27.10.09
Ok so not everything is beautiful in France. I've confronted the two extreme versions of the 'France' concept that Americans have: those of my Dad, who find it to be a land of cowards and traitors who all hate us and our evil capitalist ways; and those of my Mom, who are tickled pink when I tell her I 'went to Paris for the weekend' with friends, and who imagine France to be a place of baguettes and cheese, culture and class, corner patisseries and a traditional simplicity of life that Americans find nostalgic.
France is really just a French-ified version of the U.S., with remnants of its past the way some families have Great-Grandma's favorite vase on the mantel piece after she's passed away. French people in general as I've noticed, find their chateaux boring and old and prefer their box-y, 50's industrial-style modern architecture; they prefer 'Mac Do' do traditional French cooking which I have yet to experience, and they prefer American hip hop to the classical music their country is so famous for. The Loire and the Cathedrals are stoic icons that are generally ignored if not for the tourists, and people take for granted hundreds of years of rich, imbeded culture that Americans envy, with our 250-year-old baby of a country. French people get in their cars or hop onto public transportation and watch out the window or at their I pod's blankly as the beautiful scenery buzzes by, just waiting to get to work.
Traditional French life such as corner butchers and patisseries exist, but more in 'centre ville,' which are where the tourists go, and where French people go to shop. Or the patisseries resemble Dunkin' Donuts a bit, where the employees where the same tacky uniforms, rush you through the line, and you can tell that the pastries have been out since the morning.
The cheaper, more convenient option has caught on; a monster of a all-purpose store where you can get all your shopping needs done at once – AUCHAN. It's the French version of WalMart.
You pay a Euro for your cart, which you slip in the little slot at the top –W it pops out when you put it back. You enter the store, overwhelmed by the star-designed halls lined with stores displaying fashionable clothing, restaurants, shoes, and cellphone providers – each hall meeting in the middle where you enter AUCHAN. It has cheap household décor, plates and serving bowls along with every kitchen accessory you can think of, electronics, hardware, and even a grocery store at the other end. Televisions screens call you over, where they display the latest in mattress technology, or the best new blender on the market. It is so familiar...you know exactly what to do, where to go, because you've done it all before – in the States...the smell of sterilized fabric after leaving the Chinese factories, items thrown about as people scavenge the best deals, the blinding lights above that drive you out, but the gigantic yellow “Solde (sale)” signs that suck you back in, with their unbeatable prices....
It's just Frenchified. French brands (and American), that are miniature in size for a higher price, French on the signs above the isles, fish displayed out on ice unwrapped, and an isle dedicated to cheese and its wonderfully pungent aroma in the grocery section. Parents dig feverishly through the piles of cheese, trying to get home at a reasonable hour, at the same time trying to control their children, who scream and throw temper tantrums. They have more time during these endeavors than we do, considering most of them get off work at 5:00 – like we're “supposed” to. But they go through the same motions. It's just in a different language.
Aside from France being much more “normal” and familiar than I thought it would be, French people are meaner than I thought they would be. I'm speaking in a very generalized way; some of the people we've met, such as a lunch place near Auchan which we frequent pretty often, have begun to notice us as “the Americans” and are very patient and excitable with us. But the “customer service” that Americans treasure so highly, is a non-necessity here. In a land where tips don't exist, and everyone is treated equal – why should YOU be treated any better than anyone else? Examples are: when I go up to ask someone for directions, they ask as though I am asking the biggest favor in the world. When I went into SFR (one equivalent here of AT&T for cell phones), to ask why the people calling me was showing up as “unknown” every time – the guy asked as though I was the biggest waste of time he's ever seen. When Anna and I went to “France Telecom” in the mall part of Auchan to tell them our phone line wasn't working, again, acting like we were a waste of time. A whole lot of sighing, rolling of eyes, moving at a snails pace, and 'I don't know what to tell you Madame,' and just handing us a number to call for a technician. In the U.S., we would have been so overly apologetic, I would have been nauseous.
And when you're a foreigner in another country...only when you've walked 6 months in the shoes of an immigrant...will you be able to understand the 'immigration' experience at home. And no, I don't mean as a 'tourist.' Only when you become the 'stranger in a strange land' trying to exist as a functioning member in a society, can you even begin to imagine the constant struggle to understand and be understood in another culture and tongue, struggle to maintain your self-esteem in the face of being judged as a simpleton and the chronic headaches from mental overload.
Being a tourist is easy; the natives of the country you're visiting have laid out your paths in front of you with carefully marked signs, arrows, and people that can direct you that speak your language, for a fee – because you are contributing to their economy by your temporary interest in their monuments.
Being a native is easy. I realize now that I took it all for granted; what to do if there's a problem with your bills, calling companies and getting credit for their mistakes, setting up service, setting up a bank account, paying credit card and other bills, etc...
I helped my Conogolese friends because it was easy for me, and I pitied their lack of understanding. But I couldn't REALLY relate to their situation.
Living in France has taught me that I am a six-year-old trying to keep my head afloat in a swirling current of paperwork and socialist rules and regulations that no one else around me in my situation seem to fully understand. Every other English assistant here that I've asked has had a different version of what we're supposed to do, what the paperwork means, what we can and can't do before this and this get's sent in and processed first. I'm not sure if I'm 100% covered by French insurance, or if I should purchase another private health insurance plan, as my roomate has done – because someone told HER that the French government only pays for 70% of your bills. Then I hear that it depends on what you've had done; Tiffany said, if you're getting a breast augmentation, of course the French government isn't going to help you out very much with that. If you break your leg, she assured me that the government would cover the whole thing. So I don't know what is going on.
About a month ago; the same week we arrived in Orleans, we went to France Telecom – the largest company for phone lines/internet/television in France. They might even at one point, or even still, have been State-owned. We had heard that we needed to set up a landline in our apartment, pay off the installation fee and the first month's bill, and then we could call another company called 'FREE' which does internet/phone including free calls to the U.S./television for 30Euro a month. That's 15 for Anna and 15 for me. Not bad...I was so excited about this, that we started the whole process as soon as we could with France Telecom, so that in 2-3 weeks, I would be able to call my friends and family as often as I wanted!
But our apartment remained silent for the next several weeks. The line had been 'activated' and we had already been given/plugged in a cordless phone from the secretary at my school, that she had laying around.....but the phone didn't work. I had already bought a corded phone myself, and we tried that one instead of the cordless. Neither worked. There was a strange tone/beeping that sounded in your ear, and outbound and inbound calls didn't go through.
This is when we went back in to France Telecom. The first time, we weren't sure what we had been told...would we be responsible for paying the technician fee – since it probably was a problem with the wiring in the wall of the bulding, owned by my school? We went in a second time with Frederique, and she said the technician coming out wouldn't be charged – but they would have to determine whether it was France Telecom's fault that the phone wasn't working, or the school's. She didn't know if the school would pay or not.
WEEK TWO: We called the number and couldn't understand the rapid and technical French on the automated messaging....so I went downstairs and knocked on the door of the Groundskeeper of the school, M. Duverger (Du-Ver-Jay) – or Patrick, as we know him now – who lives in the building. I explained our situation and our concerns, and as he is probably the nicest French person I have met so far, he jovially followed me back upstairs and called France Telecom for us, as well as the Secretary at the school, Mme Marty, to ask her who would be responsible for paying for the repairs. She had to 'verify and call us back.'
He scheduled the technician to come the next day. We thought our problems would be over. However, the technician found that the wire in the wall had been cut, probably by accident when someone was doing work in the building, and he wouldn't be able to do anything until the school installed a new wire in the wall. I thought that was his job, but apparently not...
M. Duverger told me that the technician had told HIM to replace the wire, and then call France Telecom back when it was all done.
TWO DAYS LATER: WEEK THREE. I saw the little hole in the wall where the new wire had been installed, and asked M Duverger if he had called France Telecom yet. He said he had, and they were supposed to come soon.
WEEK FOUR: this was last week. The technician still hadn't come back to finish the job. Rumor has it a technician came one day, popped his head in the building and didn't see anyone – even though our door was unlocked and he had M. Duverger's number to call in case we weren't home – so he promptly left after 2 minutes.M. Duverger had called twice since then.
Normally, my French aquaintences have told me, native French people would be theoretically able to call France Telecom in this sitaution, and demand to be reimbursed for the entire month we went without a phone. The bill had already come in the mail – Anna and I had to pay 53 Euro for a phone line that didn't work. Normally, if our French was good enough – which mine is, but because of my slight accent – they don't give us the time of day. Our efforts at getting through the loop holes and getting breaks are almost laughable, because we aren't French. And it's obvious how clueless we are.
And I'd be willing to be you all are saying, 'Well we aren't THAT bad in the United States. We don't have nearly as much paperwork, and normally things get done on time.” However, if you order a service, or to get tile installed, or something to be set up....most of the time it goes as planned, but oftentimes you have issues as well. People don't do what they're paid to do, they reschedule 80 times, etc. As a native who understands what is between the lines, what you're entitled too if you raise hell enough, we can get by pretty easily. We can express ourselves in a manner that puts us on the same level – if not higher – than the company we're pissed at. If you aren't a native, you don't even know what you're entitled to. All you have to go by is what's acceptable at home. And hope it's similar. And you get screwed over, time and time again...just because you don't know.
Some people are inclined to help me, and some aren't. Before I had a French debit card, I was using my American one. I've used it in Europe before, and I've been using it at 70% of the places I go here in France, without a problem. You just have to try it 85 different directions before it finally goes in and works. A couple times though, the people just stare blankly at it and then at me, and say, “I can't help you. We don't take foreign cards, it doesn't work in our machine. It needs the chip in the front.” I know for a FACT this isn't true, and no there are no fees that the businesses have to pay for taking foreign cards. The are just lazy. So I have to argue, and sometimes they'll sigh, annoyed, and take it...and other times they stubbornly refuse and make me go to an ATM.
The phone still doesn't work. The technician is supposed to come tomorrow, because I called four days ago and rescheduled. We'll see how that works. Who knows how long it's going to take Free to set everything up.
Setting up a cellphone plan was ridiculous. The reason I did this, is because its easy to break a contract – and this way, I can call the U.S. for free, have internet on my phone, and pay a whole lot less than I've been putting into my Pre-Paid phone, about 50 Euro a month. But in order to do this, I needed my passeport, another form of ID, my visa, proof of residency, proof of employment, my official bank information, a bill sent to our address (which because it was in Anna's name, I needed Anna to write a note and sign it saying we live together), etc. A bank statement sent to our address with my name on it, wasn't good enough. The guy even called in to SFR central to ask, and the guy said no. Bank Statements weren't an “acceptable form of proof of residency.” They needed a bill. Aiyayaya....
“Excuse moi, c'est un peu complique, avec tous ces documents,” I said. (Sorry, this is a little complicated, with all of these documents.) This is the French response to this situation, “C'est la France!”
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
So I guess I'd better explain the photos down below for anyone who was wondering what they are looking at.
The ones that look like an apartment, is my apartment. The one of clothes hung everywhere is to demonstrate the five days that it took for our laundry to dry, since the dryers downtown at the laundramat are .50 cents for 5 minutes, and we wanted to avoid that.
Then you'll see a train station...that is the train station at Orleans; the big one that takes you all over the Loire valley; Bordeax, Tours, etc...even back to Paris.
The man standing at the control is Iowhen...no idea if that's actually how you spell his name. It's a very region-specific name, or so he told me. Anyway, it's a pretty funny story how I met him, however, and I'm inclined to share it with you all.
I arrived at the train station about an hour before it was scheduled to depart. I was supposed to meet some other assistant friends of mine down the tracks, at Blois, on the way to Tours. I was the farthest one out, so I had to take the train for a few stops on my own until we got to theirs.
Anyway, I bought my tickets and was sitting on the bench, until the track number appeared on the electronic train schedule above us. It said track 3. I look at track 3 and saw a pretty odd looking train sitting there. It was blue and gray, and only had one car...it looked sort of like a commuter train, or a really old tram. I said to myself, "that can't be it....that doesnt look like any of the other trains...." right then one of my French friends, Younous, who's from Madagascar, called to see what I was up to, so I asked him, "Have you ever taken the train to Tours?" "Yes, I think so," he replied. "Is it a tiny little train thats only one car, that's half blue and silver?" "Blue and silver? Yea, that's it," he said confidently.
Taking his word for it, I marched over to the train. I saw a man with blue jeans and a white striped shirt getting into the contraption, and I said, "Is this going to Tours?" he looked down at me curiously and said, "Yes." But he didn't move out of the way. "Oh ok," I said, "I have a ticket for Tours..." Wondering when he would direct me onto the train...he acted like he was in charge.
He responded in rapid French, something about "over there", and pointed past the door where he was at. I looked, and assumed he meant I was supposed to get in at the other door, on the other side. So I walked down to the other end, and tried to open it. But it was locked. Now I was thoroughly confused, and couldn't figure out why a few people were staring at me.
The same man opened up the other door, and looked at me curiously, a big grin on his face. "Oh, you want to come with me?" he said jovially. I had no idea what was so funny and repeated, "I want to go to Tours." "Yes, so you've said," he responded, and reached out his hand. I took it, and he helped me into the contraption.
I saw a huge metal control pannel with levers and switches everywhere, and a huge windsheild that reminded me of being inside an airpline. 'this is strange,' i said to myself. 'what a strange train...its not very comfortable to bring people all the way to Tours.' Right behind us, there was a tiny door, and I assumed the center part of the train was where all the passengers sat...which, admittedly, wasn't a while lot of space...maybe there wasn't a lot of people that normally went to Tours...
"So where are you from?" he said casually, as he went about his business at the control pannel. I was a bit confused, but sat in a stool beside him. We still had 30 minutes before the train left, so I was up for some chatting beforehand. "I haven't ever heard your accent before."
"I'm American," I replied.
"Really? What are you doing in France? Are you a student?"
"No, I'm here to teach English," I said.
"Oh wow, that's interesting," he replied, chuckling a bit. "I can't speak a word of English. But your French is good...and your accent doesn't sound that American."
"It might be because I spent 4 months in Senegal," I said. "I lived with families, and picked up the Senegalese French accent." He agreed that made sense.
All the sudden, we started to move. I watched the platform move slowly by us, and we continued to the end of the platform. "Aren't we scheduled to leave at 12:50?" I said. "Yup," he rseponded nonchalantly.
Then he asked if I wanted to follow him to the other side of the train. I said sure, not really sure why....but I got up and followed him as he opened the small door. Expecting to see rows and rows of commuter seats, I saw a huge engine which blasted hot air at me. "Be careful not to touch anything," he yelled from in front, "this is very dirty back here, and it will ruin your shirt."
Now I was VERY confused. The front of the "train" was another control pannel, just like the one we had left. He saw the confusion on my face, and laughed.
"Now we wait for the train," he said. I had already got the impression a while ago, when we started to move toward the back of the platform, that we weren't in the train. But what WAS this thing? "So what is this thing for?" I said. I imagined it was important, having the engine inside it and all, but I had no idea how these things worked.
"You don't know?" he said, looking sideways at me, inquizzitively. "Haven't you ever seen a train before, in the U.S.?"
Slightly ashamed at my ignorance in the locomotive realm, I said, "We don't really use public transportation in the U.S. Everyone has their own car, in general. The only real experience I've had with trains is the train I take to get into the city of Chicago, and occasionally Amtrak." I explained how in both these circumstances, the platorm is constructed in such a way, that funnels the passengers into the train without any opportunity to move around. I have never seen either end of an Amtrack train....just from the station, to the platform, directly herded like cattle into the car they want you to get into, depending on your destination.
I always was under the impression that trains these days were one long metal snaking thing...one piece in the middle, with the engine and conductor connected to it. I had no idea that the engines disconnect and re-attach to the train. Silly me:)
So the next 30 minutes was spent with this guy who showed me the control pannel, how trains worked, and when the train rolled in beside us and rumbled up to the front of the platform, he showed me how he connects to the back end of it. It actually turned into a pretty interesting random adventure.
So then I took his picture, so he could "be a celebrity in the U.S.", and he helped me back down onto the platform. I ran off to the train and got in, just as we were about to leave for Tours.
:)
My friends got on at Blois, and we continued on to Tours. It was a bigger, cleaner version of Orleans, with a mideval district that was pretty touristy. We got drinks, ate Indian food, and explored the city. Of course there was a cathedral, gardens, and old palaces...the typical:) We had a great time, and those are the photos below that you see.
More later:)
The ones that look like an apartment, is my apartment. The one of clothes hung everywhere is to demonstrate the five days that it took for our laundry to dry, since the dryers downtown at the laundramat are .50 cents for 5 minutes, and we wanted to avoid that.
Then you'll see a train station...that is the train station at Orleans; the big one that takes you all over the Loire valley; Bordeax, Tours, etc...even back to Paris.
The man standing at the control is Iowhen...no idea if that's actually how you spell his name. It's a very region-specific name, or so he told me. Anyway, it's a pretty funny story how I met him, however, and I'm inclined to share it with you all.
I arrived at the train station about an hour before it was scheduled to depart. I was supposed to meet some other assistant friends of mine down the tracks, at Blois, on the way to Tours. I was the farthest one out, so I had to take the train for a few stops on my own until we got to theirs.
Anyway, I bought my tickets and was sitting on the bench, until the track number appeared on the electronic train schedule above us. It said track 3. I look at track 3 and saw a pretty odd looking train sitting there. It was blue and gray, and only had one car...it looked sort of like a commuter train, or a really old tram. I said to myself, "that can't be it....that doesnt look like any of the other trains...." right then one of my French friends, Younous, who's from Madagascar, called to see what I was up to, so I asked him, "Have you ever taken the train to Tours?" "Yes, I think so," he replied. "Is it a tiny little train thats only one car, that's half blue and silver?" "Blue and silver? Yea, that's it," he said confidently.
Taking his word for it, I marched over to the train. I saw a man with blue jeans and a white striped shirt getting into the contraption, and I said, "Is this going to Tours?" he looked down at me curiously and said, "Yes." But he didn't move out of the way. "Oh ok," I said, "I have a ticket for Tours..." Wondering when he would direct me onto the train...he acted like he was in charge.
He responded in rapid French, something about "over there", and pointed past the door where he was at. I looked, and assumed he meant I was supposed to get in at the other door, on the other side. So I walked down to the other end, and tried to open it. But it was locked. Now I was thoroughly confused, and couldn't figure out why a few people were staring at me.
The same man opened up the other door, and looked at me curiously, a big grin on his face. "Oh, you want to come with me?" he said jovially. I had no idea what was so funny and repeated, "I want to go to Tours." "Yes, so you've said," he responded, and reached out his hand. I took it, and he helped me into the contraption.
I saw a huge metal control pannel with levers and switches everywhere, and a huge windsheild that reminded me of being inside an airpline. 'this is strange,' i said to myself. 'what a strange train...its not very comfortable to bring people all the way to Tours.' Right behind us, there was a tiny door, and I assumed the center part of the train was where all the passengers sat...which, admittedly, wasn't a while lot of space...maybe there wasn't a lot of people that normally went to Tours...
"So where are you from?" he said casually, as he went about his business at the control pannel. I was a bit confused, but sat in a stool beside him. We still had 30 minutes before the train left, so I was up for some chatting beforehand. "I haven't ever heard your accent before."
"I'm American," I replied.
"Really? What are you doing in France? Are you a student?"
"No, I'm here to teach English," I said.
"Oh wow, that's interesting," he replied, chuckling a bit. "I can't speak a word of English. But your French is good...and your accent doesn't sound that American."
"It might be because I spent 4 months in Senegal," I said. "I lived with families, and picked up the Senegalese French accent." He agreed that made sense.
All the sudden, we started to move. I watched the platform move slowly by us, and we continued to the end of the platform. "Aren't we scheduled to leave at 12:50?" I said. "Yup," he rseponded nonchalantly.
Then he asked if I wanted to follow him to the other side of the train. I said sure, not really sure why....but I got up and followed him as he opened the small door. Expecting to see rows and rows of commuter seats, I saw a huge engine which blasted hot air at me. "Be careful not to touch anything," he yelled from in front, "this is very dirty back here, and it will ruin your shirt."
Now I was VERY confused. The front of the "train" was another control pannel, just like the one we had left. He saw the confusion on my face, and laughed.
"Now we wait for the train," he said. I had already got the impression a while ago, when we started to move toward the back of the platform, that we weren't in the train. But what WAS this thing? "So what is this thing for?" I said. I imagined it was important, having the engine inside it and all, but I had no idea how these things worked.
"You don't know?" he said, looking sideways at me, inquizzitively. "Haven't you ever seen a train before, in the U.S.?"
Slightly ashamed at my ignorance in the locomotive realm, I said, "We don't really use public transportation in the U.S. Everyone has their own car, in general. The only real experience I've had with trains is the train I take to get into the city of Chicago, and occasionally Amtrak." I explained how in both these circumstances, the platorm is constructed in such a way, that funnels the passengers into the train without any opportunity to move around. I have never seen either end of an Amtrack train....just from the station, to the platform, directly herded like cattle into the car they want you to get into, depending on your destination.
I always was under the impression that trains these days were one long metal snaking thing...one piece in the middle, with the engine and conductor connected to it. I had no idea that the engines disconnect and re-attach to the train. Silly me:)
So the next 30 minutes was spent with this guy who showed me the control pannel, how trains worked, and when the train rolled in beside us and rumbled up to the front of the platform, he showed me how he connects to the back end of it. It actually turned into a pretty interesting random adventure.
So then I took his picture, so he could "be a celebrity in the U.S.", and he helped me back down onto the platform. I ran off to the train and got in, just as we were about to leave for Tours.
:)
My friends got on at Blois, and we continued on to Tours. It was a bigger, cleaner version of Orleans, with a mideval district that was pretty touristy. We got drinks, ate Indian food, and explored the city. Of course there was a cathedral, gardens, and old palaces...the typical:) We had a great time, and those are the photos below that you see.
More later:)
Monday, October 12, 2009
Settling In...slowly but surely
So Anna and I rode the bus across town away from the “centre ville”, and peered out the windows as short white buildings consisting of boutiques, tabacs, doctor's offices whizzed past, with flowers spilling out of baskets on the lamp posts adding color to the drab scenery. We were suddenly in a residential suburb of Orleans, and not in the city itself...St. Jean-de-la-Ruelle.
We got off at an apartment complex, and lugged my suitcases up the stairs and into the apartment where she had been staying for the past 4 days; the unused apartment of her school director's mother. It was spotless, with beautiful leather couches, a big screen tv, and little decorations that made the whole thing look just a touch French. Anna's cat came out of hiding that she transported all the way from the U.S. for $200 and lots of hassle...the cat seemed to be doing well though, despite the horrors of HER journey...apparently he “adapts well” she said. I still would have probably left mine at home.
We sat in the kitchen for a while and drank water, chatting, then I realized that I had told the 'directrice” - or principal – of the college (junior high) next to which we were going to live – that I was going to arrive in Orleans at 4:00pm. She had been planning to meet me at the station.
So Anna and I wrote “Mme Ferry” in big bold letters on a piece of notebook paper with which to attract her, and took off again for the train station. We stood there on the platform for about 15 minutes, looking a little bit foolish, when a thin, average-height woman trotted over to us, with short, curly, highlighted brown hair. She looked flustered, and had a sign that said “Danielle Ciribassi” printed on it. She smiled and greeted us warmly, and we followed her out of the station, where she showed us the shopping center that was attached to it...everything from electronics and home equipement, to phone shops and pastry shops. We stepped outside into the sunny afternoon and gazed down an expansive boulevard that streamed past bold-faced, intricate and elaborate Renaissance-style architecture buildings...all the way to where a gigantic statue stood proudly in the distance – a cooper-turned-green tribute to Joan of Arc, riding her stallion as she calls the Orleanais to battle against the British. Orleans' claim to faim. Their tribute to their very own piece of history, a loan for which they're still apparently paying off to the French government.
We followed her around the corner to where she parked a miniature plum-colored Renault, and piled in. We made small chat and directed her to the woman's apartment where our stuff was. On the way, she chatted with me about my two schools, and forewarned me that they were like “two schools on opposite sides of the track.” They neighborhood where HER school was, next to which I would be living, was in what she described as an “ethnic neighborhood,” where students were mostly of Turkish or North African (Morocco, Algeria) descent. She said therefore the students tend to fight amongst themselves due to ethnic tension between these cultures, as well as that they tend to “behave badly”...due to financial problems in the family due to immigrant issues. They even sometimes struggle with French, as Arabic is the language spoken at home.
The other school, she said, was across Orleans and was an “upscale” Junior High. I would learn later that it ranks number 2 in academics in all of the Junior Hi's in Orleans. The children are “mostly white,” from upper middle class backgrounds. I couldn't wait to see the neighborhood and compare...
She patiently waited while we piled our stuff into her car, and happily took us off to where the apartment was...next to one of my two “colleges” (Junior High) – Andre Malraux...the “ethnic school.” She opened up a large green metal gate with a code, and we drove in and parked.
I didn't notice anything startling about the neighborhood...it was clean, I didn't see any litter or graffiti whatsoever. The landscaping was in good shape, lots of gigantic trees that stretched over the road, and across from the school stood white apartments where the 'lower income housing' must have been. If this was the 'bad part of town,' I wanted to see what the other part was like.
The school was a simple white building with small windows, and a parking lot. No children's toys, no hopscotch, no jungle gyms...just a guarded and locked gate to a school that resembled a bit – as I would learn soon in France, typically – a prison. Before we went in, however, she mentioned something about a “petit pot” which I had no idea what that was. So Anna and I followed Mme Ferry around to the school building itself, only about 100 feet away, and went in.
She took us through the hallway toward a conference room with tables forming a U-shape. There were bottles of Coca-Cola on the table, as well as apple juice with plastic white glasses. Several of the other teachers were in there waiting for us, apparently invited to “meet the American.” I learned quickly that I was the first “Assistante Etrangere de lange” (Foreign Language Assistant) that had ever been assigned to this school...I have no idea why. As far as I know, its not a new school. But this was quite evident in the way they related to me. Some of the teachers babbled to me in sort of an overly polite, yet unimposing way, while some of the others talked amongst themselves and apart from introducing themselves to me, ignored us. Perhaps they didn't know what to say. We mingled, and talked...one of the teachers from the other school with whom I had been corresponding with for a few weeks, Madame Trentin, was there...was there. She's a sweet woman in her mid-50's, rather tall and had a slight twitch when she speaks. She was excited to speak to Anna and I in English.
Finally Mme De Santos, a recently-married English teacher arrived. She's a short, stout woman with a twinkling smile and a genuine face. She had just got out of her English class, and out of breath, introduced herself to us as “Frederique,” the first of the teachers to introduce herself by her first name. “Would you like us to take you to your apartment?” They asked us. They got the keys from Mme Marty, the secretary who also happens to be the only neighbor on our floor, across from us...and off we went.
It was a group of about 6 of us that went over, as this was quite an event. We went to the building next door, and walked up the stairs. We met M. Du Verger (doo-ver-jay), the grounds keeper...a sweet, simple, jolly man with three enormous dogs that are like his own children. He led us all the way up to the third floor, up the extremely echo-y hallway and everyone's footsteps ricocheted off the walls noisily...we opened the door on the right, and voila – our new apartment.
It was huge...and empty. There was a pretty nice front area that led straight into a medium sized kitchen, left into a spacious “salon” (living room) which was carpeted with three large windows, and to the right....a long hallway including a cote/pantry closet, a toilet room, a shower and sink room, three bedrooms, and two storage closets at the end. Anna and I were overwhelmed and beside ourselves.
Random furniture was scattered in the hallway, in the rooms; everything from sheets and dishes, to random tables and chairs. A double-sized wooden bed frame sat in what would soon become Anna's bedroom, where two single-sized mattresses lay, stacked on each other. Two end tables with lamps also sat in her room. Someone had lent us an electric two-hot plate set, a toaster, and a toaster oven. Mme Ferry told us that the school itself had bought us a refrigerator (a tiny one), and it would be arriving either tomorrow or the next day. We were beside ourselves with gratitude, and couldn't stop saying “merci,” “merci beaucoup...”
Frederique waited till everyone else had filtered out, and invited us over for dinner that night. We accepted, and went with her to her house. Her husband, a man of Portuguese descent, would be coming home soon...and warned us that he “didn't speak a word of English, and would probably be intimidated by us. So we would have to speak French in the house when he was around.” She, however, was enjoying speaking to us in only English...her chubby cheeks bunching up happily whenever she would speak in Frenchy-British English...She's a very sweet, very genuine person. She said that when she told the other teachers that she had invited us over to her house for dinner, they all looked shocked...”but you barely know them yet!” they said, “will they even want to go?” Anna and I looked at her, incredulously. “What else would we have done?” we said. “Stay at home and starve? I guess we just would have gone out to a restaurant. But of course, we would love to go to your house.” We appreciated the gesture, and realized that this probably wouldn't have been that surprising in the U.S. if someone invited some tired, overwhelmed new foreign colleges over for dinner to prevent them from having to cook or spend money...and simply getting to know them. From what I've learned for far, apparently it takes the French a while to warm up.
After being forewarned, we still were shocked by how cluttered Frederique's house was. “I just moved here from my mother's house in a town south of here,” she said. “We haven't quite moved in yet.” There was papers everywhere...folders, documents, picture albums, bills, statements, letters, cards...piles and piles of papers. We had to step over things to get the stairs. We went upstairs and used her computer until she called us down, and there was her husband, a man who was grinning at us awkwardly and said, “Hello' et 'yes, yes' c'est tous ce que je peux dire,” (it's all I can say). We laughed, and assured him that we also speak French. That seemed to put him a little more at ease.
The kitchen smelled really great...among all the random pots, pans and dishes...Frederique emerged with a lasagne steaming from a glass casserole dish. She started apologizing for the fact that she was rushed and didn't have the best ingredients at her disposal, and “normally it tastes better,” but we assured her that this was silly, and it looked delicious. We started out by having raw shredded carrots and cucumber in a white sauce. They offered us whine, but we weren't sure what was customary, so we just went with water until we were done with the meal. She served the lasagna and it was delicious. Then she brought out a wooden tray with about 4 different blocks of cheese arranged on top with a perring knife for us to cut slices and taste them. I remembered this from Charlotte's house, the last time I was in France, and had been looking forward to the cheese course the entire meal.
I had forgotten how pungently delicious French cheese is...in all its unpasteurized glory. It slowly seeps into your mouth and reaches every oraphus with a spreading, powerful taste that makes your mouth water...strong and bursting with unique flavor. One is inclined to hate it at first, especially if you grew up in the U.S. where cheese tastes like paper...but then you realize that there is a whole world of taste that we've been missing out on...and you appreciate it. At least I do...:).
We sat and talked for well over an hour and a half...and Frederique's husband and I got into a lively discussion about what I did in Senegal, and my interest in micro finance. He is part of the French army and just returned from Gabon...like I learned in Senegal, unfortunately France feels that even though it liberated all of its colonies, 'she' still feels the militaristic and economic need to play an integral – and mostly unwanted – role in African society. Anyway, he traveled to Gabon and we were discussing similarities and differences...and the idea of micro finance, and how it works. Overall the night went well, and we went home exhausted. I took one of the mattresses into the living room, the only room with carpet, and bundled up amongst all of the sheets. Our first night in our new home.
The next couple days would all run together between running errands, buying loose odds and ends, as many groceries as we could carry by hand 15 minutes by foot, and driving around with Frederique to find the best deals on a piece of furniture that would be suitable as a dresser and also a cabinet to hold dishes. Most of our shopping then, and now, however, still occurs at a mega shopping center called “Auchan” pronounced like “Ocean” - but more like “Oshaugh.” It has a variety of stores inside; everything from phone centers, clothing stores, and a lunch buffet/pastry shop that claims to have free wifi called “Flunch.” Inside, however, Auchan has a gigantic, WalMart sized discount store...with Chinese-fabricated products galore. It has a grocery store on one side...except it has an entire isle dedicated to wine, which is cheaper than water, and another two isles strictly dedicated to cheese. American food falls under the “foreign foods” section...which makes sense of course. The other side of Auchan is filled with everything your heart could ever imagine...from clothing and dishes, to household items and hardware tools...just follow the yellow “Promotion” signs, and you'll be sure to find a price that can't be beat.
We went with her to set up a bank account, that even now, two weeks later, isn't ready yet. We had a fiasco with installing an adjustable shower curtain rod in the bathroom, tearing the wallpaper as we moved the rod up...who puts the seam of the wallpaper RIGHT where you have to attach a shower curtain rod? We also couldn't figure out why the shower curtain was soooo looong....it drapes down about 10 feet, spreading out on the floor, hence why we had to move the rod up higher toward the ceiling...yes the bathroom is higher than the standard 9 ft ceilings in the U.S. It makes our bathroom look like a bathroom in a palace, like our shower is much bigger than it actually is behind the curtain.
On October 2nd, the Friday after I arrived in Orleans, Anna and I got up early and took the bus into Orleans for an orientation at Benjamin Franklin High School. All the other assistants in the Orleans-Tours region, which was about 150 assistants from all over the Anglophone world were there. There was even a girl from Trinidad (in the Caribbean), a few guys from Ireland who we befriended, two lone Canadians, and a lone Australian. Most of the assistants were American and British....but I would say by far, the Americans took the cake. We were also by far the loudest...when question and answer time came at the end, the Americans asked 9 out of every 10 questions. And these questions were usually the kind where you hit yourself in your head repeatedly to yourself saying, 'someone just asked that...' or 'seriously? Use your common sense.' Like “should I ask my school about such-and-such? What if they tell me I can't do that?” or “This is so frustrating that all of our paperwork isn't done for us.” Some girl actually stood up to say that, and her voice cracked with emotion because of all the paperwork we're expected to do. Our director, Pascale, said in a typically French tone of voice, “This is France – what do you want me to do? We have our rules.”
The orientation consisted of detailed presentations in French about the school system, how it works, and what is expected of us as assistants. We basically are here in France to represent our respective countries and cultures, as sort of semi “ambassadors.” In this way, we show the French students that English is a living, breathing language, and by knowing it, it unlocks a whole world to them....a world from which we come, a world in which we can share. Real people with which you need English to communicate. How's that for motivation? I wish the American government would take some kind of investment in that, and invest financially in paying foreigners to come to our Junior High schools and High schools to motivate our students to learn other languages.
Around 10:00am, we split up into groups and followed tour guides of about our age through the city of Orleans. We visited the enormous gothic cathedral in the town center, across from the “Hotel de Ville,” as well as where Joan of Arc stayed during her days of campaigning in Orleans. It was a striking white house with brown stained wood beams that criss-crossed up to the roof...in between an Italianesque style white building and a modern metalic steel building on the other side. The juxtaposition of architecture is unbelievable in all of France, but especially in old towns like Orleans – and Tours, as I would notice later – where so much of its medieval and Renaissance architecture has been preserved.
They took us to a restaurant which resembled a cross between a sports bar and a modern art museum for lunch, with large plasma tv's blasting party music where stick-skinny European girls danced around in bikinis by a pool. We were expecting more for lunch besides the egg-roll appetizer and red wine, but it never came. We walked all the way back to the train station for more food, and wandered around in the mall for a while until we stumbled across a bakery with sandwiches and pastries. I wasn't hungry anymore by this point; I was feeling overwhelmed again, and all the walking had worked off my appetite.
Afterward, a large group of us jabbering in English walked to the Rue de Bourgoyne; a street which runs behind the cathedral where one can find cute little tousite boutiques as well as a ton of bars and bistros where all the young people hang out at night. Little lanterns cross over the narrow street which winds up and down, resembling more of an alleyway than a street, lined with cobblestone. Random dogs without leaches wandered in and out, where more “traveled, cultured hippies” with dreadlocks sat and strummed their guitars while drinking wine.
We found a place where we could drink a beer and talk, all 12 of us. I must admit at this point, this whole idea was refreshing...talking with other English speakers. It was easy. Getting looks from French people was sort of exhilarating as well...as if we had a secret language no one else could understand...and did we detect a hint of jealousy?
Drinking and talking went well into the night...although I definitley wasn't drunk. Our party grew and we took over an entire room in a bar, where sofas and pillows lined the wall. Germans, Canadians, Americans, French people, and Irish sat together laughing, and conversing. It was a general good time...except it crossed my mind a few times whether I would get to do this cultural exchanging and friendship-making in French, instead of English...I craved a challenge.
It was a good night thought. Anna and I had already started to get a little tense with each other...we were the only friends we had, and we had spent the week with our nose to the grindstone, barely sleeping, trying to set up our apartment to make it livable. It was refreshing to make separate friends, and talk to people other than each other. Phone numbers were exchanged, and plans were made to get together again. It was a good time.
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Last week, I went for the first time, to introduce myself to two of my classes. I had spent about 20 minutes just before that standing aimlessly in the Principals office, where the Secretaries, Principal and Vice-Principal discussed/argued in rapid French about what age group/schedule would be best for me. They then decided that I would teach with Frederique on Mondays and Thursdays. Tuesdays, I would spend with M Vincon, a young male teacher who teaches the “cinema” club.
I entered the room with Frederique, where the kids were supposed to do research on the computers in the lab about the United States. I introduced myself, and immediately felt myself getting comfortable in my position. Frederique had told me to take as long or as little time as I wanted to introduce myself – basically if I had run out of things to say, she had some activities for the kids to do on the computers. If not, I had the whole period.
I found myself subconsciously sizing up each student, and I found it relatively easy to figure out what they were like, what they wanted, and what made them tick. For example, this one girl in the back was chatty and was obviously trying to get attention from her peers instead of paying attention to me. So I began asking the students randomly to introduce themselves to me – so that they wouldn't know who was next. I singled her out, and she refused to make an effort, instead giggling with nervousness. I knew she felt insecure about speaking English. All she could muster was, “My name Emille.” She thought she was finished, and tried to go back to chatting. “What do you like to to, Emille?” I said. “When you're not in school?” She was taken aback....thought for a moment...and then said quietly, “I like to draw.” “You like to draw?” I repeated. She nodded, sheepishly, and her friend laughed at her. “I like to draw too,” I said. “I would always draw in my notebooks when I was supposed to pay attention in class.” She laughed, and gave me a direct look in my eyes that seemed to say, 'you're not as bad as I thought...you might actually be kind of cool.'
I proceeded by asking the students what famous people do they know that are from Chicago. We came up with some names that my Dad was really happy to hear associated with us – Al Capone and Barack Obama. It took a bit of prompting, but they eventually also got Michael Jordan as well, when I drew a picture of a basketball. I was informed by one of the girls that they “don't like basketball” in France. Maybe these kids don't, but my Dad informed me that basketball has quite a large following in France...maybe not with junior high school students, but who knows.
After that I played a little game with them. They opened up Google Earth on each of their computers, and I named tourist sites around Chicago for them to find: “Navy Pier,” the “Field Museum”, the “Aquarium,” “Millenium Park – the bean”, etc. It became kind of a competition, to see who could find these places first – until they discovered the “search bar.” Then I even had them look up my house, and explained about 'suburbs,' and how technically I don't live IN Chicago, itself. They kept saying, “Everyone has pools!!” They also said, “It's so clean there!” It seemed to go over pretty well.
They next class, however, was one year younger. There were only 7 kids, all girls, and they were extremely obnoxious. They had a test, and proceeded to talk throughout the entire thing...asking Frederique questions, yelling at each other, throwing things at each other, and complaining and giggling about the fact that they didn't know any of the material on the test. Frederique was silently at her wits end, but didn't seem to have the will to punish any of them. A girl named Laurine, who is extremely shy and quiet, sat in the front row occasionally glancing menacingly at the other girls. Then they would poke fun at her for taking the test seriously.
While they took their test about airport vocabulary in English, I took the test with them, for fun. They kept glancing curiously back at me, as I hadn't yet introduced myself. After they were finished with the test, I went up to the front of the room and introduced myself. When I finished, they looked at Frederique, who was at the back of the room, and said in French, “What did she say? We didn't understand a word of it.” Frederique refused to translate word for word, until one of the girls who had better comprehension, translated for the rest of them. For anyone who knows about teaching a second language, you should never translate 100% of the time into their native language. It should be rare that you translate...the kids should be forced to listen and comprehend in the language they're learning. Otherwise, what happens is what was happening in this class; they don't make an effort whatsoever.
So we continued by asking about people's hobbies. They didn't get that question either, even with a little prompting with easy examples. When someone said “loisirs”, they suddenly. Then they all started copying each other, “I like playing computer,” “I like watching tv.” They giggled and looked at each other, like, 'this is easy.' Finally Laurine said quietly, “I like playing sports like tennis and basketball.” I applauded her effort, and she smiled shyly. Hopefully she will set an example for the others.
Overall I liked the classes...it should prove to be interesting any case. Frederique agreed that we should split up the classes into smaller groups, and then rotate them. Smaller groups are always better for learning a language...also we want to separate the 'friends' who cause trouble and are disruptive. Today I'm going to observe in the class, which I will be doing all week.
A few days later, I took the bus to my other school to meet with the principal and make a schedule. This was Jacques Prevert, the “upscale college (junior high)” on the other side of the tracks...or the river Loire, as it were...I did cross it at one point. I took two buses, transferring in downtown Orleans, to get there. Then I walked through a silent, pristine neighborhood with short, small, typically-French, semi-modern houses behind ornate gates and yards filled with multicolored flowers. The streets were new, the white indicator lines new and bright.
There were these large plastic bins about 10 feet high, that leaned forward, the top opening with a variety of colored lids. I watched them curiously as I approached, until I saw an old woman come over and open the trunk of her car, getting out a sac of her recyclables. She separated them into the different bins, according to glass or plastic. Then she got back in her car, and drove away.
Finally, after wondering if I had missed the school, I saw it and realized that no one could possibly miss this thing. It was surrounded by a green iron locked gate, over which I had to shout to one of the university part-time 'surveillants' – hall monitors – outside, to let me in. Inside there was a gigantic cement courtyard with trees lining the outside, and columns lining the exterior, giving it a Romanesque look.
The university student let me in, and went back to watching the kids, who were on one of their 15-minute “recesses”, heavily monitored and no fun at all. I went to the “bureau d'accueil” - yes, this school had a 'welcome office.' It was a stand-alone boxy room surrounded by glass windows so the woman inside could see everyone. I went in and introduced myself, and said I had an appointment in an hour with the principal – yes, I knew I was early, I wasn't quite sure yet of the bus systems yet. She directed me to another building, where I could wait in the teacher's lounge.
I had a hell of a time navigating through the inside of this school, which had kid's artwork covering the walls, and stacks of tiny cubed yellow lockers. Finally I reached the teacher's lounge, and feeling very uncomfortable around the teachers around me who were speaking rapid French, I sat down at a table, and began to draw in the notebook I had brought. I hoped they just wouldn't notice me...I didn't feel like chatting for some reason.
However, all of the teachers began to crowd around me, asking me all sorts of questions and welcoming me to the school. One of the women, Mme Vanilla (it's not that, but that's what I now refer to her in my head as, because it sounds like vanilla)...is an English teacher and was fascinated to talk to me. She then asked if I wanted a coffee, and when I said sure, she went to a machine by the wall and put in about .50 cents. There was a button for “sucre” and “creme”, and what type of coffee. After she had pushed all the corresponding buttons, the machine began to whir and buzz, and then out spit a tiny cup from the bottom, filled with frothy, steaming coffee. She handed it to me, smiling at my dumbfounded expression. “What, you don't have coffee machines in the United States?” she said. “No, we do,” I responded, “But you get the cup yourself, and you don't have a choice if you want sugar or not...you just push a button and put the cup underneath.” “Oh,”she said. “It's practically the same thing.”
I then was invited to use the teacher's computer lab, which was adjacent to the room I had been sitting in. I went in and checked my email, and Mme Trentin came in – the woman who had been at my other junior high the first night Anna and I came, to sip Coca-Cola with us. She knows Mme Ferry, the other junior high's principal that had met us at the train station, personally. She began to chat with me about certain problems Anna and I had been having with regard to our need in furniture, etc.
Then she accompanied me into the Principal's office, who is a shy, awkward man who is new to the school...he had previously been a teacher at a school in the middle of the country, as Mme Trentin told me. He wasn't sure how to behave around me, and either spoke French too slowly, or too quick. We sat down at his office in some nice leather, high-backed chairs around a round table, and him and Mme Trentin took about 20 minutes to put together a tentative schedule for me. She kept politely arguing with him, telling him not to give me a class at 8:00am, and then one of 4:00pm – because I wouldn't have anywhere to go between these hours...and it was too far to go home.
An awkward situation arose when he said he wanted to put me exclusively in the oldest classes, with kids who had had the most English. When I said I wouldn't mind being given a variety of ages, he scoffed at this idea. He said the younger kids are aggravating and they misbehave, and he wouldn't want me to have to bother with that. I smiled and said, “Je suis une fille forte,” (I am a strong girl). Demonstrating that I'm tough, and I would't mind being given a challenge. Mme Trentin laughed, but the Principal took offense, as though I was challening his authority. “I wasn't questioning your qualities of character, I'm not doubting your strength,” he said, not even cracking a smile. Apparently I wasn't supposed to question his judgement, in any way whatsoever. Noted for the next time:)
Then Mme Trentin took me on a tour through the hallways just after the kids got out of class again for a recess. They were milling about in the hallwyas until a hall monitor pushed them all out the doors to stand out in the cement courtyard again. They watched Mme Trentin and I curiously, hearing us speaking in jiberish. A few of her students approached, making goofy gestures and facial expressions, listening to the English in action...and a stranger answering back. It WAS a real language! It actually worked!
She explained to me how the cafeteria would work, in case I ever decided to have lunch at the school instead of trekking back downtown. I think I will end up doing that, even though it isn't the best quality food, as it's probably cheaper, and a much more attractive option than going all the way back to downtown Orleans.
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We got off at an apartment complex, and lugged my suitcases up the stairs and into the apartment where she had been staying for the past 4 days; the unused apartment of her school director's mother. It was spotless, with beautiful leather couches, a big screen tv, and little decorations that made the whole thing look just a touch French. Anna's cat came out of hiding that she transported all the way from the U.S. for $200 and lots of hassle...the cat seemed to be doing well though, despite the horrors of HER journey...apparently he “adapts well” she said. I still would have probably left mine at home.
We sat in the kitchen for a while and drank water, chatting, then I realized that I had told the 'directrice” - or principal – of the college (junior high) next to which we were going to live – that I was going to arrive in Orleans at 4:00pm. She had been planning to meet me at the station.
So Anna and I wrote “Mme Ferry” in big bold letters on a piece of notebook paper with which to attract her, and took off again for the train station. We stood there on the platform for about 15 minutes, looking a little bit foolish, when a thin, average-height woman trotted over to us, with short, curly, highlighted brown hair. She looked flustered, and had a sign that said “Danielle Ciribassi” printed on it. She smiled and greeted us warmly, and we followed her out of the station, where she showed us the shopping center that was attached to it...everything from electronics and home equipement, to phone shops and pastry shops. We stepped outside into the sunny afternoon and gazed down an expansive boulevard that streamed past bold-faced, intricate and elaborate Renaissance-style architecture buildings...all the way to where a gigantic statue stood proudly in the distance – a cooper-turned-green tribute to Joan of Arc, riding her stallion as she calls the Orleanais to battle against the British. Orleans' claim to faim. Their tribute to their very own piece of history, a loan for which they're still apparently paying off to the French government.
We followed her around the corner to where she parked a miniature plum-colored Renault, and piled in. We made small chat and directed her to the woman's apartment where our stuff was. On the way, she chatted with me about my two schools, and forewarned me that they were like “two schools on opposite sides of the track.” They neighborhood where HER school was, next to which I would be living, was in what she described as an “ethnic neighborhood,” where students were mostly of Turkish or North African (Morocco, Algeria) descent. She said therefore the students tend to fight amongst themselves due to ethnic tension between these cultures, as well as that they tend to “behave badly”...due to financial problems in the family due to immigrant issues. They even sometimes struggle with French, as Arabic is the language spoken at home.
The other school, she said, was across Orleans and was an “upscale” Junior High. I would learn later that it ranks number 2 in academics in all of the Junior Hi's in Orleans. The children are “mostly white,” from upper middle class backgrounds. I couldn't wait to see the neighborhood and compare...
She patiently waited while we piled our stuff into her car, and happily took us off to where the apartment was...next to one of my two “colleges” (Junior High) – Andre Malraux...the “ethnic school.” She opened up a large green metal gate with a code, and we drove in and parked.
I didn't notice anything startling about the neighborhood...it was clean, I didn't see any litter or graffiti whatsoever. The landscaping was in good shape, lots of gigantic trees that stretched over the road, and across from the school stood white apartments where the 'lower income housing' must have been. If this was the 'bad part of town,' I wanted to see what the other part was like.
The school was a simple white building with small windows, and a parking lot. No children's toys, no hopscotch, no jungle gyms...just a guarded and locked gate to a school that resembled a bit – as I would learn soon in France, typically – a prison. Before we went in, however, she mentioned something about a “petit pot” which I had no idea what that was. So Anna and I followed Mme Ferry around to the school building itself, only about 100 feet away, and went in.
She took us through the hallway toward a conference room with tables forming a U-shape. There were bottles of Coca-Cola on the table, as well as apple juice with plastic white glasses. Several of the other teachers were in there waiting for us, apparently invited to “meet the American.” I learned quickly that I was the first “Assistante Etrangere de lange” (Foreign Language Assistant) that had ever been assigned to this school...I have no idea why. As far as I know, its not a new school. But this was quite evident in the way they related to me. Some of the teachers babbled to me in sort of an overly polite, yet unimposing way, while some of the others talked amongst themselves and apart from introducing themselves to me, ignored us. Perhaps they didn't know what to say. We mingled, and talked...one of the teachers from the other school with whom I had been corresponding with for a few weeks, Madame Trentin, was there...was there. She's a sweet woman in her mid-50's, rather tall and had a slight twitch when she speaks. She was excited to speak to Anna and I in English.
Finally Mme De Santos, a recently-married English teacher arrived. She's a short, stout woman with a twinkling smile and a genuine face. She had just got out of her English class, and out of breath, introduced herself to us as “Frederique,” the first of the teachers to introduce herself by her first name. “Would you like us to take you to your apartment?” They asked us. They got the keys from Mme Marty, the secretary who also happens to be the only neighbor on our floor, across from us...and off we went.
It was a group of about 6 of us that went over, as this was quite an event. We went to the building next door, and walked up the stairs. We met M. Du Verger (doo-ver-jay), the grounds keeper...a sweet, simple, jolly man with three enormous dogs that are like his own children. He led us all the way up to the third floor, up the extremely echo-y hallway and everyone's footsteps ricocheted off the walls noisily...we opened the door on the right, and voila – our new apartment.
It was huge...and empty. There was a pretty nice front area that led straight into a medium sized kitchen, left into a spacious “salon” (living room) which was carpeted with three large windows, and to the right....a long hallway including a cote/pantry closet, a toilet room, a shower and sink room, three bedrooms, and two storage closets at the end. Anna and I were overwhelmed and beside ourselves.
Random furniture was scattered in the hallway, in the rooms; everything from sheets and dishes, to random tables and chairs. A double-sized wooden bed frame sat in what would soon become Anna's bedroom, where two single-sized mattresses lay, stacked on each other. Two end tables with lamps also sat in her room. Someone had lent us an electric two-hot plate set, a toaster, and a toaster oven. Mme Ferry told us that the school itself had bought us a refrigerator (a tiny one), and it would be arriving either tomorrow or the next day. We were beside ourselves with gratitude, and couldn't stop saying “merci,” “merci beaucoup...”
Frederique waited till everyone else had filtered out, and invited us over for dinner that night. We accepted, and went with her to her house. Her husband, a man of Portuguese descent, would be coming home soon...and warned us that he “didn't speak a word of English, and would probably be intimidated by us. So we would have to speak French in the house when he was around.” She, however, was enjoying speaking to us in only English...her chubby cheeks bunching up happily whenever she would speak in Frenchy-British English...She's a very sweet, very genuine person. She said that when she told the other teachers that she had invited us over to her house for dinner, they all looked shocked...”but you barely know them yet!” they said, “will they even want to go?” Anna and I looked at her, incredulously. “What else would we have done?” we said. “Stay at home and starve? I guess we just would have gone out to a restaurant. But of course, we would love to go to your house.” We appreciated the gesture, and realized that this probably wouldn't have been that surprising in the U.S. if someone invited some tired, overwhelmed new foreign colleges over for dinner to prevent them from having to cook or spend money...and simply getting to know them. From what I've learned for far, apparently it takes the French a while to warm up.
After being forewarned, we still were shocked by how cluttered Frederique's house was. “I just moved here from my mother's house in a town south of here,” she said. “We haven't quite moved in yet.” There was papers everywhere...folders, documents, picture albums, bills, statements, letters, cards...piles and piles of papers. We had to step over things to get the stairs. We went upstairs and used her computer until she called us down, and there was her husband, a man who was grinning at us awkwardly and said, “Hello' et 'yes, yes' c'est tous ce que je peux dire,” (it's all I can say). We laughed, and assured him that we also speak French. That seemed to put him a little more at ease.
The kitchen smelled really great...among all the random pots, pans and dishes...Frederique emerged with a lasagne steaming from a glass casserole dish. She started apologizing for the fact that she was rushed and didn't have the best ingredients at her disposal, and “normally it tastes better,” but we assured her that this was silly, and it looked delicious. We started out by having raw shredded carrots and cucumber in a white sauce. They offered us whine, but we weren't sure what was customary, so we just went with water until we were done with the meal. She served the lasagna and it was delicious. Then she brought out a wooden tray with about 4 different blocks of cheese arranged on top with a perring knife for us to cut slices and taste them. I remembered this from Charlotte's house, the last time I was in France, and had been looking forward to the cheese course the entire meal.
I had forgotten how pungently delicious French cheese is...in all its unpasteurized glory. It slowly seeps into your mouth and reaches every oraphus with a spreading, powerful taste that makes your mouth water...strong and bursting with unique flavor. One is inclined to hate it at first, especially if you grew up in the U.S. where cheese tastes like paper...but then you realize that there is a whole world of taste that we've been missing out on...and you appreciate it. At least I do...:).
We sat and talked for well over an hour and a half...and Frederique's husband and I got into a lively discussion about what I did in Senegal, and my interest in micro finance. He is part of the French army and just returned from Gabon...like I learned in Senegal, unfortunately France feels that even though it liberated all of its colonies, 'she' still feels the militaristic and economic need to play an integral – and mostly unwanted – role in African society. Anyway, he traveled to Gabon and we were discussing similarities and differences...and the idea of micro finance, and how it works. Overall the night went well, and we went home exhausted. I took one of the mattresses into the living room, the only room with carpet, and bundled up amongst all of the sheets. Our first night in our new home.
The next couple days would all run together between running errands, buying loose odds and ends, as many groceries as we could carry by hand 15 minutes by foot, and driving around with Frederique to find the best deals on a piece of furniture that would be suitable as a dresser and also a cabinet to hold dishes. Most of our shopping then, and now, however, still occurs at a mega shopping center called “Auchan” pronounced like “Ocean” - but more like “Oshaugh.” It has a variety of stores inside; everything from phone centers, clothing stores, and a lunch buffet/pastry shop that claims to have free wifi called “Flunch.” Inside, however, Auchan has a gigantic, WalMart sized discount store...with Chinese-fabricated products galore. It has a grocery store on one side...except it has an entire isle dedicated to wine, which is cheaper than water, and another two isles strictly dedicated to cheese. American food falls under the “foreign foods” section...which makes sense of course. The other side of Auchan is filled with everything your heart could ever imagine...from clothing and dishes, to household items and hardware tools...just follow the yellow “Promotion” signs, and you'll be sure to find a price that can't be beat.
We went with her to set up a bank account, that even now, two weeks later, isn't ready yet. We had a fiasco with installing an adjustable shower curtain rod in the bathroom, tearing the wallpaper as we moved the rod up...who puts the seam of the wallpaper RIGHT where you have to attach a shower curtain rod? We also couldn't figure out why the shower curtain was soooo looong....it drapes down about 10 feet, spreading out on the floor, hence why we had to move the rod up higher toward the ceiling...yes the bathroom is higher than the standard 9 ft ceilings in the U.S. It makes our bathroom look like a bathroom in a palace, like our shower is much bigger than it actually is behind the curtain.
On October 2nd, the Friday after I arrived in Orleans, Anna and I got up early and took the bus into Orleans for an orientation at Benjamin Franklin High School. All the other assistants in the Orleans-Tours region, which was about 150 assistants from all over the Anglophone world were there. There was even a girl from Trinidad (in the Caribbean), a few guys from Ireland who we befriended, two lone Canadians, and a lone Australian. Most of the assistants were American and British....but I would say by far, the Americans took the cake. We were also by far the loudest...when question and answer time came at the end, the Americans asked 9 out of every 10 questions. And these questions were usually the kind where you hit yourself in your head repeatedly to yourself saying, 'someone just asked that...' or 'seriously? Use your common sense.' Like “should I ask my school about such-and-such? What if they tell me I can't do that?” or “This is so frustrating that all of our paperwork isn't done for us.” Some girl actually stood up to say that, and her voice cracked with emotion because of all the paperwork we're expected to do. Our director, Pascale, said in a typically French tone of voice, “This is France – what do you want me to do? We have our rules.”
The orientation consisted of detailed presentations in French about the school system, how it works, and what is expected of us as assistants. We basically are here in France to represent our respective countries and cultures, as sort of semi “ambassadors.” In this way, we show the French students that English is a living, breathing language, and by knowing it, it unlocks a whole world to them....a world from which we come, a world in which we can share. Real people with which you need English to communicate. How's that for motivation? I wish the American government would take some kind of investment in that, and invest financially in paying foreigners to come to our Junior High schools and High schools to motivate our students to learn other languages.
Around 10:00am, we split up into groups and followed tour guides of about our age through the city of Orleans. We visited the enormous gothic cathedral in the town center, across from the “Hotel de Ville,” as well as where Joan of Arc stayed during her days of campaigning in Orleans. It was a striking white house with brown stained wood beams that criss-crossed up to the roof...in between an Italianesque style white building and a modern metalic steel building on the other side. The juxtaposition of architecture is unbelievable in all of France, but especially in old towns like Orleans – and Tours, as I would notice later – where so much of its medieval and Renaissance architecture has been preserved.
They took us to a restaurant which resembled a cross between a sports bar and a modern art museum for lunch, with large plasma tv's blasting party music where stick-skinny European girls danced around in bikinis by a pool. We were expecting more for lunch besides the egg-roll appetizer and red wine, but it never came. We walked all the way back to the train station for more food, and wandered around in the mall for a while until we stumbled across a bakery with sandwiches and pastries. I wasn't hungry anymore by this point; I was feeling overwhelmed again, and all the walking had worked off my appetite.
Afterward, a large group of us jabbering in English walked to the Rue de Bourgoyne; a street which runs behind the cathedral where one can find cute little tousite boutiques as well as a ton of bars and bistros where all the young people hang out at night. Little lanterns cross over the narrow street which winds up and down, resembling more of an alleyway than a street, lined with cobblestone. Random dogs without leaches wandered in and out, where more “traveled, cultured hippies” with dreadlocks sat and strummed their guitars while drinking wine.
We found a place where we could drink a beer and talk, all 12 of us. I must admit at this point, this whole idea was refreshing...talking with other English speakers. It was easy. Getting looks from French people was sort of exhilarating as well...as if we had a secret language no one else could understand...and did we detect a hint of jealousy?
Drinking and talking went well into the night...although I definitley wasn't drunk. Our party grew and we took over an entire room in a bar, where sofas and pillows lined the wall. Germans, Canadians, Americans, French people, and Irish sat together laughing, and conversing. It was a general good time...except it crossed my mind a few times whether I would get to do this cultural exchanging and friendship-making in French, instead of English...I craved a challenge.
It was a good night thought. Anna and I had already started to get a little tense with each other...we were the only friends we had, and we had spent the week with our nose to the grindstone, barely sleeping, trying to set up our apartment to make it livable. It was refreshing to make separate friends, and talk to people other than each other. Phone numbers were exchanged, and plans were made to get together again. It was a good time.
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Last week, I went for the first time, to introduce myself to two of my classes. I had spent about 20 minutes just before that standing aimlessly in the Principals office, where the Secretaries, Principal and Vice-Principal discussed/argued in rapid French about what age group/schedule would be best for me. They then decided that I would teach with Frederique on Mondays and Thursdays. Tuesdays, I would spend with M Vincon, a young male teacher who teaches the “cinema” club.
I entered the room with Frederique, where the kids were supposed to do research on the computers in the lab about the United States. I introduced myself, and immediately felt myself getting comfortable in my position. Frederique had told me to take as long or as little time as I wanted to introduce myself – basically if I had run out of things to say, she had some activities for the kids to do on the computers. If not, I had the whole period.
I found myself subconsciously sizing up each student, and I found it relatively easy to figure out what they were like, what they wanted, and what made them tick. For example, this one girl in the back was chatty and was obviously trying to get attention from her peers instead of paying attention to me. So I began asking the students randomly to introduce themselves to me – so that they wouldn't know who was next. I singled her out, and she refused to make an effort, instead giggling with nervousness. I knew she felt insecure about speaking English. All she could muster was, “My name Emille.” She thought she was finished, and tried to go back to chatting. “What do you like to to, Emille?” I said. “When you're not in school?” She was taken aback....thought for a moment...and then said quietly, “I like to draw.” “You like to draw?” I repeated. She nodded, sheepishly, and her friend laughed at her. “I like to draw too,” I said. “I would always draw in my notebooks when I was supposed to pay attention in class.” She laughed, and gave me a direct look in my eyes that seemed to say, 'you're not as bad as I thought...you might actually be kind of cool.'
I proceeded by asking the students what famous people do they know that are from Chicago. We came up with some names that my Dad was really happy to hear associated with us – Al Capone and Barack Obama. It took a bit of prompting, but they eventually also got Michael Jordan as well, when I drew a picture of a basketball. I was informed by one of the girls that they “don't like basketball” in France. Maybe these kids don't, but my Dad informed me that basketball has quite a large following in France...maybe not with junior high school students, but who knows.
After that I played a little game with them. They opened up Google Earth on each of their computers, and I named tourist sites around Chicago for them to find: “Navy Pier,” the “Field Museum”, the “Aquarium,” “Millenium Park – the bean”, etc. It became kind of a competition, to see who could find these places first – until they discovered the “search bar.” Then I even had them look up my house, and explained about 'suburbs,' and how technically I don't live IN Chicago, itself. They kept saying, “Everyone has pools!!” They also said, “It's so clean there!” It seemed to go over pretty well.
They next class, however, was one year younger. There were only 7 kids, all girls, and they were extremely obnoxious. They had a test, and proceeded to talk throughout the entire thing...asking Frederique questions, yelling at each other, throwing things at each other, and complaining and giggling about the fact that they didn't know any of the material on the test. Frederique was silently at her wits end, but didn't seem to have the will to punish any of them. A girl named Laurine, who is extremely shy and quiet, sat in the front row occasionally glancing menacingly at the other girls. Then they would poke fun at her for taking the test seriously.
While they took their test about airport vocabulary in English, I took the test with them, for fun. They kept glancing curiously back at me, as I hadn't yet introduced myself. After they were finished with the test, I went up to the front of the room and introduced myself. When I finished, they looked at Frederique, who was at the back of the room, and said in French, “What did she say? We didn't understand a word of it.” Frederique refused to translate word for word, until one of the girls who had better comprehension, translated for the rest of them. For anyone who knows about teaching a second language, you should never translate 100% of the time into their native language. It should be rare that you translate...the kids should be forced to listen and comprehend in the language they're learning. Otherwise, what happens is what was happening in this class; they don't make an effort whatsoever.
So we continued by asking about people's hobbies. They didn't get that question either, even with a little prompting with easy examples. When someone said “loisirs”, they suddenly. Then they all started copying each other, “I like playing computer,” “I like watching tv.” They giggled and looked at each other, like, 'this is easy.' Finally Laurine said quietly, “I like playing sports like tennis and basketball.” I applauded her effort, and she smiled shyly. Hopefully she will set an example for the others.
Overall I liked the classes...it should prove to be interesting any case. Frederique agreed that we should split up the classes into smaller groups, and then rotate them. Smaller groups are always better for learning a language...also we want to separate the 'friends' who cause trouble and are disruptive. Today I'm going to observe in the class, which I will be doing all week.
A few days later, I took the bus to my other school to meet with the principal and make a schedule. This was Jacques Prevert, the “upscale college (junior high)” on the other side of the tracks...or the river Loire, as it were...I did cross it at one point. I took two buses, transferring in downtown Orleans, to get there. Then I walked through a silent, pristine neighborhood with short, small, typically-French, semi-modern houses behind ornate gates and yards filled with multicolored flowers. The streets were new, the white indicator lines new and bright.
There were these large plastic bins about 10 feet high, that leaned forward, the top opening with a variety of colored lids. I watched them curiously as I approached, until I saw an old woman come over and open the trunk of her car, getting out a sac of her recyclables. She separated them into the different bins, according to glass or plastic. Then she got back in her car, and drove away.
Finally, after wondering if I had missed the school, I saw it and realized that no one could possibly miss this thing. It was surrounded by a green iron locked gate, over which I had to shout to one of the university part-time 'surveillants' – hall monitors – outside, to let me in. Inside there was a gigantic cement courtyard with trees lining the outside, and columns lining the exterior, giving it a Romanesque look.
The university student let me in, and went back to watching the kids, who were on one of their 15-minute “recesses”, heavily monitored and no fun at all. I went to the “bureau d'accueil” - yes, this school had a 'welcome office.' It was a stand-alone boxy room surrounded by glass windows so the woman inside could see everyone. I went in and introduced myself, and said I had an appointment in an hour with the principal – yes, I knew I was early, I wasn't quite sure yet of the bus systems yet. She directed me to another building, where I could wait in the teacher's lounge.
I had a hell of a time navigating through the inside of this school, which had kid's artwork covering the walls, and stacks of tiny cubed yellow lockers. Finally I reached the teacher's lounge, and feeling very uncomfortable around the teachers around me who were speaking rapid French, I sat down at a table, and began to draw in the notebook I had brought. I hoped they just wouldn't notice me...I didn't feel like chatting for some reason.
However, all of the teachers began to crowd around me, asking me all sorts of questions and welcoming me to the school. One of the women, Mme Vanilla (it's not that, but that's what I now refer to her in my head as, because it sounds like vanilla)...is an English teacher and was fascinated to talk to me. She then asked if I wanted a coffee, and when I said sure, she went to a machine by the wall and put in about .50 cents. There was a button for “sucre” and “creme”, and what type of coffee. After she had pushed all the corresponding buttons, the machine began to whir and buzz, and then out spit a tiny cup from the bottom, filled with frothy, steaming coffee. She handed it to me, smiling at my dumbfounded expression. “What, you don't have coffee machines in the United States?” she said. “No, we do,” I responded, “But you get the cup yourself, and you don't have a choice if you want sugar or not...you just push a button and put the cup underneath.” “Oh,”she said. “It's practically the same thing.”
I then was invited to use the teacher's computer lab, which was adjacent to the room I had been sitting in. I went in and checked my email, and Mme Trentin came in – the woman who had been at my other junior high the first night Anna and I came, to sip Coca-Cola with us. She knows Mme Ferry, the other junior high's principal that had met us at the train station, personally. She began to chat with me about certain problems Anna and I had been having with regard to our need in furniture, etc.
Then she accompanied me into the Principal's office, who is a shy, awkward man who is new to the school...he had previously been a teacher at a school in the middle of the country, as Mme Trentin told me. He wasn't sure how to behave around me, and either spoke French too slowly, or too quick. We sat down at his office in some nice leather, high-backed chairs around a round table, and him and Mme Trentin took about 20 minutes to put together a tentative schedule for me. She kept politely arguing with him, telling him not to give me a class at 8:00am, and then one of 4:00pm – because I wouldn't have anywhere to go between these hours...and it was too far to go home.
An awkward situation arose when he said he wanted to put me exclusively in the oldest classes, with kids who had had the most English. When I said I wouldn't mind being given a variety of ages, he scoffed at this idea. He said the younger kids are aggravating and they misbehave, and he wouldn't want me to have to bother with that. I smiled and said, “Je suis une fille forte,” (I am a strong girl). Demonstrating that I'm tough, and I would't mind being given a challenge. Mme Trentin laughed, but the Principal took offense, as though I was challening his authority. “I wasn't questioning your qualities of character, I'm not doubting your strength,” he said, not even cracking a smile. Apparently I wasn't supposed to question his judgement, in any way whatsoever. Noted for the next time:)
Then Mme Trentin took me on a tour through the hallways just after the kids got out of class again for a recess. They were milling about in the hallwyas until a hall monitor pushed them all out the doors to stand out in the cement courtyard again. They watched Mme Trentin and I curiously, hearing us speaking in jiberish. A few of her students approached, making goofy gestures and facial expressions, listening to the English in action...and a stranger answering back. It WAS a real language! It actually worked!
She explained to me how the cafeteria would work, in case I ever decided to have lunch at the school instead of trekking back downtown. I think I will end up doing that, even though it isn't the best quality food, as it's probably cheaper, and a much more attractive option than going all the way back to downtown Orleans.
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Saturday, October 10, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
En Fin
06.10.09
Finally...I have the time to sit down and write. And where am I doing this? In the McDonalds - or, as the French say, "Mac Do" - which is about a 10 minute walk from my apartment. Irony...I come halfway around the world to sit in a restaurant which resembles almost exactly, the U.S....even down to its Play Place behind me, and the smell of fries and hamburgers lingering in the air. *Sigh.
So I suppose I'll catch you all up to this moment. This is going to be a long one...are you all buckled in, tray tables up? :)
So when I said goodbye to my parents at O'Hare, I got to my gate in approximately two seconds. This was the easy part of my journey, and I ended up waiting there for a good hour, hour and a half before boarding. I tried to use the free WiFi at O'Hare, but you have to have a prepaid service to connect...and I do not. Needless to say, I was pretty bored.
I boarded and was immediately struck by the British accents, and the precise and delicate way that the flight attendants carried out their duties. For the first time, I felt that my version of English was rugged, mumbly and untame....theirs was fluid, beautiful and poetic. Even their movements in perfectly choreographing the distribution of beverages and meals, the way they asked if I “care for sugar” in my coffee, the way they said “Madame” and “pardon”, and the people around me being delicately polite to one another...made me feel like a peasant in a royal court. Perhaps its an exaggeration...but never having been to England, this was the closest I've ever been to so-called “real” English.
When we landed in Heathrow airport, I had been excited to spend at least an hour in England – but when I checked my watch, I realized I barely had 40 minutes to get on the next flight before its gate closed. I shoved and elbowed my way to the front of the plane...not very British of me, but hell, I'm American. At least I said 'excuse me.'
I spent the next 15 minutes or so sprinting across the airport, bypassing lines of other passengers. I prayed that the fact that I had already gotten the boarding pass in Chicago would help me...turns out, once I got to security, it did. I ducked under the dividing lines, and pleaded with other people to let me pass. I only had about 10 minutes before the gate closed...and I had no idea how far I would have to run after making it through security. People generously let me cut in front of them, and seemed generally sympathetic to my cause...except for the Indian security guard behind the conveyor belt, who made me wait a seemingly inordinate amount of time. He tried to tell me just to wait for the next flight to France, which was only in 3 hours...but I told him hastily that a friend was waiting for me in Paris at the airport, and neither of us had cell phones yet. It would be a mess if I just didn't show up.
Finally I was out, and sprinting past the gates, keeping my eyes pealed for A22 and meanwhile adjusting my backpack over my shoulders. Finally I saw it, and they were announcing my seats as I approached, breathing heavily, sweating like a pig. People looked at me, startled, as I heaved my way into line. Just in time.
I found my way to my seat and waited for the plane to take off. Now all around me, I heard the mumbling, sugary sweet sound of French...”real” French. The rising and falling intonations of overly-annunciated phrases, and the high-society laughter that only seemed to remind me of the arrogant tourists in Senegal. I missed African French accents, their honest, clear, sing-songing, but flat-sounded French that was easy to understand and not laced with complicated expressions.
I watched out the window as we soared over the English channel, far below I saw a tiny cruise ship sailing through the expansive crystal water as the sunlight flickered off the waves. I couldn't help comparing all of it to Senegal...cruise ships? Other Americans who had never been to Europe pointed excitedly out the windows below, and I couldn't help missing the simplicity and lack of luxury of Senegal...the undiscovered beauty among the pollution and smiling strangers on the street.
I felt strangely un-excited as France appeared below us...and I imagined how stark the language change was as the farms expanded from the sea backward toward the inland....from English only a few miles away, to French. I was numb. The French accents around me got more and more excited as Paris appeared below, and the plane started to descend. I was even more irritated by them...given that I understood about 70% of it even though they murmured like there were rocks in their mouth... and most of it was complaining. The plane was too hot, Paris' weather wasn't good, their luggage better be there when they arrived...
The plane landed in the airport, and rapid and tired French mumbled over the intercom, and I stood up, gathered my backpack. I waited behind two French people my age, who were covered in South American garb and dreadlocks. I would later find out that this is one of the “looks” in France right now...the “cultured, traveled hippie.” They looked with disdain on the group of mid-50-year-old French people ahead of us...those who had been complaining.
Finally I broke out into the airport with the rest of the passengers, and blinked at the signs in French, following the herd toward the baggage claim. I must have stood there for at least 20 minutes, and finally the conveyor belt was empty. Everyone had left. “Madame...Ceer-ee-bas-ee...pleez come to zee information countar...” I heard over the intercom. Great.......I thought to myself. I knew something was going to go wrong.
I made my way to the information counter and disappointed myself by starting the conversation in English. They told me in broken English that my baggage was still in London and hadn't made it on the next plane. They had assumed I wouldn't make my connecting flight, and held my baggage...how nice of them. I gave them the address of the hostel Tiffany and I had made reservations at, and asked them if they could deliver it there as soon as the plane landed...they could, and would do it before 6:00pm. I crossed my fingers that this would actually happen.
Tiffany was waiting outside, and on the way out of the airport, she demanded to stop at McDonald's. I couldn't believe what I was hearing, but since I saw “free WiFi” on the sign, I consented to at least wait inside while she ordered her hamburger. I pulled out my laptop and emailed my friends and family to let everyone know that I was alive. While Tiffany was in line, I noticed many of the French passers-by staring at me...openly, without shame. And not in a “oh sorry, I was dazing off” way, but in a blatant, 'I'm judging you' way. For the first time since before I went to Senegal, I felt fat and unattractive. I knew I was still in my sweaty, two-day old outfit...and everyone around me was skinny, put-together, with high leather boots and the latest brand-name fashion. I was irritated, but Tiffany said curtly, “You'll get over it.” I wasn't sure I would.
For approximately $10, Tiffany was handed a tiny hamburger, a tiny box of fries, and a microscopic “medium” drink. I was appalled. For about double what we pay in the States, you get half as much...not like I miss McDonald's at all...cheap, low-quality meet and greasy fries doesn't exactly hold a place in my heart. Little did I know that I would find myself at McDonald's more often in the next two weeks than I've been in the last 2 years....because of their free WiFi.
We went downstairs and found the train into Paris, and waited about 20 minutes. I tried to listen to the French around me, but found that for the first time in a while, I was having difficulties. It was definitley the accent...I understood around 90% of what I heard in Senegal...a voice inside my head suddenly was saying, “That's because it isn't 'real French.” I hated myself for saying that...granted French isn't their first language, it's definitley a language that they legitimize. They speak it well, correctly, and fluently...Parisien French isn't the only way to speak. Just like American English is just as legitimate as London English. Just because Parisiens think they represent the highest standard of French, doesn't mean it was true. Language is a means of communication that can and is modified from culture to culture, all over the world – there is no such thing as standard. Plus, language is always changing...modern Parisien French is mixed with Arabic and English more so than Senegalese French is, anyway. Ok, enough of my ranting about France French.
The train pulled up and we got on. We chatted while I watched out the window, as the typically French houses and apartments passed by, with their intricate iron wrought balconies and chipped stone walls. Looming HLM lower income housing passed in the distance, the “ghetto's” of Paris. Bad English was scribbled on walls and passing trains as colorful graffiti.
Finally we pulled into the train station in Paris. I followed Tiffany in a daze, fatigue suddenly sinking in and distraction with sights, smells and sounds...I don't really remember getting on the metro or even paying for a ticket. But somehow I ended up in a noisy, crowded “quartier” of Paris – in the greater Montmartre, and as I descended the stairs, there were Arab men everywhere trying to get me to buy Marlboro cigarettes at a discounted price...and my heart broke to see Serer Senegalese women with their mouths tinted black, begging for money...their beautifully colored fabrics a stark contrast to the dirty beige of the sidewalk. They had the typical gold hoops in their ears and the silver Senegalese bracelets with balls on the ends that were so familiar to me. They reminded me of women selling beignets or gerte sukkar in Dakar...and they left Dakar to come to France....to do the same thing...
I followed Tiffany across the tiny, narrow street where seemingly miniature cars buzzed around us. Surprisingly, there wasn't much litter...although Tiffany and I noticed the “mystery water” that drizzled across the sidewalk, and puddles of it that shown in the sun. Arab men chatted inside corner boutiques where deep red slabs of meat sat under display glass, and Arab women read behind counters, surrounded by baguettes and other bread which emitted a pleasant aroma. People pushed past me with crying infants, adjusted their black head scarves, and boxes sat outside on the sidewalk displaying fleece jackets for 12 Euro.
Occasionally dark Africans would sail past me with their long, distinctive gaits...and I wondered if they were Senegalese...but they didn't catch my eye the way they would have if we were in Dakar. They stared straight ahead and had the same cold, uninterested expression on their faces, as everyone else did. Then I saw a man across the street, probably about 60 years old or so, walking slowly and distinctly with a flowing, powder blue “boubou” that blew about him with the breeze. People raced past him, but he was walking slowly, the way Papa told Melanie and I to in Dakar... “flanner”....to “stroll.” He had a white Serer knit hat on his head, a stark contrast to his rich black skin. He was a gem in the midst of the flurry of noise and bodies around me. I excitedly pointed him out to Tiffany, as this was the first time I had seen someone in a boubou since I had been in Senegal, and I missed their striking beauty....but I realized quickly that this was something I would have to keep to myself. She didn't share in my excitement...couldn't relate.
Our hostel was just across from the metro stop, and had a neon sign outside that said “Friend's Hostel.” We walked in to a tiny, crowded reception area with a black and white tiled floor and a mirror behind us to give the illusion that it was bigger than it was. I was thankful I didn't have all of my baggage to lug around behind me. We pulled out our reservation information, and sat there for a while chatting with the young Arab guy behind the counter, who was originally from Algeria and spent 6 years in London. I told him that my baggage was supposed to come from the airport soon, and asked if there was a room it could be kept in. He said yes, there was a room they kept luggage in, that was 'monitored' by the staff at the front desk right next to it. Good enough...but I was glad I had purchased locks for them.
We climbed the rickety, semi-spiraled wooden staircase up the hallway, which was bright red. There was only one floor, and we entered the hallway which stung our noses with the smell of paint. Two Chinese men were squatted on the floor and said in bad French, “Bonjour,” as they painted the walls bright orange...which reminded Tiffany and I of University of Illinois' colors. The bottom half of the wall was a bit darker than Illini blue...:)
Our room, 16, was purple. And not just any purple. If you could take that McDonald's character that's purple...I forgot his name...that was the color of our walls. The brightest, most ridiculous purple you can imagine. The beds were bunked, and without pillows. I would have to use a sweatshirt. We had a minuscule shower and sink, but no toilet. We would have to share one down the hall...boys and girls would have to share the toilet, because the men's toilet was clogged, for all the world to see. I wasn't disappointed though...the hostel was only 17 Euro a night. You can't really ask for much more beside a place to wash, use the toilet, and sleep.
We went right out after that to find a phone. We walked several blocks, my eyes fixated on passing Senegalese wearing bright green and purple boubou's...again, avoiding my gaze. We passed patisseries displaying the familiar, beautifully and meticulously made pastries.... yellow “promotion” banners calling from open boutiques. Most people that passed were Arab. Most Arab men made comments to me, which I responded to by giggling...Tiffany finally told me again to “get over it.” I realized since she had done the year-long assistantship the year before, most of the things that struck me .... such as the constant displays of affection in public (one teenage couple felt it unavoidable to lay down on the dirty sidewalk to make out in the middle of the city) ... had already struck her, and were now second-nature. Perhaps they hadn't ever struck her. Perhaps it would become second-nature to me too.
We went into an SFR boutique (one of France's cellphone companies), and didn't like the prices scribbled on slips of paper, so we continued on. We got on the Metro and traveled into the center of Paris. The entire time I strained my ears for Wolof as soon as I saw Senegalese getting onto the train...but was disappointed when they all spoke French in the same mumbly way as the Parisians.
Tiffany took me to a “centre commercial” (mall) just above a metro stop. People milled in and out of clothing shops and jewelry stores...I decided I was too thirsty to stand it anymore. A Jamba Juice equivalent stared me down from across the walkway, and I was lured in. I paid about 5 Euro for a mango/orange/banana smoothie...that was again, miniature, half-filled and watery. It wasn't at sweet and thick as I was expecting...and I must say I was a bit disappointed. Fruit smoothies is something the U.S. definitley has down, and I haven't been able to find anywhere else.
Finally, we found one of the main SFR shops. Which of course meant that there was a line. About 15 people stood impatiently and silently along the center of the shop, which other people looked at the phones on display. Tags of various “forfaits” or “abonnaments” - plans – that were available with different phones for a cheaper price, were displayed behind glass. It all looked just ever-s0-slightly familiar. In fact, it really reminded me of MidAmerica Wireless – where I worked over the summer.
We waited for a while, people giving us strange looks as we babbled on in English...until we approached a young girl at a podium-type contraption, looking very professional with a pen and clipboard. She asked for our names, and why we had come in. We told her we wanted to learn more about cell phones. She suggested getting a “pre-paye” phone – basically a go-phone – until we had a bank account and proof of salary, where we could get a shortened contract for cheaper. We decided to go with that. We had to wait again though....so we went just outside the doors on the side, which opened up to a concrete courtyard in the middle of the shopping center. French youth stood around smoking and horsing around. Some girl came up to me and said, “Avez-vous une cigarette?” In lazy, mumbly French. And when I answered clearly, “J'en ai pas,” (I don't have any), she said, “Comment?” irritably. I repeated it, knowing it was grammatically correct. Hearing my non-Parisien accent, she sighed even more irritably, and pushed past me, mumbling, “americaine.” Well excuuuse me.......
They called Tiffany and I back into the boutique, and we were set up with one of the cashiers, all young Arab men, except for one beautifully tall and full-lipped African girl. They seemed busy and uninterested, and with Tiffany's brutally-American accent, they seemed to have even less patience. They then took their sweet time getting us set up...and even stopped for at least 10 minutes to chat to each other about some girl they met the weekend before. Finally I said, “C'est fait?” (is it done?) And they sensed my impatience. The one guy then mumbled something to me, not expecting me to catch it, and laughed to the other guy. “Quoi?” I said, annoyed. He repeated it, looking at his friend the whole time, pretending to put my new “free” Samsung phone into his pocket. I only heard the last part, which was, “Can I have your phone?” It was definitley an arrogant joke, mocking the extremely low quality of my phone. Maybe hardly anyone actually got the free cell phone....well Excuuuse me again....I'm a poor American who won't be paid for another two months....
I was tired, irritated and annoyed, and was starting to get a headache...Tiffany and I left the store with our new phones. I'm not a Blackberry kind of girl anyway, and I was perfectly content with my simple Samsung bar phone, that does absolutely nothing beside send/receive texts and make/receive calls. It IS a cellphone after all. As long as it doesn't drop calls, then I don't really care....
We went up the outdoor escalator and texted our friends from the upper level of the cement courtyard. A bunch of preteen French kids chased each other, screaming French vulgarities to each other, calling each other sluts and bitches and worse. Then they all pulled out cigarettes and started smoking. I suddenly had a mild panic attack and thought to myself...what did I get myself into....this is the age group I'm going to be teaching. These loud, obnoxious, slightly self-destructive pre-pubescent kids...how am I going to manage...I watched them with disdain.
Tiffany and I found a cheap Pasta place where you pick the type of pasta, the sauce, the dessert and the drink, for 11 Euro. I realized that this was starting to add up. The place was set up with long tables perpendicular to the wall, and we shared it with other customers...there was an overweight woman with a redheaded afro on a first date with an African man who was trying way too hard to impress her...a group of four teenagers, two of which Tiffany was sure were gay...and two couples on a double date. Our waitresses seemed really uninterested and rude as well...till they came over at the end of our meal and said, “My college and I were wondering...are you two American or British? American? Oh really? Where are you from?”
We continued walking around Paris at night, crossing over the bridge to gaze down the Sein at ancient, classical cathedrals and buildings in Renaissance architecture looming over the water, reflected in yellowish and blue light. Tiffany then insisted on buying a specific brand of shampoo that apparently is sold nowhere in France, because we went into about 20 Afro-hair shops, complete with hundreds of different brands and hundreds of different wigs and hair extensions in every color and texture you can imagine. We went into a pharmacy that had a complete grocery store upstairs...throughout this whole ordeal, a young guy from Cote d'Ivoire started following me around...just as would have happened in Senegal. It was the first bit of attention I had gotten from anyone...and it reminded me of Senegal, so secretly enjoyed his company and let him follow us around and “help us” find the next hair boutique. When he asked for my number, however, as expected, I of course denied him in the nicest way I could.
The next day, I texted my friend Bastien to see if we could get together. He was a French friend I had met at U of I last year...he was working in the biolab. He had gotten in contact with me about the English conversation tables we were having with the Congolese...and had even come to some of our parties. I figured...perhaps an American assumption...that if I texted him to say I was in Paris, we could spend a few hours together catching up. The response I got was, “I'll meet you at the Gare du Nord at 3:00pm.” Ok...fair enough.
Tiffany and I met up with them at the station, and I got a text saying, “We're here.” I found that kind of strange, because he hadn't mentioned anyone else coming with. Then I saw Bastien motioning to me across the Station, outside, and I went over. There was a French girl next to him, with her arms crossed, barely cracking a grin. He introduced her as his girlfriend. I introduced myself, and tried my best to be pleasant...it was obvious that she wanted to come with to see who this “american girl that her boyfriend met last year” was. The jealousy was overwhelmingly obvious. Bastien 'bisou'ed' me, and said promptly, “We have somewhere to be soon, so we can't spend too much time with you.” “Ok,” I said, finding that a little strange.
We started walking to a place Bastien had already picked out for some beer. He didn't even ask us what we wanted to do, or where we wanted to go. Him and his girlfriend walked up ahead of us, hand in hand, barely speaking to us. She didn't ask anything about me, didn't make any effort to find out who I was. Bastien at one point turned around and asked, “How was Senegal?” Excited at an opportunity to talk about Senegal, I started with, “It was amazing, I loved it. It's so different from the West...I want to go back and work.” He just nodded politely. I was expecting more from him, a more detailed question, perhaps asking what exactly what I did there....what exactly I liked about it...and why exactly I would want to return. Nothing of the sort. He didn't really care. “Africa is amazing,” I continued as a closing statement. “You really should try and visit Africa at least once.” I caught them glancing at each other with a grin, rolling their eyes with an....”as if” look.
We bought some beer and sat down to a table outside a really industrial type bar in the middle of what Bastien described as “hippie ville.” A high-risen river flowed next to us, and the cobblestone street was car free...kids peddled down on kid-sized bikes, dogs chasing after them with no leashes, parents sauntering behind, mixed couples everywhere with bizarre clothes on...and a hostel nearby called “Peace and Love.” We drank our plastic cups of beer in awkward silence, as Bastien continually stared at his watch. Tiffany complained of being really tired all the sudden, and was really struggling with her French. I asked Bastien how many years he had left of school because I totally forgot that he had graduated a while ago, and had come to U of I strictly to work...I thought he might have been working and studying still while in France, or took a year off to come to the United States. But apparently this mistake offended him, and while his girlfriend chuckled, he stared at me intently in the eyes and said, “No, I graduated a long time ago. I work.” “Oh, sorry,” I said.
Overall it was a horrible experience. Lots of jokes gone sour, and awkward pauses....and me babbling to fill the silence, which is never a good thing. Then they abruptly got up and said, “we have to go the Gare de Lyon,” and they shook our hands....we didn't even get a bisous that time, and they left.
While I pondered the whole experience and why it didn't go well...it must have been something to do with cultural misunderstanding...I wasn't sure. Tiffany then reprimanded me again for “letting things get to me” and “thinking too much.” She told me that I'm not a very open-minded person because I have “tunnel vision” about “how the world is, and how people are.” I don't tend to agree with this statement about myself, but I can see how she would get that impression. I am very vocal about what I notice, and I notice everything...I also over-analyse. I don't just look at something at let it go...I have to mull it over and think about it. This doesn't mean I'm judging, or think that my way is the best way...although in many cases in French culture – I simply deem it to be downright rude. Whether there are different levels of impoliteness which are acceptable in France, its still impolite to me. Being open minded doesn't mean being endlessly tolerant and never noticing/being shocked at something...it means not having pre-conceived notions about how a culture SHOULD be, and then judging it according to your own standards. But you can still have a reaction.
Tiffany and I ate at a cafe outside, and after trying to order three separate times and being told that they were “out” which is a common occurrence in French restaurants, we ended up eating pizza. Which wasn't the worst pizza I've had in France, it was thicker than usual. They must be used to serving tourists. Meanwhile a child played on his skateboard in the street, darting in and out of oncoming traffic while his overly-nervous mother screamed at him in horror. Her other, younger child, meanwhile took a steak knife behind us and proceeded to wield it at his mother's back. Dogs were everywhere, and very strange looking people....and a ton of people on bikes. The sun set over the river below where we were sitting, and the city darkened, lights blinked on, and we started walking back to the metro after we paid for dinner.
The next morning, Tiffany left at around 9:00am, and I began to wonder how I should get to Orleans. I asked the guy at the desk, and he said I should walk only about 5 minutes away to the Gare du Nord, where a bunch of taxis sit and wait for people coming out of the station. This wasn't the station I would need to leave for Orleans, I would need to leave from Gare d'Austerlitz, which was on the other side of town. The Arab guy with whom I had chatted the first day at the hostel was there, and I asked him to write down the address to the hostel for me so that I could show the taxi driver where to stop by to pick up my luggage.
I therefore left all my luggage downstairs in the 'monitored' room, while I walked five minutes away to find the Gare du Nord. After asking the last taxi in line, thinking it was by random that you choose taxi drivers...turns out, he politely informed me, I was supposed to ask the first taxi in line. I asked the first taxi, who was a Portguese man in his late 50's, if he could pass by my hostel and get my luggage, at the address written on the slip of paper I gave him. “That's no problem,” he told me, and I got in.
However, after about 15 minutes, we still hadn't arrived at the hostel. In fact I think we had passed it about 10 minutes earlier, but since there were so many one-way streets, I thought maybe he knew of another way to get around to the hostel....a way you could cut across if you were walking. So I kept my mouth shut.
I decided to say something however, when I noticed we were in a pretty ritzy part of town – and my hostel definitley wasn't – with a gigantic expansive road heading into downtown...”This isn't it...” I said quietly. “What?” He demanded from the front seat. “This isn't right,” I said again, a little louder. He raised up the slip of paper I had given him. “Is it not 122 Rue de la Chapelle?” He said defensively, in a heavy Portguese accent, pronnouncing “chapelle” like “chapell-y”. “Yes, I think so,” I replied, “But I didn't write it. It was the man who works at the hostel who wrote it.” The case was dropped, and we continued on a bit longer.
Then I said again, “This surely isn't right.” He raised his voice even more and said, “Madame, I am following the address you gave me. If this isn't right, you have to tell me! You can't just sit there and not say anything! You have to tell me where to go, otherwise you shouldn't have got into the taxi!” “I'm American,” I said, my voice cracking a bit, stress rising. “I don't know my way around...I don't know these streets...I just know its by the metro station, the one that is risen off the ground, that you go up stairs to get to.” A pause. “You mean Boulevard de la Chapelle,” he said loudly. “This is RUE de la Chapelle!” “I don't know,” I said, “Again, the guy at the hostel wrote the address for me!”
He did a hasty U-turn in the middle of the huge road, and went back the other direction. I looked at the meter and realized it was up to 16 euro already. Great...I would end up paying more than double what I originally planned on, in order to get to Gare Austerlitz. Briefly, I hoped he wouldn't make me pay for it. But then I knew that was silly...I wasted his gas...someone would have to pay for it.
We got back to “Friend's Hostel” about 10 minutes later, and he parked outside. At this point, the driver had stopped being defensive and hostile, and was sort of on my side...like a father figure. He had now started calling me, “ma fille” (my girl), and even went in with me to complain to the guy at the counter for giving me the wrong address. He said in a gruff, loud voice, in rapid French, “You wrote the wrong address....get it right, its Boulevard de la Chapelle, not Rue de la Chapelle.” The guy behind the counter grinned a little and said, “Oh oops, sorry.” “Don't apologize to me,” the taxi driver said, “Apologize to this young lady, who has to pay the difference.” And with that, he stormed out to the taxi to wait for me. I brought the suitcases out and helped him load them into the taxi, and I went back inside. I was pretty sure that it would be fair to ask the guy behind the counter (with whom I had been pretty chummy with), would help me out...considering it was his fault!
I waited for him to give me the time of day, but he just pretended I wasn't there, and continued helping the other people around his desk, laughing and carrying on. I coughed, and leaned on the counter, but it didn't help. The Spanish guy that also works there, equally as young – maybe 26 – came over and said, “Yes?” “Look, I don't have a lot of money,” I said, “I can't afford to pay the extra 20 euro...and it was his fault for miswriting the address...” I raised my eyebrows at him, and was almost 100% sure he understood what I was implying. He paused and said, “Alright, I'll see what he can do. Wait.” I definitley heard this.
So I waited about two minutes, and still being ignored, I said, “Look, the taxi driver is waiting for me...” The Arab guy stopped talked and looked at me, as if looking at me for the first time in his life...his eyes glazed over and blank. “Yea? What do you need?” I stopped and stared at him. “I would like you to help me,” I said. “You wrote the address wrong, and now I owe the taxi driver nearly 20 Euro.” He blinked. “I don't understand,” he said. “What do you want me to do?” “I want you to help me,” I repeated helplessly, dumbly....I fumbled for more words. Because I was so unhinged, I felt myself losing my confidence. “I still don't understand,” he said again, shaking his head, and looking at his friend, the Spanish guy who had told me to wait. “Do you understand what this girl wants?” “Nope, I don't understand either,” he repeated, shrugging. Disgusted, I just walked out.
On the way to the station, the taxi driver looked in the rear-view mirror to see a very small and very upset American girl staring out the window at the Seine as we crossed the bridge. Tears quivered in her eyes, and her face was supported by a fist. “What's the matter, ma bella?” he said. “You look sad!” “No, I'm ok,” I said, forcing a smile. “It's just my third day in France, and already people are taking advantage of me...and things aren't going very well.” “Don't worry, my dear,” he replied, “things will get better. Just forget about those guys back there.” Then his boss called, and they talked loudly and rapidly over the speakers in Portguese/French. I heard him telling his boss about me, hearing “fille americaine” and “20 euro”, etc etc.....again a thought flickered in my mind that his boss might take pity on me and not make me pay the 20 euro. But all I got was a “Is she beautiful?” In French, meaning the boss wanted me to hear....to cheer me up. “Oh yes, she's beautiful!” The driver responded jovially. I laughed, “Merci,” I said. “C'est gentille.” “Don't worry, ma fille,” he said. “Things will look up from here.”
I got out at the Gare d'Austerlitz and paid about 30 euro for a taxi ride that should have costed 14. Armed with two enormous suitcases and a backpack, I made my way to the ticket counter. I struggled to hear the woman who spoke curtly and quickly with me in French, meanwhile showing a new trainee behind the counter how to do everything. She thrusted my ticket at me, and when I asked when the next train to Orleans was, she said with a “duh” attitude, pointing to the large, automated schedule on the wall “11:41am.” “Merci, bonne journee,” I said, walking away. The woman didn't bother to explain to me what the little yellow machines everywhere were for...apparently I had to validate my ticket at one of these, otherwise it wouldn't count for anything on the train....without a date of validation, I would try to use the ticket over and over again. Whoops. Luckily the train conductor was sympathetic....and the French people in my train cabin I had been talking to stuck up for me and explained that I didn't know.
I also didn't know how to find the gate. The automated board didn't say anything about which gate. I gathered up my courage to ask a SNCF worker (which is the train company in France). He was wearing a smart blue suit that fit him awkwardly, and a bright red tie. He looked a little bit like a conductor from Thomas the Tank Engine, or a similar kid's show. He told me that in about 10 minutes the gate would show up on the board. I thanked him and waited, aware of people's stares as they looked up from their fashion magazines. Birds flitted in and out of the rafters above, in the brightly-lit station from the sunlight that spilled in through the glass ceiling.
I had to go a pretty long way to find the train, which was around the corner. Carrying about 110 pounds of luggage divided between two arms, with about 30 pounds on my back, I felt like a pack mule, and was heaving like one as I approached the train. Struggling to hoist my suitcases up the stairs to the train car, people took pity on me and helped me lift them....but not without laughing at me first. I laughed along, and explained that I was away for 7 months to teach English...of course I would have this much stuff. They didn't seem interested in an explanation.
I found a car and the guy helped me get my suitcases up above. He was in his late twenties, with gigantic classes and a definite Jew fro stretching out in every direction. He then started chatting with me, very interested in what I was about to do. Turns out he is from Orleans, and then proceeded to tell me that Orleans is “nul” - stupid, there's nothing there, nothing to do. I said “not every city can be Paris...I enjoy small towns.” “Oh, its not a small town,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “There's just nothing interesting about it.” “Ok, well I'll judge for myself,” I said. I spent the next hour writing in my journal.
About 40 minutes into the ride however, an announcement came over the intercom. All I managed to grasp was that the train wasn't going to Orleans anymore, and we would have to take a tram. The other people in my cabin told me that sometimes the trains just randomly do that...and no one knows why. Maybe it was another strike. Basically, it was going to skip Orleans, and at the first stop, there was a free tram we were supposed to transfer to that would take us there. I had no idea if it was going to be the same train station....where Anna was supposed to meet me. And I had no more credit to tell her if it was going to change...
The guy helped me get my suitcases off the top shelft and out of the train...I lugged them across the “quai” to the tram across the way, and some other people helped me lift it up there. This tram took another 15 minutes to pull into Orleans...thankfully, the same station I would have arrived had, had the train actually gone all the way there. I got off the train painfully, and by this time the muscles in my arms and thighs felt like jello...and I felt like I was dragging blocks for the Pyramids of Egypt.
I made it into the station, and there was a small, thin blond girl waiting for me, smiling big. I gave her a tired and probably smelly hug, and I thankfully accepted when she offered to take one of my suitcases. “Jeez...how did you get all this stuff in these?” Then we took off for the bus.
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Finally...I have the time to sit down and write. And where am I doing this? In the McDonalds - or, as the French say, "Mac Do" - which is about a 10 minute walk from my apartment. Irony...I come halfway around the world to sit in a restaurant which resembles almost exactly, the U.S....even down to its Play Place behind me, and the smell of fries and hamburgers lingering in the air. *Sigh.
So I suppose I'll catch you all up to this moment. This is going to be a long one...are you all buckled in, tray tables up? :)
So when I said goodbye to my parents at O'Hare, I got to my gate in approximately two seconds. This was the easy part of my journey, and I ended up waiting there for a good hour, hour and a half before boarding. I tried to use the free WiFi at O'Hare, but you have to have a prepaid service to connect...and I do not. Needless to say, I was pretty bored.
I boarded and was immediately struck by the British accents, and the precise and delicate way that the flight attendants carried out their duties. For the first time, I felt that my version of English was rugged, mumbly and untame....theirs was fluid, beautiful and poetic. Even their movements in perfectly choreographing the distribution of beverages and meals, the way they asked if I “care for sugar” in my coffee, the way they said “Madame” and “pardon”, and the people around me being delicately polite to one another...made me feel like a peasant in a royal court. Perhaps its an exaggeration...but never having been to England, this was the closest I've ever been to so-called “real” English.
When we landed in Heathrow airport, I had been excited to spend at least an hour in England – but when I checked my watch, I realized I barely had 40 minutes to get on the next flight before its gate closed. I shoved and elbowed my way to the front of the plane...not very British of me, but hell, I'm American. At least I said 'excuse me.'
I spent the next 15 minutes or so sprinting across the airport, bypassing lines of other passengers. I prayed that the fact that I had already gotten the boarding pass in Chicago would help me...turns out, once I got to security, it did. I ducked under the dividing lines, and pleaded with other people to let me pass. I only had about 10 minutes before the gate closed...and I had no idea how far I would have to run after making it through security. People generously let me cut in front of them, and seemed generally sympathetic to my cause...except for the Indian security guard behind the conveyor belt, who made me wait a seemingly inordinate amount of time. He tried to tell me just to wait for the next flight to France, which was only in 3 hours...but I told him hastily that a friend was waiting for me in Paris at the airport, and neither of us had cell phones yet. It would be a mess if I just didn't show up.
Finally I was out, and sprinting past the gates, keeping my eyes pealed for A22 and meanwhile adjusting my backpack over my shoulders. Finally I saw it, and they were announcing my seats as I approached, breathing heavily, sweating like a pig. People looked at me, startled, as I heaved my way into line. Just in time.
I found my way to my seat and waited for the plane to take off. Now all around me, I heard the mumbling, sugary sweet sound of French...”real” French. The rising and falling intonations of overly-annunciated phrases, and the high-society laughter that only seemed to remind me of the arrogant tourists in Senegal. I missed African French accents, their honest, clear, sing-songing, but flat-sounded French that was easy to understand and not laced with complicated expressions.
I watched out the window as we soared over the English channel, far below I saw a tiny cruise ship sailing through the expansive crystal water as the sunlight flickered off the waves. I couldn't help comparing all of it to Senegal...cruise ships? Other Americans who had never been to Europe pointed excitedly out the windows below, and I couldn't help missing the simplicity and lack of luxury of Senegal...the undiscovered beauty among the pollution and smiling strangers on the street.
I felt strangely un-excited as France appeared below us...and I imagined how stark the language change was as the farms expanded from the sea backward toward the inland....from English only a few miles away, to French. I was numb. The French accents around me got more and more excited as Paris appeared below, and the plane started to descend. I was even more irritated by them...given that I understood about 70% of it even though they murmured like there were rocks in their mouth... and most of it was complaining. The plane was too hot, Paris' weather wasn't good, their luggage better be there when they arrived...
The plane landed in the airport, and rapid and tired French mumbled over the intercom, and I stood up, gathered my backpack. I waited behind two French people my age, who were covered in South American garb and dreadlocks. I would later find out that this is one of the “looks” in France right now...the “cultured, traveled hippie.” They looked with disdain on the group of mid-50-year-old French people ahead of us...those who had been complaining.
Finally I broke out into the airport with the rest of the passengers, and blinked at the signs in French, following the herd toward the baggage claim. I must have stood there for at least 20 minutes, and finally the conveyor belt was empty. Everyone had left. “Madame...Ceer-ee-bas-ee...pleez come to zee information countar...” I heard over the intercom. Great.......I thought to myself. I knew something was going to go wrong.
I made my way to the information counter and disappointed myself by starting the conversation in English. They told me in broken English that my baggage was still in London and hadn't made it on the next plane. They had assumed I wouldn't make my connecting flight, and held my baggage...how nice of them. I gave them the address of the hostel Tiffany and I had made reservations at, and asked them if they could deliver it there as soon as the plane landed...they could, and would do it before 6:00pm. I crossed my fingers that this would actually happen.
Tiffany was waiting outside, and on the way out of the airport, she demanded to stop at McDonald's. I couldn't believe what I was hearing, but since I saw “free WiFi” on the sign, I consented to at least wait inside while she ordered her hamburger. I pulled out my laptop and emailed my friends and family to let everyone know that I was alive. While Tiffany was in line, I noticed many of the French passers-by staring at me...openly, without shame. And not in a “oh sorry, I was dazing off” way, but in a blatant, 'I'm judging you' way. For the first time since before I went to Senegal, I felt fat and unattractive. I knew I was still in my sweaty, two-day old outfit...and everyone around me was skinny, put-together, with high leather boots and the latest brand-name fashion. I was irritated, but Tiffany said curtly, “You'll get over it.” I wasn't sure I would.
For approximately $10, Tiffany was handed a tiny hamburger, a tiny box of fries, and a microscopic “medium” drink. I was appalled. For about double what we pay in the States, you get half as much...not like I miss McDonald's at all...cheap, low-quality meet and greasy fries doesn't exactly hold a place in my heart. Little did I know that I would find myself at McDonald's more often in the next two weeks than I've been in the last 2 years....because of their free WiFi.
We went downstairs and found the train into Paris, and waited about 20 minutes. I tried to listen to the French around me, but found that for the first time in a while, I was having difficulties. It was definitley the accent...I understood around 90% of what I heard in Senegal...a voice inside my head suddenly was saying, “That's because it isn't 'real French.” I hated myself for saying that...granted French isn't their first language, it's definitley a language that they legitimize. They speak it well, correctly, and fluently...Parisien French isn't the only way to speak. Just like American English is just as legitimate as London English. Just because Parisiens think they represent the highest standard of French, doesn't mean it was true. Language is a means of communication that can and is modified from culture to culture, all over the world – there is no such thing as standard. Plus, language is always changing...modern Parisien French is mixed with Arabic and English more so than Senegalese French is, anyway. Ok, enough of my ranting about France French.
The train pulled up and we got on. We chatted while I watched out the window, as the typically French houses and apartments passed by, with their intricate iron wrought balconies and chipped stone walls. Looming HLM lower income housing passed in the distance, the “ghetto's” of Paris. Bad English was scribbled on walls and passing trains as colorful graffiti.
Finally we pulled into the train station in Paris. I followed Tiffany in a daze, fatigue suddenly sinking in and distraction with sights, smells and sounds...I don't really remember getting on the metro or even paying for a ticket. But somehow I ended up in a noisy, crowded “quartier” of Paris – in the greater Montmartre, and as I descended the stairs, there were Arab men everywhere trying to get me to buy Marlboro cigarettes at a discounted price...and my heart broke to see Serer Senegalese women with their mouths tinted black, begging for money...their beautifully colored fabrics a stark contrast to the dirty beige of the sidewalk. They had the typical gold hoops in their ears and the silver Senegalese bracelets with balls on the ends that were so familiar to me. They reminded me of women selling beignets or gerte sukkar in Dakar...and they left Dakar to come to France....to do the same thing...
I followed Tiffany across the tiny, narrow street where seemingly miniature cars buzzed around us. Surprisingly, there wasn't much litter...although Tiffany and I noticed the “mystery water” that drizzled across the sidewalk, and puddles of it that shown in the sun. Arab men chatted inside corner boutiques where deep red slabs of meat sat under display glass, and Arab women read behind counters, surrounded by baguettes and other bread which emitted a pleasant aroma. People pushed past me with crying infants, adjusted their black head scarves, and boxes sat outside on the sidewalk displaying fleece jackets for 12 Euro.
Occasionally dark Africans would sail past me with their long, distinctive gaits...and I wondered if they were Senegalese...but they didn't catch my eye the way they would have if we were in Dakar. They stared straight ahead and had the same cold, uninterested expression on their faces, as everyone else did. Then I saw a man across the street, probably about 60 years old or so, walking slowly and distinctly with a flowing, powder blue “boubou” that blew about him with the breeze. People raced past him, but he was walking slowly, the way Papa told Melanie and I to in Dakar... “flanner”....to “stroll.” He had a white Serer knit hat on his head, a stark contrast to his rich black skin. He was a gem in the midst of the flurry of noise and bodies around me. I excitedly pointed him out to Tiffany, as this was the first time I had seen someone in a boubou since I had been in Senegal, and I missed their striking beauty....but I realized quickly that this was something I would have to keep to myself. She didn't share in my excitement...couldn't relate.
Our hostel was just across from the metro stop, and had a neon sign outside that said “Friend's Hostel.” We walked in to a tiny, crowded reception area with a black and white tiled floor and a mirror behind us to give the illusion that it was bigger than it was. I was thankful I didn't have all of my baggage to lug around behind me. We pulled out our reservation information, and sat there for a while chatting with the young Arab guy behind the counter, who was originally from Algeria and spent 6 years in London. I told him that my baggage was supposed to come from the airport soon, and asked if there was a room it could be kept in. He said yes, there was a room they kept luggage in, that was 'monitored' by the staff at the front desk right next to it. Good enough...but I was glad I had purchased locks for them.
We climbed the rickety, semi-spiraled wooden staircase up the hallway, which was bright red. There was only one floor, and we entered the hallway which stung our noses with the smell of paint. Two Chinese men were squatted on the floor and said in bad French, “Bonjour,” as they painted the walls bright orange...which reminded Tiffany and I of University of Illinois' colors. The bottom half of the wall was a bit darker than Illini blue...:)
Our room, 16, was purple. And not just any purple. If you could take that McDonald's character that's purple...I forgot his name...that was the color of our walls. The brightest, most ridiculous purple you can imagine. The beds were bunked, and without pillows. I would have to use a sweatshirt. We had a minuscule shower and sink, but no toilet. We would have to share one down the hall...boys and girls would have to share the toilet, because the men's toilet was clogged, for all the world to see. I wasn't disappointed though...the hostel was only 17 Euro a night. You can't really ask for much more beside a place to wash, use the toilet, and sleep.
We went right out after that to find a phone. We walked several blocks, my eyes fixated on passing Senegalese wearing bright green and purple boubou's...again, avoiding my gaze. We passed patisseries displaying the familiar, beautifully and meticulously made pastries.... yellow “promotion” banners calling from open boutiques. Most people that passed were Arab. Most Arab men made comments to me, which I responded to by giggling...Tiffany finally told me again to “get over it.” I realized since she had done the year-long assistantship the year before, most of the things that struck me .... such as the constant displays of affection in public (one teenage couple felt it unavoidable to lay down on the dirty sidewalk to make out in the middle of the city) ... had already struck her, and were now second-nature. Perhaps they hadn't ever struck her. Perhaps it would become second-nature to me too.
We went into an SFR boutique (one of France's cellphone companies), and didn't like the prices scribbled on slips of paper, so we continued on. We got on the Metro and traveled into the center of Paris. The entire time I strained my ears for Wolof as soon as I saw Senegalese getting onto the train...but was disappointed when they all spoke French in the same mumbly way as the Parisians.
Tiffany took me to a “centre commercial” (mall) just above a metro stop. People milled in and out of clothing shops and jewelry stores...I decided I was too thirsty to stand it anymore. A Jamba Juice equivalent stared me down from across the walkway, and I was lured in. I paid about 5 Euro for a mango/orange/banana smoothie...that was again, miniature, half-filled and watery. It wasn't at sweet and thick as I was expecting...and I must say I was a bit disappointed. Fruit smoothies is something the U.S. definitley has down, and I haven't been able to find anywhere else.
Finally, we found one of the main SFR shops. Which of course meant that there was a line. About 15 people stood impatiently and silently along the center of the shop, which other people looked at the phones on display. Tags of various “forfaits” or “abonnaments” - plans – that were available with different phones for a cheaper price, were displayed behind glass. It all looked just ever-s0-slightly familiar. In fact, it really reminded me of MidAmerica Wireless – where I worked over the summer.
We waited for a while, people giving us strange looks as we babbled on in English...until we approached a young girl at a podium-type contraption, looking very professional with a pen and clipboard. She asked for our names, and why we had come in. We told her we wanted to learn more about cell phones. She suggested getting a “pre-paye” phone – basically a go-phone – until we had a bank account and proof of salary, where we could get a shortened contract for cheaper. We decided to go with that. We had to wait again though....so we went just outside the doors on the side, which opened up to a concrete courtyard in the middle of the shopping center. French youth stood around smoking and horsing around. Some girl came up to me and said, “Avez-vous une cigarette?” In lazy, mumbly French. And when I answered clearly, “J'en ai pas,” (I don't have any), she said, “Comment?” irritably. I repeated it, knowing it was grammatically correct. Hearing my non-Parisien accent, she sighed even more irritably, and pushed past me, mumbling, “americaine.” Well excuuuse me.......
They called Tiffany and I back into the boutique, and we were set up with one of the cashiers, all young Arab men, except for one beautifully tall and full-lipped African girl. They seemed busy and uninterested, and with Tiffany's brutally-American accent, they seemed to have even less patience. They then took their sweet time getting us set up...and even stopped for at least 10 minutes to chat to each other about some girl they met the weekend before. Finally I said, “C'est fait?” (is it done?) And they sensed my impatience. The one guy then mumbled something to me, not expecting me to catch it, and laughed to the other guy. “Quoi?” I said, annoyed. He repeated it, looking at his friend the whole time, pretending to put my new “free” Samsung phone into his pocket. I only heard the last part, which was, “Can I have your phone?” It was definitley an arrogant joke, mocking the extremely low quality of my phone. Maybe hardly anyone actually got the free cell phone....well Excuuuse me again....I'm a poor American who won't be paid for another two months....
I was tired, irritated and annoyed, and was starting to get a headache...Tiffany and I left the store with our new phones. I'm not a Blackberry kind of girl anyway, and I was perfectly content with my simple Samsung bar phone, that does absolutely nothing beside send/receive texts and make/receive calls. It IS a cellphone after all. As long as it doesn't drop calls, then I don't really care....
We went up the outdoor escalator and texted our friends from the upper level of the cement courtyard. A bunch of preteen French kids chased each other, screaming French vulgarities to each other, calling each other sluts and bitches and worse. Then they all pulled out cigarettes and started smoking. I suddenly had a mild panic attack and thought to myself...what did I get myself into....this is the age group I'm going to be teaching. These loud, obnoxious, slightly self-destructive pre-pubescent kids...how am I going to manage...I watched them with disdain.
Tiffany and I found a cheap Pasta place where you pick the type of pasta, the sauce, the dessert and the drink, for 11 Euro. I realized that this was starting to add up. The place was set up with long tables perpendicular to the wall, and we shared it with other customers...there was an overweight woman with a redheaded afro on a first date with an African man who was trying way too hard to impress her...a group of four teenagers, two of which Tiffany was sure were gay...and two couples on a double date. Our waitresses seemed really uninterested and rude as well...till they came over at the end of our meal and said, “My college and I were wondering...are you two American or British? American? Oh really? Where are you from?”
We continued walking around Paris at night, crossing over the bridge to gaze down the Sein at ancient, classical cathedrals and buildings in Renaissance architecture looming over the water, reflected in yellowish and blue light. Tiffany then insisted on buying a specific brand of shampoo that apparently is sold nowhere in France, because we went into about 20 Afro-hair shops, complete with hundreds of different brands and hundreds of different wigs and hair extensions in every color and texture you can imagine. We went into a pharmacy that had a complete grocery store upstairs...throughout this whole ordeal, a young guy from Cote d'Ivoire started following me around...just as would have happened in Senegal. It was the first bit of attention I had gotten from anyone...and it reminded me of Senegal, so secretly enjoyed his company and let him follow us around and “help us” find the next hair boutique. When he asked for my number, however, as expected, I of course denied him in the nicest way I could.
The next day, I texted my friend Bastien to see if we could get together. He was a French friend I had met at U of I last year...he was working in the biolab. He had gotten in contact with me about the English conversation tables we were having with the Congolese...and had even come to some of our parties. I figured...perhaps an American assumption...that if I texted him to say I was in Paris, we could spend a few hours together catching up. The response I got was, “I'll meet you at the Gare du Nord at 3:00pm.” Ok...fair enough.
Tiffany and I met up with them at the station, and I got a text saying, “We're here.” I found that kind of strange, because he hadn't mentioned anyone else coming with. Then I saw Bastien motioning to me across the Station, outside, and I went over. There was a French girl next to him, with her arms crossed, barely cracking a grin. He introduced her as his girlfriend. I introduced myself, and tried my best to be pleasant...it was obvious that she wanted to come with to see who this “american girl that her boyfriend met last year” was. The jealousy was overwhelmingly obvious. Bastien 'bisou'ed' me, and said promptly, “We have somewhere to be soon, so we can't spend too much time with you.” “Ok,” I said, finding that a little strange.
We started walking to a place Bastien had already picked out for some beer. He didn't even ask us what we wanted to do, or where we wanted to go. Him and his girlfriend walked up ahead of us, hand in hand, barely speaking to us. She didn't ask anything about me, didn't make any effort to find out who I was. Bastien at one point turned around and asked, “How was Senegal?” Excited at an opportunity to talk about Senegal, I started with, “It was amazing, I loved it. It's so different from the West...I want to go back and work.” He just nodded politely. I was expecting more from him, a more detailed question, perhaps asking what exactly what I did there....what exactly I liked about it...and why exactly I would want to return. Nothing of the sort. He didn't really care. “Africa is amazing,” I continued as a closing statement. “You really should try and visit Africa at least once.” I caught them glancing at each other with a grin, rolling their eyes with an....”as if” look.
We bought some beer and sat down to a table outside a really industrial type bar in the middle of what Bastien described as “hippie ville.” A high-risen river flowed next to us, and the cobblestone street was car free...kids peddled down on kid-sized bikes, dogs chasing after them with no leashes, parents sauntering behind, mixed couples everywhere with bizarre clothes on...and a hostel nearby called “Peace and Love.” We drank our plastic cups of beer in awkward silence, as Bastien continually stared at his watch. Tiffany complained of being really tired all the sudden, and was really struggling with her French. I asked Bastien how many years he had left of school because I totally forgot that he had graduated a while ago, and had come to U of I strictly to work...I thought he might have been working and studying still while in France, or took a year off to come to the United States. But apparently this mistake offended him, and while his girlfriend chuckled, he stared at me intently in the eyes and said, “No, I graduated a long time ago. I work.” “Oh, sorry,” I said.
Overall it was a horrible experience. Lots of jokes gone sour, and awkward pauses....and me babbling to fill the silence, which is never a good thing. Then they abruptly got up and said, “we have to go the Gare de Lyon,” and they shook our hands....we didn't even get a bisous that time, and they left.
While I pondered the whole experience and why it didn't go well...it must have been something to do with cultural misunderstanding...I wasn't sure. Tiffany then reprimanded me again for “letting things get to me” and “thinking too much.” She told me that I'm not a very open-minded person because I have “tunnel vision” about “how the world is, and how people are.” I don't tend to agree with this statement about myself, but I can see how she would get that impression. I am very vocal about what I notice, and I notice everything...I also over-analyse. I don't just look at something at let it go...I have to mull it over and think about it. This doesn't mean I'm judging, or think that my way is the best way...although in many cases in French culture – I simply deem it to be downright rude. Whether there are different levels of impoliteness which are acceptable in France, its still impolite to me. Being open minded doesn't mean being endlessly tolerant and never noticing/being shocked at something...it means not having pre-conceived notions about how a culture SHOULD be, and then judging it according to your own standards. But you can still have a reaction.
Tiffany and I ate at a cafe outside, and after trying to order three separate times and being told that they were “out” which is a common occurrence in French restaurants, we ended up eating pizza. Which wasn't the worst pizza I've had in France, it was thicker than usual. They must be used to serving tourists. Meanwhile a child played on his skateboard in the street, darting in and out of oncoming traffic while his overly-nervous mother screamed at him in horror. Her other, younger child, meanwhile took a steak knife behind us and proceeded to wield it at his mother's back. Dogs were everywhere, and very strange looking people....and a ton of people on bikes. The sun set over the river below where we were sitting, and the city darkened, lights blinked on, and we started walking back to the metro after we paid for dinner.
The next morning, Tiffany left at around 9:00am, and I began to wonder how I should get to Orleans. I asked the guy at the desk, and he said I should walk only about 5 minutes away to the Gare du Nord, where a bunch of taxis sit and wait for people coming out of the station. This wasn't the station I would need to leave for Orleans, I would need to leave from Gare d'Austerlitz, which was on the other side of town. The Arab guy with whom I had chatted the first day at the hostel was there, and I asked him to write down the address to the hostel for me so that I could show the taxi driver where to stop by to pick up my luggage.
I therefore left all my luggage downstairs in the 'monitored' room, while I walked five minutes away to find the Gare du Nord. After asking the last taxi in line, thinking it was by random that you choose taxi drivers...turns out, he politely informed me, I was supposed to ask the first taxi in line. I asked the first taxi, who was a Portguese man in his late 50's, if he could pass by my hostel and get my luggage, at the address written on the slip of paper I gave him. “That's no problem,” he told me, and I got in.
However, after about 15 minutes, we still hadn't arrived at the hostel. In fact I think we had passed it about 10 minutes earlier, but since there were so many one-way streets, I thought maybe he knew of another way to get around to the hostel....a way you could cut across if you were walking. So I kept my mouth shut.
I decided to say something however, when I noticed we were in a pretty ritzy part of town – and my hostel definitley wasn't – with a gigantic expansive road heading into downtown...”This isn't it...” I said quietly. “What?” He demanded from the front seat. “This isn't right,” I said again, a little louder. He raised up the slip of paper I had given him. “Is it not 122 Rue de la Chapelle?” He said defensively, in a heavy Portguese accent, pronnouncing “chapelle” like “chapell-y”. “Yes, I think so,” I replied, “But I didn't write it. It was the man who works at the hostel who wrote it.” The case was dropped, and we continued on a bit longer.
Then I said again, “This surely isn't right.” He raised his voice even more and said, “Madame, I am following the address you gave me. If this isn't right, you have to tell me! You can't just sit there and not say anything! You have to tell me where to go, otherwise you shouldn't have got into the taxi!” “I'm American,” I said, my voice cracking a bit, stress rising. “I don't know my way around...I don't know these streets...I just know its by the metro station, the one that is risen off the ground, that you go up stairs to get to.” A pause. “You mean Boulevard de la Chapelle,” he said loudly. “This is RUE de la Chapelle!” “I don't know,” I said, “Again, the guy at the hostel wrote the address for me!”
He did a hasty U-turn in the middle of the huge road, and went back the other direction. I looked at the meter and realized it was up to 16 euro already. Great...I would end up paying more than double what I originally planned on, in order to get to Gare Austerlitz. Briefly, I hoped he wouldn't make me pay for it. But then I knew that was silly...I wasted his gas...someone would have to pay for it.
We got back to “Friend's Hostel” about 10 minutes later, and he parked outside. At this point, the driver had stopped being defensive and hostile, and was sort of on my side...like a father figure. He had now started calling me, “ma fille” (my girl), and even went in with me to complain to the guy at the counter for giving me the wrong address. He said in a gruff, loud voice, in rapid French, “You wrote the wrong address....get it right, its Boulevard de la Chapelle, not Rue de la Chapelle.” The guy behind the counter grinned a little and said, “Oh oops, sorry.” “Don't apologize to me,” the taxi driver said, “Apologize to this young lady, who has to pay the difference.” And with that, he stormed out to the taxi to wait for me. I brought the suitcases out and helped him load them into the taxi, and I went back inside. I was pretty sure that it would be fair to ask the guy behind the counter (with whom I had been pretty chummy with), would help me out...considering it was his fault!
I waited for him to give me the time of day, but he just pretended I wasn't there, and continued helping the other people around his desk, laughing and carrying on. I coughed, and leaned on the counter, but it didn't help. The Spanish guy that also works there, equally as young – maybe 26 – came over and said, “Yes?” “Look, I don't have a lot of money,” I said, “I can't afford to pay the extra 20 euro...and it was his fault for miswriting the address...” I raised my eyebrows at him, and was almost 100% sure he understood what I was implying. He paused and said, “Alright, I'll see what he can do. Wait.” I definitley heard this.
So I waited about two minutes, and still being ignored, I said, “Look, the taxi driver is waiting for me...” The Arab guy stopped talked and looked at me, as if looking at me for the first time in his life...his eyes glazed over and blank. “Yea? What do you need?” I stopped and stared at him. “I would like you to help me,” I said. “You wrote the address wrong, and now I owe the taxi driver nearly 20 Euro.” He blinked. “I don't understand,” he said. “What do you want me to do?” “I want you to help me,” I repeated helplessly, dumbly....I fumbled for more words. Because I was so unhinged, I felt myself losing my confidence. “I still don't understand,” he said again, shaking his head, and looking at his friend, the Spanish guy who had told me to wait. “Do you understand what this girl wants?” “Nope, I don't understand either,” he repeated, shrugging. Disgusted, I just walked out.
On the way to the station, the taxi driver looked in the rear-view mirror to see a very small and very upset American girl staring out the window at the Seine as we crossed the bridge. Tears quivered in her eyes, and her face was supported by a fist. “What's the matter, ma bella?” he said. “You look sad!” “No, I'm ok,” I said, forcing a smile. “It's just my third day in France, and already people are taking advantage of me...and things aren't going very well.” “Don't worry, my dear,” he replied, “things will get better. Just forget about those guys back there.” Then his boss called, and they talked loudly and rapidly over the speakers in Portguese/French. I heard him telling his boss about me, hearing “fille americaine” and “20 euro”, etc etc.....again a thought flickered in my mind that his boss might take pity on me and not make me pay the 20 euro. But all I got was a “Is she beautiful?” In French, meaning the boss wanted me to hear....to cheer me up. “Oh yes, she's beautiful!” The driver responded jovially. I laughed, “Merci,” I said. “C'est gentille.” “Don't worry, ma fille,” he said. “Things will look up from here.”
I got out at the Gare d'Austerlitz and paid about 30 euro for a taxi ride that should have costed 14. Armed with two enormous suitcases and a backpack, I made my way to the ticket counter. I struggled to hear the woman who spoke curtly and quickly with me in French, meanwhile showing a new trainee behind the counter how to do everything. She thrusted my ticket at me, and when I asked when the next train to Orleans was, she said with a “duh” attitude, pointing to the large, automated schedule on the wall “11:41am.” “Merci, bonne journee,” I said, walking away. The woman didn't bother to explain to me what the little yellow machines everywhere were for...apparently I had to validate my ticket at one of these, otherwise it wouldn't count for anything on the train....without a date of validation, I would try to use the ticket over and over again. Whoops. Luckily the train conductor was sympathetic....and the French people in my train cabin I had been talking to stuck up for me and explained that I didn't know.
I also didn't know how to find the gate. The automated board didn't say anything about which gate. I gathered up my courage to ask a SNCF worker (which is the train company in France). He was wearing a smart blue suit that fit him awkwardly, and a bright red tie. He looked a little bit like a conductor from Thomas the Tank Engine, or a similar kid's show. He told me that in about 10 minutes the gate would show up on the board. I thanked him and waited, aware of people's stares as they looked up from their fashion magazines. Birds flitted in and out of the rafters above, in the brightly-lit station from the sunlight that spilled in through the glass ceiling.
I had to go a pretty long way to find the train, which was around the corner. Carrying about 110 pounds of luggage divided between two arms, with about 30 pounds on my back, I felt like a pack mule, and was heaving like one as I approached the train. Struggling to hoist my suitcases up the stairs to the train car, people took pity on me and helped me lift them....but not without laughing at me first. I laughed along, and explained that I was away for 7 months to teach English...of course I would have this much stuff. They didn't seem interested in an explanation.
I found a car and the guy helped me get my suitcases up above. He was in his late twenties, with gigantic classes and a definite Jew fro stretching out in every direction. He then started chatting with me, very interested in what I was about to do. Turns out he is from Orleans, and then proceeded to tell me that Orleans is “nul” - stupid, there's nothing there, nothing to do. I said “not every city can be Paris...I enjoy small towns.” “Oh, its not a small town,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “There's just nothing interesting about it.” “Ok, well I'll judge for myself,” I said. I spent the next hour writing in my journal.
About 40 minutes into the ride however, an announcement came over the intercom. All I managed to grasp was that the train wasn't going to Orleans anymore, and we would have to take a tram. The other people in my cabin told me that sometimes the trains just randomly do that...and no one knows why. Maybe it was another strike. Basically, it was going to skip Orleans, and at the first stop, there was a free tram we were supposed to transfer to that would take us there. I had no idea if it was going to be the same train station....where Anna was supposed to meet me. And I had no more credit to tell her if it was going to change...
The guy helped me get my suitcases off the top shelft and out of the train...I lugged them across the “quai” to the tram across the way, and some other people helped me lift it up there. This tram took another 15 minutes to pull into Orleans...thankfully, the same station I would have arrived had, had the train actually gone all the way there. I got off the train painfully, and by this time the muscles in my arms and thighs felt like jello...and I felt like I was dragging blocks for the Pyramids of Egypt.
I made it into the station, and there was a small, thin blond girl waiting for me, smiling big. I gave her a tired and probably smelly hug, and I thankfully accepted when she offered to take one of my suitcases. “Jeez...how did you get all this stuff in these?” Then we took off for the bus.
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