Nights Nineteen through Twenty-Four

Laundry, Life

I went to the laverie last Sunday, did my (very expensive) laundry, and read an article in French Marie Claire that profiled a bunch of different women’s sexual histories. Learned the phrases le pire (the worst), elle a roulé sa bosse (something like “she gets around”) and un fétiche, which should be self explanatory.



I feel like I worked a lot this week. Twelve hours of teaching is way more than twelve hours of work (she realizes, far too late). I believe I have now met all of my students at least once. They range in English ability from abysmal to fluent (I have one student who is a native English speaker and speaks the language better than I do. I am tempted to tell him that the system is failing him and he should demand to be placed in a different class, but I need his help with idioms.)

Abilities and enthusiasm for the language aside, I can honestly say that I have enjoyed every one of my classes. Even the students about whose misbehavior and bad attitudes I am forewarned (I crossed paths with a teacher at one of my schools as I was on my way to my first class with a new group. She looked at my class list and her eyes got all wide and she made the you’re-in-trouble face and kind of shook her head in dismay. And then she said, brightly, “Bon chance! Let me know how it goes!” and took off. Thanks. It went just fine, by the way) are not so bad. At least not so far. Timid, defensive, and reluctant to speak English, yes, but evil and out of control, no.

This week I discovered a lovely, bright, deco-ish café with free wifi, and The Fig and I (oh, quickly: I have a roommate who prefers for her exploits not be – how would you say? – blogged about willy nilly – can I use blogged like flung? Welcome to my linguistically-consumed brain. Anyway, she doesn’t want to show up on the blog. But here is the blog, and here she is in my life, so I must find a way. Coincidentally, one wine-fueled night a couple of weeks ago we assigned each other fruit nicknames. I am the Peach. My roommates are The Fig, The Grapes, and The Pineapple, but I’ll leave it to you to guess whom is whom. So, you can heretofore expect to see my roommates referred to by their fruit names on this blog.) Okay, so the Fig and I have become instant regulars (and complete spectacles. Apparently, no one has ever thought to bring a computer to this café before. The wifi was previously decorative. Why is this whole blog parenthetical tonight?)


Les Fruites

Other happenings this week: I experienced the good French graces of one of my professors, who let me come over to his perfectly arty, funktified, Berkeley-lands-in-Provence house and use his computer, I spent a sleepless night hiding from a GIGANTIC bug that kept dive-bombing my bed, and I made a plan to go to Italy for the first break, now a mere week away. Yay!

Last Sunday we took a little road trip to the Gorges du Verdon. Actually, we didn’t quite make it all the way there, but we had a good time anyway. It’s a story best told in photos, I think:

















Last but not least, a new feature: Idiom of the Week.

This week’s idiom, courtesy of the Colombian: Vete a freir asparagus. Juliana claims that this is a Colombian version of “Go to hell.” Go fry some asparagus? More research is required.

Nights Fourteen Through Seventeen

Gangster vs. Gangsta

This week I started work. I am working at three different high schools here in Manosque: Les Iscles, the posh new “traditional” high school (except su-hu-per mod – photos in a later post, I’m sure, but picture an architectural expression of Matt’s furniture – it’s very lovely, actually), International, the scrappy new international school, and Martin Bret, the technical high school.

Sorting out where I’m supposed to be when has been quite the project. Everyone seems to think that someone else is in charge of my schedule, but I figured out pretty quickly that no one was, so I decided that it would have to be me. So, armed with a vague idea of how many hours I was supposed to give each school, I went about the process of figuring out who needed me when, but went to bed several nights this weeks with no clear idea of where I needed to be the following day. I showed up at one of my schools yesterday thinking that I was going to do two hours of classes, only to be told “Oh no no. Not today. Maybe next week.” Mais, bon.

Scheduling aside, everything has been peachy. I’ve found all my students completely charming in different ways. The kids at International are appropriately worldly and diverse, and very enthusiastic and warm. I’ve only been with one of my classes at Les Iscles thus far, but I found them quite motivated. I spent today with all my boys at Martin Bret. They are all learning to be car mechanics and electricians, and I passed four delightful hours with four different classes chatting about our favorite American movies, cars, Bill Gates, the significance of baggy jeans, and the difference between gangsters and gangstas. At the end of the last class (the most timid of the four) I busted out my broken French and tried to explain that I am learning too, that I understand that it’s intimidating to speak in another language, and that I promise not to judge them. I hope I got through.

I’m definitely in a crash course on being a language teacher. I’m learning to slow myself down and use what one of my profs calls “transparent words” – words that are the same in English and French (like saying choose, which is closer to the French choisir, instead of pick or select).

The International School has decided to take advantage of my actual, y’know, earned skills and put me in their theatre class. Yesterday they did improvs, and I was quite impressed with what they came up with, considering that improv is tricky even in one’s own language. Choice quotes include “Shut up you stupid…drunk…RUSSIAN!” and “Be quiet! I can’t hear my baby!” Also of note was the moment when the teacher put everyone into pairs and told them that they had to be couples – husband and wife, brother and sister, gay couples, whatever. There were some titters, but really not much of a reaction. The same thing happened in another class when the teacher handed out a dialogue and mentioned that some of the boys would have to play girls. One of them raised his hand enthusiastically and said “I want to be a girl! I want to be a girl!” Dorothy, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.

It’s a glorious Friday evening here, and I’m sitting in the sun on the balcony sipping a glass of rosé as I write this. It was a stressful week, but satisfying, and I’m looking forward to weekend of tranquillité (and laundry – are the two mutually exclusive? Stay tuned.)

Bon soirée,

H


Grabbed this shot of students and petanque players in the park by the school as I left work this evening.


This is a few days old, actually, but it looks like how it felt tonight as I was walking home.