le francais - je t'aime

Watching this video took me back to the year of les francais - trains, markets, getting lost (figuratively and literally) and falling in love with France.

Happy Thanksgiving

Note: Parts of this little blurb was written for the Thanksgiving edition of a newsletter we put out each week at the Chateau.

I love Thanksgiving. I love the pandemonium of the kitchen, the smell of turkey in the early hour of the morning, the Macy’s day parade, eating yourself silly, all of it. I even enjoy the chill of a cold Ohio November day because it makes the warmth of the holiday that much more cozy.

As my first Thanksgiving away from my family, and my country, approached, I was worried. The excitement of traveling that weekend was a little dulled with the thought that I wouldn’t be able to live all of my Turkey-day traditions. Would it even feel like Thanksgiving?

But that first Thanksgiving, in Luxembourg, was wonderful. Not only was there turkey and mashed potatoes, but I remember realizing what a wonderful family I had found at the Dolibois Center as we clamored for second helpings of pumpkin pie. Of course I missed my Ohio family, but there was something so wonderful about this new ‘family’ with whom I had missed trains, conquered cities, and discovered Europe.

A few years later I found myself in France, teaching English. Once again, I was outside of the United States on my favorite holiday, and I felt those pangs of homesickness creep in again. I had found such a wonderful family-away-from-family to share in the holiday spirit a few years earlier, there’s no way I would get that lucky again.

Well, it turns out I was wrong, but it took a little adjustment on my part. Thanksgiving à la mode française means a rather interesting conversation with a confused butcher (turkey is a dish usually reserved for Christmas holiday celebrations) and a visit to the exotic fruit section of the grocery store for sweet potatoes (strange, but true). It wasn’t the Thanksgiving celebration of my childhood, but it was wonderful none-the-less. There was mass chaos around the stove as dishes were prepared, there was a familiar November chill in the air, and pick up games of flag football were replaced with frisbee. We had invited all of the international language teachers to our celebration. The table was filled with not only turkey and gravy, but also pain surprise from France, Kartoffel from Germany, and cakes and pies from Australia. In total, there were eleven nationalities represented, each contributing a different culinary dish to the spread. And you know, it still felt like Thanksgiving. While the food and country had changed, the feeling of gratitude and family were far from absent.

The lesson I learned that year was that traditions are valuable and important for our nostalgic memory, but the true meaning of this holiday is sharing in the gratitude of the bounty of the season with others, friends, old and new. 

Looking back hundreds of years ago, to that ‘first’ Thanksgiving, wasn’t this always the true intention of this celebration? Here were people, not too different from us, confronted with a new country, new food, and new customs, taking a moment from their cultural reinvention to just give thanks. To reflect on the past, how far they’d come, and what they had learned.

And in the same spirit of reflection from those early days, there is much to be thankful for. In Europe, an incredible group of students, an unbeatable team of faculty and staff, a beautiful (sometimes freezing) Chateau, and of course, a wonderful semester. And back in the good ol' USA, the best friends and family a girl could ask for.

 The infamous France Thanksgiving (Francegiving), November 2008. 

Photo compliments of former prom king, Jon Boyette.

Life as a Rochelaise means:

 Loosing myself in old books, and old nautical maps...

...discovering washed up jelly fish on the shore...

...listening to the ocean...

...hanging out at the old port...

...photo shoots in St. Nicole quatier...

...spending time with these two love birds...

...mucking for oysters with...

...our new dog friend!

Rummaging through flea markets on Ile de Re (photo courtesy of Lee)...

...and climbing the church tower to check out beautiful St. Martin de Re.

La Rochelle will always be a special place. It was where I learned how to live abroad, alone. It was where I was challenged in so many ways, and discovered so much - not just about Europe, but about myself. The people I met in that little sea-side town truly became my family. And I learned how to become a Rochelaise in those seven months.

This marked one of the last times (at least for a while) that I would be in La Rochelle. Life moves on, people move on, and next year, it will become a place of discovery for a new group of Americans.

On my last morning in town, I ate my croissant and sipped my coffee, looking at the iconic towers in the old port. It might have been the combination of the salty sea air, the familiar taste of the buttery pastry, and the quiet of the early morning, but for a moment, I felt the city stand still. For that one moment, it was mine. My little piece of the world that I had conquered, and loved.

La Rochelle

photo compliments of Lee, circa Fall 2009

This week I'm hanging out in La Rochelle with the beautiful Miss Smith and Lee. Our plans include walking along the beach, mucking for oysters, eating cara'sel ice cream, and cooking. Lots and lots of cooking. It is so good to be back!

euro(road)trip

Grace a carnival, last week I did not work (ah, how I love thee, European celebrations). So what's a girl to do with a few free days? Convince a few lovely La Rochelle folk to hop in a car with her to explore Belgium and the Netherlands, with a few bits of Germany and France for good measure. Oh, and throw in a business professor named Al.

We started in lovely Luxembourg, exploring the old casemates and introducing the La Rochelle gang to la vie Luxembourgeoise.

 

Monday morning, we hit the road, stopping in Aalst, Belgium to participate in some Carnival festivities. Note: in this particular Belgian town, the local men traditionally dress up as women during the celebrations. See above.

Monday night, we found ourselves in Antwerp, sipping beer with an ex-pat named Geoff...

  

...Tuesday was Rotterdam, eating apple pie at a North African restaurant....

...Wednesday and Thursday we discovered Amsterdam, Dutch pancakes, tulip markets and the peril of driving those winding canal roads....

...Friday was Koln (but not before two hours of traffic), and a 533 step hike to the top of the cathedral belfry (it's really not a true European vacation until you climb to the top of a church)...

...and Saturday we ended our little tour in Strasbourg where we attacked a mound of Alsacien Sauerkraut. 

We parted ways in Strasbourg - the Rochlais made their way back to La Rochelle, while the Luxembourg group headed back to Differdange to start a new week of work.  When I pulled into the Chateau parking lot, officially finishing this little roadtrip, I could help but feel like that girl who came to Europe for the first time three and a half years ago, tipsy with the thrill of discovery and adventure.

(author's note: this post was written last Wednesday, but has been unable to be published due to complete lack of internet!)

As I write this, I’m sitting in my friend Laura’s kitchen, making her coffee before she goes to work. I’ve moved my pile of belongings to her loft, officially leaving my little studio on rue de Jean Guiton. Today is the massive cleaning day, and tomorrow I’ll have my rendez-vous with the agency so they can determine how much of my deposit I’ll get back. Here in France, the etat de lieu is very important – before I moved in, my English friend Rose told me horror stories of people who got charged to replace the dry-wall after a 'nic' in the plaster was discovered. All things considered, however, I think I’ll be okay.

And so, as I’m moving out of my apartment, I’m also moving onto the next phase of my life. In the short term, this means three more weeks in Europe. On Saturday I’m leaving to spend two weeks at a Chateau in the Oise department. This is another Wwoofing venture, only instead of a vineyard, I think I’ll be working in a garden and with artists. And finally, I’ll be meeting Katie in Vienna and we’ll be jaunting over to Budapest for the week. She will be studying abroad for the month of June in Vienna and we couldn’t let an opportunity to meet in Europe pass us over – she’s coming a week early, I’m staying a few weeks late, and I think our first sister trip will be absolutly wonderful.

As I prepare to move, travel, return home, I can’t help but reflect on this year – the year of figuring out french life, of learning how to teach, of personal growth, of adventure. These seven months have passed so quickly.

I can say that I dream of the day where one piece of paper will suffice when dealing with administrative tasks, but still – even then- la vie francaise is a beautiful one. Some of my favorite moments have included biking out to the ‘Ile de Re,’ mucking for oysters, and our little gang biking through La Rochelle at all hours of the day. And I love (love!) how the French appreciate the fine details of living. How asking for a restaurant suggestion means a serious, well thought-out response. And this continues into the realm of wines, breads, coffees, even the kind of mustard one should buy at the grocery store.

I’ll be leaving this wonderful, albeit eccentric, life soon. It seems my future holds another year in Europe, but that’s for a different post. For now, let me just say, what a year its been...

It's Over?

April 29th, 2008 - I received the email congratulating me on getting into the assistantship program in the academie of Poitiers.

and now?

April 21, 2009 - I am officially done with my assistant responsibilities. This experience as been incredible, eye-opening and quite the adventure. More reflection will come soon, but for now, this is the schedule of events until I return to the states:

April 25 - April 30: visit Bordeaux and Lyon

May 6: move out of the apartment!

May 9- May 25th: Wwoof at Chateau de Sacy, near Paris

May 25th-June 1st: Budapest with my little sister Katie

June 2nd: Return to Cleveland

Huitres Sauvage

Well, I'm in love. And even more so than before.

This past week has involved more delicious experience with La Rochelle huitres, wonderful oysters from the sea.

I returned from California last Tuesday and by Wednesday I found myself on the beach, in my water-proof wellies, wading into the low tide. Buckets in hand, we went mucking (I'm sure there's a more technical term for that?) for oysters. After seeing people doing this all year long, some of the La Rochelle kids decided to give it a whirl while I was out of town, and then let me tag-along last week. The process is easy: make sure you're wearing appropriate foot-gear, that the tide is low, and that the oyster is still living when you put it in the bucket (read: the shell is completely shut). If they're already dead, you can end up pretty sick.



And afternoon of shucking followed the mucking, the result being some delicious fried oyster sandwiches. Truth be told, I much prefer oysters raw - and I think the majority of the rochelais would agree (to the chagrin of some assistants)- and loved standing ankle deep in the low tide, slurping an oyster straight from the sea.

Today I went to an oyster 'farm' near Ile Oleron with some Swedish students who are in Rochefort on an exchange. While there is a major different between more controlled, 'cultivated' oysters, nothing really beats the thrill of collecting the les huitres sauvage.

"Soupe de Poisson! Legumes frais!"

Without fail, whenever I find myself strolling La Rochelle's porte vieux - parking my bike, grabbing café, meeting friends at the Grosse Horlodge (roughly translated: big clock) - I will hear the strained yelling of petite french propriatess. Daily this woman stands outside her restaurant, rain or shine, snow or sleet, trying to persuade the passerbys that her bistro serves the best fish soup, mussels, etc. Think Edith Piaf in La Vie en Rose, singing with her hands outstretched and her voice soaring... only instead of haunting melodies, think hoarse cries.


I was thinking about this the other day, about how odd this all seemed - I have never thought of the French as the kind of people drawn to self-publicizing. In fact, when it comes to cafés and restaurants, I still feel like I'm trying to crack the 'hours of business' code. How is it that in a city with literally hundreds of tiny cafés, more than half can afford to stay closed for the majority of the week? Or how on Saturday nights the local brasserie will be locked up by 8:30? Or how I keep my fingers crossed that the small marché will still be open at 3:30 on a Thursday afternoon?

For the most part, its a bit laissez-faire; you don't see small business owners sweating over costumers, watching hopefully from the window for prospective patrons to come in for a glass of wine. Its a cultural thing. The United States was intially founded on that idea of the small business owner standing outside, beckoning the persecuted, the weary, etc. But France has no "bring us your tired, your weary"plaque at its front door- instead its "France is wonderful, of course. We don't really need to advertise. Its really no question that you would like to live, visit, or spend money here."

But this woman. At first I would roll my eyes, avoid eye-contact and hope she wouldn't single me out. 5 months later, I still have no intention of eating at her restaurant, but she makes me smile. She has such faith in her little bistro, such determination to win customers that sometimes, it makes me feel like home.

Tasting All the Fruits of the Sea

I think one of my favorite things about living in La Rochelle is the food. Before I returned to France after the Christmas break in Ohio, I read Julia Child’s “My Life in France,” a memoire that chronicles her discovery of France, her discovery of its food, which eventually resulted in her discovery of the love of cooking and an iconic career in the culinary world. Upon my return to La Rochelle, I was ready to dive into the gastronomy of my new residence.

Because La Rochelle is a port-town on the coast of the Atlantic Ocean, fruits de mer (literally translated: fruit of the sea) or seafood reigns as king in the ultimate culinary experience. My first fruit de mer experience was in October after I first arrived and involved the not-so-scary, first-baby-steps dish of moules-frites, or mussels and fries. Usually steamed and small, its easy to avoid dwelling on the slight rubbery texture in order to appreciate their light freshness. Juxtaposed with the crispy fries, its really quite wonderful. The mussels can be prepared in an infinate amount of ways –I’ve counted a total of nine at one small bistro!

For the more adventuresome, La Rochelle boasts to have the best huitres, or oysters, in the world. Now, the verdict is out on how amazing these huitres really are. To be completely honest, I’ve yet to try them (although, hopefully this weekend I’ll remedy that!), but I’ve heard stories that run the full gamat, from horror to elation. My friend Lee had his first (and last) huitres in the Fall. What makes them tricky is that because they are so fresh and naturally delicious, huitres are eaten raw, straigh from the shell, with only a little lemon juice. Lee insists that the little guy winced at the lemon juice. And while he also declared that it tasted like salt-water, I’m convinced that there’s a reason why this city has based a huge portion of their tourist industry on the illustrious ‘huitre.’

The daily market, in addition to its beautiful display of fresh produce and flowers, has stand after stand of fish, oysters, and shrimp. Its actually when I see these stands in particular that I become inspired to learn how to become a culinary master in the French tradition, and who knows, maybe one day I’ll become brave enough to buy a bucket of huitres on my own (although I have heard stories of people nearly slicing off their fingers trying to pry open the shell). For now? I’ve budgeted my modest salary so I can enjoy the cooking skills of the professionals, which has resulted in the latest of my culinary adventures: sting ray! And its delicious ☺

Bikes, articles, what next?

Just a heads up folks: this next post is a standard, run-of-the-mill, "life update" post. A few notable things have happened in my French life since I returned at the beginning of January, so I thought I'd share some of the highlights:

- I got a bike! A bright blue bike that has a few rust spots, but is perfect for riding around town. This not only means I've considerably cut-down my travel time from point "a" to point "b," but I also get the sense that I am a legit French person. The only thing I need, in addition to the bike, is a bright yellow reflector vest. Yes, I know that this seems very unsophisticated, but leave it to the French to have a PSA with Chanel's Karl Lagerfeld modeling the latest in bike safety.



- A few of my articles are getting published in an online magazine called BonjourParis.com. Its an online publication geared towards expatriots living in Paris or for tourists looking to explore some local hotspots. If you'rep lanning a vacation to the city of lights or just interested in the city of Paris, I recommend checking it out! The writing staff (excluding myself) is comprised of people who have made Paris their home and love to share its secrets.
- And finally, I've been spending these past couple of weeks trying to answer the question "What will happen after La Rochelle?" My contract ends at the end of April, my sister comes to Europe at the end of May, and the latest I can return to the US is July. So: do I try and find some work in Europe for a month so I can hang out with the sister or save some money and come home early? If you have any thoughts, I would appreciate any advice given!


à bientot, mes amis

La Greve Nationale

It was the monday before Christmas break, le vacance de noel, and I had taken the train to Rochefort. I usually don’t work on Monday’s, but a little re-shuffling of my emploi de temps was necessary because I was taking a day trip to Versailles on Tuesday.

My college professor, Alain (charmingly French with an eccentric mustache to match his equally eccentric personality), had invited to me to make up my Tuesday afternoon class on Monday afternoon and I had prepared a class on Christmas. Vocabulary notes, flashcards, and a few ‘holly jolly’ Christmas carols in tow, I made my way from the Rochefort train station to the school building, first passing the lycee.

And that’s when I saw the spray painted sheets. And then the yellow construction tape. And then the mob of students in the midst of which was a petite, confused looking french teacher. Apparently, she hadn’t gotten the message that the students had decided to go on strike. And it turns out I hadn’t either.

They had barricaded the doors with those wooden platforms that you find at loading dock warehouses, defiantly not going to class, playing their guitars and, of course, smoking. Now, in a way, this didn’t surprise me. Rewind only two weeks earlier and you’d find me and Mary, making our way to the train station in La Rochelle only to be overcome by a mob of teenagers, storming the streets, flooding the train platforms with pamphlets and literature. Their fliers said something about ‘educational reforms’ so I guess I should have realized it was only a matter of time before little Rochefort got caught up in the momentum.

To be completely honest, I didn’t really care – I was intrigued, but not invested. Until the repas de noel, the Christmas-dinner lunch, was canceled. And then I was annoyed. My first (and who knows? Possibly only) French Christmas meal had been scraped because my students refused to go to class. So I started asking questions.

First: Why? The French Ministry of Education had made a few reforms that the students didn’t agree with. They were removing teaching positions, and suggested changing some of the requirements for the students. Although, I recently found out that they weren’t actually implemented, just recommended, but still. It doesn’t hurt to let ‘the man’ know you don’t like where he’s going with those crazy ideas.

Second: How? How in the world did all of these students mobilized with such efficiency and organization? This wasn’t just a Rochefort/La Rochelle situation, but a national greve; all the lycee students, in all of France were up in arms. And then I found out that the students are in a union. Talk about something that could never translate into American culture.

And finally: “Do you feel like you made a difference?” My older students, the Senior-year equivalents, said ‘yes!’ They were the most involved, some traveling to neighboring towns to rally the students. And then there was my sweet student, in the younger lycee class, who looked at me, rolled her eyes and said with a little sigh ‘no.’

I spent a lot of time thinking about this. A little confused and a little piqued, I thought “who do they think they are?” But talking to them, my opinion has changed to some extent. I’m realizing that in this country, if you are upset, you let people know. You take action – just look at the frequency at which they strike, or protest - and you don’t remain complacent. And while this has also resulted in a healthy fear of middle-aged french ladies (they also refuse to be complacent when they're upset…) it has also stirred up some admiration. But maybe only until those trains stop running. Again.

Life of the Rochelais

It has been a long time since I’ve posted tid-bits from my french adventures, but this is because I moved! To the city! And am now the proud renter of her first apartment (wonderful, albeit, sans internet)

I first and formost want to clarify that ‘the city’ is not, in fact, Paris. I moved to the biggest city closest to Rochefort, a port city named La Rochelle. On the coast of the Atlantic ocean, it is a section of France that has been in the center of some major historical things involving Huguenots and les quebecois. In fact, the ‘tagline’ for the town is “La belle et la rebelle” or the beautiful and the rebellious.

Since it has been far too long since I last updated, let me do my best to give you the sparknotes version of the past six weeks of my life:

1. French Thanksgiving was a success! Sweet pototatoes could not be found initially, but when I was informed that they are considered an ‘exotic fruit’ (silly me! I was looking in the vegetable section!) all problems were solved, the crisis averted, and a wonderful feast was had by all. In total, eleven nationalities were represented, and for many of the non-Americans, this was a new experience. And true to tradition, there was chaos in the kitchen and too much food.lovely ladies at Thanksgiving

2. Immediately following the thanksgiving festivities, two wonderful things happened – I moved (as previously mentioned) and my dear friend Mary came to visit. And thank goodness. To make a long story short, we ended up camping-out in my empty apartment on the ice-cold parkay floor. No amount of layered jackets, scarves, hats, sweatshirts and blankets could keep us warm. After a cold, sleepless night, we promptly decided to spend the night on a friend’s spare couch the next night. Don’t worry, I have a bed (read: cot) and have figured out how all my appliances work. And I am indebted to dear sweet Mary for keeping my spirits high in the midst of absolute mayhem.

Chez Moi

3. The Christmas season in La Rochelle was lovely: lights decorated the streets, each neighborhood with a different decorative theme. We ice-skated in Rochefort, drank Christmas ale, and dominated 'noel quiz night' at the local Irish pub.

4. My students went on strike. Yes, my students. Because they’re in a union. The students. I explained to them today that things like that could never exsist in les etats unis, and they were shocked. I am learning so much.

5. I spent Christmas at home with my wonderful family, and the new year in Barcelona with incredible friends.

And now I am back in La Rochelle, with a resolution to perfect my french, learn how to cook the local cuisine and of course, keep this blog updated more regularly.

Je vous souhaite une bonne annee!

Culinary update: I tried ostrich today, once again compliments of the lycee cafeteria. Incroyable.

There may not be Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, but...

Oh the beauty of the human spirit, the universal language of kindness. As I write this, I am fully aware of the cliché of my statement – but I mean it. Every single cheesy syllable.

The moment I arrived in La Rochelle, two months ago tomorrow, I have been so moved by the acts of kindness bestowed upon me by men and women who were so willing to help this foreigner find her way and feel at home:

*Isabelle, my liason with the lycee and colleges, picking me up the afternoon I landed in France, giving me a spare bed for my new apartment, helping me sort through what has seemed like a mountain of paperwork.

*Isabelle N., an English teacher at the college, who has given me an assortment of knick-knacks, mugs, dishes, silverware, and bath-mats for my studio. And every time I enter her room, she greets me with a wonderfully big smile that makes me feel like I’ve always belonged here.

*Renee, a French woman who sings in the La Rochelle Community choir, found out that I was a new resident of France, and within five minutes of meeting, had thrust her address and phone number in my hand. We carpool to choir, and we’re going to start meeting for french conversation ‘practice’ in the afternoons.

*That guy in the train station who let me sneak into the bathroom without paying (yes, that’s how it works here…) on my first day, as I was ‘juggling’ two fifty-pound suitcases.

*People who patiently listen to my simple sentences, smile encouragingly and say ‘for an american, you speak good french!’

As Thanksgiving week approaches in the United States, I can’t help but think about these wonderful blessings that I’ve found in my new home: from my english teachers to the incredible community of assistants in the Charante-Maritime region, I have a lot to be thankful for.

Loved ones in the U.S. - thank you for being a phenomenal support system. While I am enjoying this new adventure, I'm so lucky to have a wonderful group of people to return to at the end of the journey.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone ☺

Its not exactly the orient express....

Trains: the chosen iconic form of European transportation. It seems that when Americans find themselves at a standard gare, finding the correct train, then the correct car and finally the correct seat can be a daunting task – we don’t know trains. And while we’ve made airline travel a sort of science (no liquids over 10 oz, remove laptops from carry-ons before putting them through security), you’ll get funny looks if you arrive at the train station two hours before your departure.

This being said, there are a few things to remember while jetting from destination to destination via rail in France:

1. The trains and train stations are strictly non-fumeur. And in France, this is an issue. Without fail, when the train pulls into the station, people bound out, unlit cigarette in mouth with a look in their eye that says “if I have to stay one more second on this train without nicotine….” It goes without saying that you move out of their way or are subjected to series of sighs, grumbles, and the oh-so-french “pphft!”
2. There are no elevators or escalators in train stations, just stairs. Lots and lots of stairs. Normally, this isn’t a concern, but if you are thinking of traveling for a long period of time (or coming to visit!), pack light! My first moments in France consisted of me lugging two 50 lb bags up and down what seemed like hundreds of stairs. And in that situation, there weren’t just stairs, but a multitude of …stares.
3. They are very open about when they will be using the railways in national protests. In fact, about two weeks before the big event, there will be signs at each gare politely notifying the passengers about the nationale greve. A sort of “If you please, we will be causing some discomfort in your train traveling next weekend – please understand. Thank you.” To be fair, this means that you don’t have the freedom to roll your eyes when you arrive at the train station only to realize your 2:20 train no longer exists. They did warn you. And as I write this, I see that there will be another nationale greve on November 29. Lovely.

Coriscan train in Calvi

Now this is for mainland France only. Once you get to Corsica, all bets are off. In fact, I think they’re still using the same freight-cars that graced the island fifty years ago. Two rickety cars coast through the valleys and mountains of the Corsican interior, and when the occasion arises to ascend a particularly steep slope, the conductor revs the engine, eliciting a grinding noise as the car begins to shake and climb. But this is what makes it so charmingly Corsican! When I found out that they’re getting new railways next year, a wave of Corsican nationalism over took me and I was ready to protest the government for meddling in the island’s affairs. But really, they are in dire need of an overhaul. And if worst comes to worst, in true french style, we can always shut down the system for a few days. You know, just for a little protest.

a very French November 4th

It’s a strange feeling to be so far away from your country, yet to feel so intimately in-tune with its pulse of activity. This is what it is like to be an expatriot in France on Election day. Students, raising their hands tentatively, with thick french accents, asked me on my first days of teaching “Ooobaama ou Mac-Cain?” It seemed that even the 14-year-olds had an inquiring interest in the United States Election. I found that as I traveled, when people asked where I was from and I slowly answered “Les Etats-Unis,” instead of being shrugged off as just another American, they would ask, with a twinkle in their eye, which candidate I preferred, as if I was about to share with them one of my deepest secrets.

To add another layer to this discussion, I was in the minority in terms of candidate preference in both discussions with my french colleagues and students. It was exciting to have an eager audience listen to my impassioned beliefs, explain and discuss where my positions came from and to hear about American politics from a European perspective.

In my Terminale-Euro class (a sort of A.P. class), one student explained that she thought Obama would bring more change. Seven days later, an old Corsican man told me, on election day, that in ten years Obama would be good, but for now it would best to have an older McCain as president-elect.

I was in Corsica on election day and walking down the streets, each tabac (a french drug-store) had newspaper after newspaper with pictures of Barack Obama and John McCain on the front page and even thousands of miles away, in a foreign land, I could feel the significance of this election.

I woke up on the floor of the ferry back to mainland France at six o’clock in the morning on November 5, grabbed my purse and ran up the winding staircase to the main deck. (let me paint you a visual: my contacts were blurred, I was disheveled from sleeping on the floor all night, and I couldn’t get a good footing because the boat was rocking – I’m sure I looked like some crazed lunatic) There, next to the breakfast buffet line was a large screen TV, the sound muted, people in sleeping bags propped up on their elbows on the floor, while unkempt backpacker had his ear pressed against the speaker trying to hear, what I correctly assumed was Obama’s victory speech.

They say that sometimes to appreciate home, its necessary to leave for a little bit. I can tell you right now that I admired my home country this week – was proud to be an American. This pride does not stem from the results of the election (to be completely honest, I cried on that ferry) but moreso because I was a citizen of a country that showed such passion for our political process that the world couldn’t help but notice.

Moien!

we dress in black so we can look more european...

Marc and I at the dinner

This past weekend, I returned to Luxembourg after a two year hiatus and it was as wonderful as I imagined! The purpose of my visit was to attend a dinner celebrating the 40th anniversary of the Miami University Diliobois European Center (MUDEC) in Luxembourg. To my delight, I was reunited with classmates, professors, and friends while also having the opportunity to meet new facinating people.Reunited! Miss Em Strez and I in the city

Unlike Paris, Luxembourg city is one that few make their destination, not because it is dull but because it is a smaller city in an even smaller country and sometimes gets overlooked. On the contrary, it is an ecclectic city, the museum of modern art only a few blocks from the 10th century casements. When I was a student at MUDEC one of my favorite afternoon activities was to take the train into the city, walk from the gare to the city center by way of the intertwining squares, or places, drinking coffee, reaching ZARA, an idyllic european boutique, to try on dresses that I was never going to buy.

Walking through the city was a dose of familiarity in a month full of change. It was nice to walk my old familiar path, wonderful to see that ZARA hadn’t moved, and in the spirit of reliving tradition, of course I had to try on a few dresses.a tasty legume in the market - does anyone know what this is called?

Never a concern at the Bay High cafeteria...

My life is finding its routine here in Rochefort. Now that I’ve begun to teach, there is a regular schedule of class preperation, mental preperation, teaching, repeat. I have a healthy fear of my students – french teenagers seem to radiate the essence of ‘french chic,’ dressed in blacks and greys, skinny jeans, peppered with various facial piercings and of course, cigarette in hand. My english friend Rose has already commented on how I’m overly enthusiastic about everything – how very ‘american’ – and I’m sure that, for better or worse, my french pupils have picked up on this as well. But, if it keeps them intrigued, lovely. I wasn’t prepared to care so much about what my students thought of me, and I wonder if this is a normal reaction for new teachers.

I have also been able to pick up on the natural trends of the cafeteria, and can more or less stragetically plan when I want to chance it and eat my lunch at the school. It turns out, Wednesdays are a bit precarious. In the french school system, there are no classes on Wednesday afternoons. While this means that sometimes there will also be classes on Saturday mornings, this is not the case at the lycee Merleau Ponty. Around lunch time on Wednesdays, the place clears out, it is usual the language assistants and one or two more teachers in the cafeteria. The past Wednesday, as usual, Claire and I made our way to the cafeteria, which was more or less deserted. I grabed the various dishes off the rack, and when it came time choose the entrée, I grabbed a plate with mashed potatoes and meat under a creamy red sauce – I’m not a picky eater and I don’t mind a culinary adventure, so this didn’t worry me. We sit, I grab my utensils, poised to cut into this ambigious meal when Claire looks at me and says “oh? You decided to get the tongue?” I freeze. I look down, and no longer am I looking at shapeless meat, but two tongues, porous and thin, just like my own wagging themselves at me. Let the record show that I tried it, but never again. That memory of those tongues, sitting there, is burned into my brain and it still makes my stomach queasy. Jean-Luc, the P.E. teacher told me that he has a similar memory only it was a long time ago when he was a little boy in the school cafeteria. They slapped down a tray of eight or nine tongues, wiggling at petit Jean-Luc, creating the same impression that they did for me. In fact, it seems most teachers have some horror story concerning cow tongue. Turns out, my other option that day was liver, so I’m not sure that I even got the worse entrée…

p.s. I voted today ☺



Photo: taking a break from writing at the Corderie Royale!

here, let me give you a visual!

its autumn!

A french family, walking through Place Colbert - the center square in Rochefort

Ma rose anglais and the palm trees?

Place Colbert

Enjoying the sunshine

Claire!

Pays Rochefortais

Well, I’ve been in France for a little over a week, getting used to life in ‘pays rochefortais.’

On Thursday, we (claire, rose, julia and I) left Rochefort at 7am to drive to the town of Poitier for a sort of orientation for the assistantship program. As it turns out, we are a melange of Americans, welsh, Scots, Indians, Canadians, Mexicans (and the list goes on) all trying to get our bearings in this new country. For the most part, a few generalizations can be made: if you’re american, you’re in your early/mid-twenties, a college graduate, and generally looking for another adventure or clue-less on what to do with you life! If you’re from the United Kingdom, you’re nineteen/twenty, in your third year of university studying french and required to spend a year in France. Because its obligatory, some are pretty salty that they have to be here.

By the end of the orientation, it was safe to say that all of us were a bit confused. Throughout the day, we went from room to room where the French health care system, insurance responsibilities, and welfare system were explained patiently in french, and then papers were presented that had to be filled out and signed – some of us joked that we had just unknowingly signed up for the gendarme!

I learned more about the french that night when rose and I decided to spend the evening in the city. Our night ended at a Canadian bar, at a table with five french guys, switching from french to English in an attempt to get over that oh-so present language barrier. This is when I got my first lesson in real french conversation:

(French man): “Why did you come to France?”
(Me): “Why not? I love France”
“No, why”
“…I just told you: I love france”
“No, I need concrete examples. Why.”
“........because……”
“no, why.”

One word answers do. not. exist.

The next day, I decided to continue with the paper work and open a french bank account, something that is necessary in order to receive my salary from the French government – everything is direct deposit, or direct withdrawal. In fact, your bank gives you six to twelve cards with your bank number on them to have readily available when you’re signing up for a phone plan, renting an apartment, or doing anything that involves billing.
Once again, I think I’ve signed up for things that I probably don’t need – I’m not good with things in the financial realm in English, let alone french, but I’m hoping that it will all work out. That is something that is very much to be determined….this is when we say ‘bonne courage’ in France.

Tomorrow begins my first day as Mlle Kelley – English teacher extraordinaire. Stay tuned for some interesting (I’m sure) stories on french teenagers! Also, if anyone has any tips on teaching in general, I think I could use all the help I can get :)