the directions posted outside the window and communicating via intercom with the nun inside, we suddenly saw the turnstile revolving and out came our bag of cookies, guided by one solitary nun-hand. Unsure what to do with the money, we signaled that it was on the turnstile already, after which Sister Mary Mysterious turned the window back and disappeared forever. Experience: awesome. Cookies: delicious. Thank you, baking nuns.
Final stop: Barcelona.
The first city on our itinerary was Madrid. We started our trip with a three-legged train journey from Montpellier to the Spanish capital, but during the transfer to the second leg, things went awry. Three of our five travelers made it through the ticket checkpoint to the platform when we realized we were missing two others. I left my stuff with my two friends on the train and went back to see what was up; when I didn’t see them anywhere, I went back to check if they had made it to the train. However, as I got up to the platform, I saw the train doors closing and it pulling away from the station. Yes, there I was, no passport, ticket, wallet, or clothing besides what was on my back.
As it turned out, one of our friends had lost her ticket and another had stayed back with her as she searched, leaving the three of us to see the remaining two off as they continued our vacation alone. After speaking with several train station officials, making a few calls to our friends on the train, and arranging the transfer of all my money and documents at a stop down the line, I was once again with the essentials and on the way toward Spain, albeit still without any of my clothes.
An unexpected night in Barcelona and a bus ride to Madrid later, we were finally on track again. Madrid was full of great museums and sights to see, including the Museo del Prado and the more modern Reina Sofia, which houses rooms of Picasso and Salvador Dali paintings- both amazing.
The Royal Palace and cathedral just next door were both beautiful and really interesting to see Spanish heritage and history in person. The one downside of Madrid was that it seemed very commercial and lacked that strong sense that you were really in Spain...
…until we met royalty. Yes, we were as surprised as you probably are now. Walking down the road one day, we came to a crowd of people gathering on the street. We had our Argentinean friend we met in our hostel ask a woman in the crowd what was going on and soon learned that Princess Letizia was on her way to do a Red Cross fundraiser appearance. Once the princess arrived and we had taken a few pictures, we noticed a line of excited looking old ladies forming and decided to jump in and see where it would take us. We waited for a few minutes until the next thing we knew security was searching our bags and escorting us across the road to meet the princess. Now, being someone who loves learning languages and never wants to be “that obnoxious American who only speaks English,” I was determined to speak Spanish to her. The meeting went as follows:
Me: Hola, Princesa.
Princesa: (speaking in rapid Spanish, of which I only understood the word “donde”)
Me: (“Oh god, what did she just say? I hope this is right…”) Los Estados Unidos….
Apparently this was the right response to what must have been “Where are you from?” because she proceeded in English to welcome me to Madrid and wish me a good trip in Spain.
“Conversation” with the Princesa: check.
Next up: adventures in Granada.
Today marked the beginning of our first 2-week break from school. Yes, I have been teaching for less than a month and we already have a break. The Toussaint break gives students a week and a half off from school at the end of October each year, something equivalent to a Fall Break and a combination of all the Jewish holidays we have off in September back in the States. To celebrate, several of the English assistants threw a Halloween costume party since many will not be in town on October 31 and since France chooses not to embrace all that Halloween can offer. We invited some of our French friends from around town and had typical fall/Halloween food, candy and drinks including cider, an assortment of chocolates, etc. “Thriller,” “Monster Mash” and other Halloween gems were added to the evening’s playlist to ensure proper celebration.
Tonight we all went to the free, outdoor Joan Baez concert put on by the city of Montpellier as the headlining concert of a month long International Guitar Festival. Despite never seen her perform live before and not knowing a lot about her music, the concert was awesome and she is definitely a great performer. Throughout the 2+ hour concert, the 60-something musician sang songs both old and new from throughout her career, and in 4 different languages at that (French, English, Spanish, and Arabic).
Tomorrow I leave for Spain with a few friends for the rest of our break. We will be going to Madrid, Granada, and Barcelona for 3 days each, so I will be taking lots of pictures and will be back to update on our travels in the first week of November. Happy Halloween!
-While waiting for the tram one day, I happened to glance over and see a woman and a man running side by side. Both were wearing typical running gear and were fairly sweaty, but I soon realized that the woman, obviously mid-run, was carrying a baguette with her. Apparently when you need a baguette, nothing will stand in your way. Dually noted.
-Since I was assigned my own mailbox at school, I’ve been getting various flyers from the teacher’s union. One talked about their opposition to a law aiming to make more use of Masters students in education and Foreign Language Assistants (like myself), thus reducing the amount of time teachers would spend in the classroom. Point of irony #1: I received a mass invitation to a meeting about petitioning this issue. Point of irony #2: I considered attending just for the heck of it until there were reports of a train strike the day of the meeting. Unfortunate planning on the part of all striking parties involved.
I made the rounds of my classes, introducing myself during our first meetings and having them do the same. I allowed them all to ask me any questions they wanted to ask, so here is the “Best of” compilation of what my French high schoolers had on their minds. And yes, these were all things students actually asked:
-The ever-present “Obama Factor”- What do you think of him? Do you know him? You are from Washington DC- were you at the inauguration?
-Who do you think is the most beautiful woman in the world?
-Do you have a gun?
-Is your house like “Desperate Housewives”?
-Do you like “hip hop culture”? (I’m still trying to figure out what exactly that means or if it was a loaded question…)
-Is it true that America is a “big” country? (Insert student making a gesture to signal obesity)
-Student: Do you prefer French women or American women?
Me: (realizing I am in a room filled with French girls, including my teacher, and trying to be diplomatic) Well, they are both very different. Which do you prefer?
Student: American women.
Teacher: Why?
Student: Because I like black women.
Teacher: (slightly perplexed) …There are black women in France. Nevermind, let’s move on.
And possibly my personal favorite:
-Do you think Tupac is still alive?
The first bit of merde I encountered upon my arrival in France was the innate catch-22 nature of much of French bureaucracy. Once in Montpellier, all English language assistants set out to complete the essential administrative tasks at hand, namely finding housing and opening a bank account. Here’s where the merde comes in: to get a bank account, you need proof that you have a permanent residence, but in order to obtain a permanent residence, you need to have proof of a bank account. This left us wondering for some time how to tackle this minor dilemma, until we took it upon ourselves to tell the banks we were currently living at our schools and were searching for other accommodations. Yes, we may have defrauded the banking system. This let us get the two week process of opening a bank account rolling, so that we could focus on moving out of our imaginary current residences and into real apartments. The catch there was that we all arrived after every student in Montpellier, which thrives largely on the several universities around town.
Fast forward a week and a half of living in a hotel and various reports about this year’s housing situation being the most dire in years, and most of us have found places to our liking. For me, I am living in the centre historique (historic district) about an 8 minute walk from the train station I travel from every day. Rent is affordable and there are enough boulangeries and patisseries on my street to keep my mouth watering all day. My colocataire (person I share the apartment with) is a man who lived in Africa for 25 years doing humanitarian work, was a professional photographer, and is a handyman. That being said, I noticed a photo he had in the apartment one day of a cottage in the Alps, which he proceeded to tell me he built and goes to each year. No electricity, no heating, no roads in or out during the winter. Needless to say, he’s quite an interesting person to chat with.
All in all, the first dose of merde made for a character building experience, to say the least. Luckily, we all made it out alive, and can now move onto the “living” part of our year here.
For those of you wondering about the title of this blog, it references Stephen Clarke’s A Year in the Merde, the story of a British man who is relocated to work in Paris for one year. Merde in French literally means, well, poo. As in what you might step in while walking down any given French street. It’s also used quite commonly in everyday French interactions, between friends, colleagues, and even strangers. However, the merde in this book, as well as my blog, references both the ups and downs of living la vie française, things (like the merde in the street) that you can’t avoid but inevitably come to appreciate as quintessentially French. Here, I’ll mix my daily observations with experiences from everyday life and my travels to paint a picture of all the merde out there. And there’s plenty to go around.
