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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