We all know the French stereotype who rushes up, beret on head, baguette in hand, to plant a dramatic kiss on each cheek as a greeting. Mwah darling, mwah, mwah, mwah. But surely they don't really do that in France?! Surely that's as real as strings of garlic around necks and zee comedie accent? Except zee comedie accent does exist, and so do the kisses, or the 'bises' (pronounced 'bees' as in 'the bees' knees') as the French like to call them. To us English, with our strict unspoken rules of personal space, stiff upper-lip maintenance and hygiene, this habit of kissing one and all is somewhat alarming. Fantastic if it's a particularly attractive friend, but generally really rather awkward.
So far I've had several highly embarrassing moments with the bises, and I'm sure there will be more to come. As you can no doubt imagine, problems include:
- Who do you kiss?
- How many kisses?
- Which side do you go for?
- What if you're faced with someone's partner?
- What if the other person smells funny?
- What if you're about to sneeze?
- What if you've got a gobful of chocolate eclair?
And so the list continues.
Perhaps fortunately, Frenchies are generally a lot more spontaneous, so there's rarely time for more than one of these worries before someone's lunging towards you, lips a-pouting, moustache a-quivering. If only I were equally spontaneous and could just embrace the intimacy and plant a smacker on a stranger's cheek. Unfortunately, years of training in British neutrality have resulted in the instinctive reaction of revulsion. My whole body leans backwards, my hands come out to push the other person away, and my face apparently resembles someone who just saw a naked Gordon Brown dancing The Birdie Song, nipple tassels a-twirling. For some reason, this tends to offend the prospective 'biseur' and has probably ruined many a potential friendship.
Other times, I don't realise what is going on and conduct a merry dance around a room, with a Frenchie lunging towards me, and me nervously edging backwards, until finally, cornered against a wall, I have to give in. It's not that I don't want to do it - I think it's much nicer than a distant handshake. It's just not a built-in instinct. It would be fine with friends, but with colleagues and strangers it really goes against some deep-grained instinct.
The worst times are when I should be taking the initiative, but bumble along in my own little fuzz of ignorance and slight offense that everyone else is ignoring me. Once, on a climbing trip, we stopped at a car park to organise lift-sharing. The woman who was taking me got out of the car, enthusiastically greeted everyone and started kissing them all. It was all lovely: hugs, embraces, laughter. I stood there like a lemon waiting for her to introduce me to all her friends. We all got back in our cars. I tried not to be offended that I hadn't been introduced, reassuring myself that I'd never have remembered all their names anyway.
"I can't believe you didn't do the bise with them" said the woman.
"Oh...well, I don't know any of them. In England the person who knows both parties usually introduces them to each other," I said, half expecting an apology.
"Oh, I've never met them in my life!" she said. "That's how you introduce yourself".
"By kissing as if you're long-lost friends?"
"Of course!".
Of course.
The conversation continued and she very helpfully explained the importance of doing the bise at the right time.
"But what if you're leaving a party and there are 50 people to say goodbye to?" I asked, thinking I'd finally found a reasonable occasion to duck out of the lip action.
"Then you kiss every person goodbye, or you publicly announce why you're not going to," she said.
"But doesn't that take forever?"
"Well, I suppose it does, but it's normal for us."
The woman was very friendly and had spent time in the UK, where she had suffered the opposite problem of offending female friends upon kissing their boyfriends, and was frequently seen as an overaffectionate lesbian. She ended with a description of her American friend who had come to France a few years ago:
"She met my French friend for the first time, and the French friend went in to kiss her. My American friend stopped her at the last minute and said she wouldn't do the bises because she had an awful cold and didn't want to give it to the French lady."
"Well, that's fair enough," I said, busily concocting plans to 'have a cold' whenever meeting new people. "So what happened?"
"The French lady never spoke to the American woman again."
"Oh."
Bloody bises.
Monday, 22 December 2008
Wanks on Planks
For a long time I have been more than mildly confuzzled by the strange habit of some: to strap themselves to wooden planks and slide down a mountain. You know, those funny little things that tend to throw avalanches, storms and rockfall in our general direction...
However, despite my initial dubiositiness (which was probably similar to yours upon reading that word), I have indulged in this form of madness in the past with varying degrees of terror and adrenalin-filled bemusement. Last year's efforts proved particularly disastrous, with my movements frequently resembling Bambi on speed. Why people can't stick to normal sports like ice-climbing is beyond me.
Nevertheless, it's a good giggle, so this year is going to be my year of improvement. I had intended to await the New Year with free lessons from the alpine club, but when Beth's teacher offered us her parents' chalet for the weekend, we thought it would be rude to decline. All in all, it was quite a success with no deaths or fatal injuries. I only fell over 3 times the first day, each time when I was standing completely still and having a natter. The second day was a tad on the blowy side and I remembered mountains are scary places, so slowed my speed down to perhaps 1km/day. Hardcore.
Next plan: to try cross-country skiing on a proper circuit (rather than at the snowboarding championships in Grenoble). It sounds much less scary, but a little too much like hard work...On verra.
However, despite my initial dubiositiness (which was probably similar to yours upon reading that word), I have indulged in this form of madness in the past with varying degrees of terror and adrenalin-filled bemusement. Last year's efforts proved particularly disastrous, with my movements frequently resembling Bambi on speed. Why people can't stick to normal sports like ice-climbing is beyond me.
Nevertheless, it's a good giggle, so this year is going to be my year of improvement. I had intended to await the New Year with free lessons from the alpine club, but when Beth's teacher offered us her parents' chalet for the weekend, we thought it would be rude to decline. All in all, it was quite a success with no deaths or fatal injuries. I only fell over 3 times the first day, each time when I was standing completely still and having a natter. The second day was a tad on the blowy side and I remembered mountains are scary places, so slowed my speed down to perhaps 1km/day. Hardcore.
Next plan: to try cross-country skiing on a proper circuit (rather than at the snowboarding championships in Grenoble). It sounds much less scary, but a little too much like hard work...On verra.
Thursday, 18 December 2008
Lessons in anglais
One of the great benefits of the assistantship is meeting fellow francophiles from around the world who have chosen to inflict their mother tongue on French children. This has led to some curious cultural comparisons and diverse discoveries...
Lessons learnt
- In Trinidad, it is too hot to ever need to use a duvet, hence confusion all round when our friend from said country was faced with fitting a duvet cover for the first time.
This lead to the dicovery of...
- Words and phrases that don't exist in America:
Duvet day - this is a matter of quite some urgency and must be rectified as soon as possible. Duvet day missionaries shall be sent to spread the word about these most necessary of days.
Grotty
Dalek - although this shouldn't really exist in English either. (Interpret that as you will...)
Full stop - I still don't think our American friend believes that we actually use this apparently hilarious phrase.
- Fun new words learnt in French:
Cocooner - to stay in at home. Awwww.
Baguette magique - magic wand! Guaranteed to conjure amusing images of a wrinkled little wizard brandishing his stick of bread.
Aller dans le sens des aiguilles d'un montre - clockwise. Talk about the long way round!
- We had a clearout of the house fridge last week. With a regular turnover of occupants, there's quite a high rate of abandoned nosh. Nobody knows its owner has long since departed, merrily oblivious to the mould and stench left behind. As we were retrieving various entrails, strings of brown slime and furry fruit, our Dutch housemate commented that the English have an astonishing variety of words for 'disgusting'. I recoiled a moment, unsure whether to take this as an insult to our people or a compliment to our literary range. The temptation proved too much and we discovered the following lists to the envy of Eskimos and their many words for snow:
Disgusting
Minging
Foul
Rank
Mank
Awful
Grotesque
Dire
Good
Excellent
Brilliant
Super
Fantastic
Wonderful
Spigging
Awesome
Wicked
Good
Cracking
Phat
It's raining
Spitting
Drizzling
Pouring
Chucking it down
Pissing it down
Raining cats and dogs
Damp
Disclaimer: Some of these phrases are not 'phat'. Some are actually quite foul. But it was pissing it down and we were bored, so voila: nos efforts.
Lessons learnt
- In Trinidad, it is too hot to ever need to use a duvet, hence confusion all round when our friend from said country was faced with fitting a duvet cover for the first time.
This lead to the dicovery of...
- Words and phrases that don't exist in America:
Duvet day - this is a matter of quite some urgency and must be rectified as soon as possible. Duvet day missionaries shall be sent to spread the word about these most necessary of days.
Grotty
Dalek - although this shouldn't really exist in English either. (Interpret that as you will...)
Full stop - I still don't think our American friend believes that we actually use this apparently hilarious phrase.
- Fun new words learnt in French:
Cocooner - to stay in at home. Awwww.
Baguette magique - magic wand! Guaranteed to conjure amusing images of a wrinkled little wizard brandishing his stick of bread.
Aller dans le sens des aiguilles d'un montre - clockwise. Talk about the long way round!
- We had a clearout of the house fridge last week. With a regular turnover of occupants, there's quite a high rate of abandoned nosh. Nobody knows its owner has long since departed, merrily oblivious to the mould and stench left behind. As we were retrieving various entrails, strings of brown slime and furry fruit, our Dutch housemate commented that the English have an astonishing variety of words for 'disgusting'. I recoiled a moment, unsure whether to take this as an insult to our people or a compliment to our literary range. The temptation proved too much and we discovered the following lists to the envy of Eskimos and their many words for snow:
Disgusting
Minging
Foul
Rank
Mank
Awful
Grotesque
Dire
Good
Excellent
Brilliant
Super
Fantastic
Wonderful
Spigging
Awesome
Wicked
Good
Cracking
Phat
It's raining
Spitting
Drizzling
Pouring
Chucking it down
Pissing it down
Raining cats and dogs
Damp
Disclaimer: Some of these phrases are not 'phat'. Some are actually quite foul. But it was pissing it down and we were bored, so voila: nos efforts.
Friday, 12 December 2008
Beaurocratic Bumblings
To receive my housing benefit, I need a social security number, or so the increasingly arsey letters keep telling me. I quite like free money, so decide to make the trek in the pouring rain to the social security office.
The woman at the desk seems friendly and is having an animated conversation with another woman. I wait my turn then turn on my beaming 'anglaise un peu perdue' smile and explain my problem. The woman is distinctly unimpressed. "Are you sure you 'ave got zee right place?" She stares at my soggy jeans and dripping Gore-tex. I stand my ground, determined to stay in the dry.
She grunts and points at a complicated looking machine. "You'll 'av to zee a conseilleur".
"Er...how does it work?" I ask, meaning the whole system of meeting someone. Surely 'conseilleur' isn't the word for the machine? Is it really that simple to get a social security number? I start wondering who I could get one for...if only Bas and Pom were still with me...
"Ze green button," she snarls, somehow managing to combine two doses of withering pity with a shot of disdain.
Well, it can't be that bad. Everyone knows it's the red buttons you have to watch out for.
I hit it.
A little slip of paper shoots out: You are number 166. There are 5 people in the queue.
Only in France do they have to turn the most elegant of British institutions into a butchery of Argos-style individualism. I fume in a corner, my indignation and sanity slowly being eroded away by Kate Bush's persistent warblings of Wuthering Heights on repeat.
Eventually, I'm summoned into a room.
The next 10 minutes are without doubt the most confusing 10 minutes of my time in France, if not my time on Earth.
Once I've asked the woman to slow down, repeat herself, slow down again, and eventually write some of what she's saying down, the conversation goes something like this:
Incredibly irritating old bat: What is your number?
Me: Well, see, that's the problem. I don't have one yet.
IIOB: I need zee number!!
Me: Well, yes, so do I!
IIOB: You cannot see me without a number.
Me: *many English profanities under my breath*...I need a number. Please.
IIOB: Are you or are you not number 166?
Me: Oh. Yes.
[She takes my number and promptly throws it into the bin. I'm sure the one person after me in the queue was incredibly grateful that she checked in case I'd cheated the system.]
IIOB: Alors, what eez ze problem?
Me: I don't have a social security number and I need one for my hou-
IIOB: Well I can't give you one.
Me: Where do I have to go to get one?
IIOB: Here.
Me: Er...well, here I am. How do I get one?
IIOB: You need to talk to a conseilleur.
Me: I thought that's what I was doing now.
IIOB: [Sigh]. Do you have a payslip?
Me: No, I can't get a payslip until I've got a number.
IIOB: Well, you can't have a number until we've got a copy of your payslip.
Take the last three sentences, add a background beat of decreasingly polite noises to indicate irritation, throw in a constant crescendo, a modulation on each repeat to a slightly higher key, and an increase in tempo. Repeat until exhausted.
Voila: la beaurocracie francaise.
The woman at the desk seems friendly and is having an animated conversation with another woman. I wait my turn then turn on my beaming 'anglaise un peu perdue' smile and explain my problem. The woman is distinctly unimpressed. "Are you sure you 'ave got zee right place?" She stares at my soggy jeans and dripping Gore-tex. I stand my ground, determined to stay in the dry.
She grunts and points at a complicated looking machine. "You'll 'av to zee a conseilleur".
"Er...how does it work?" I ask, meaning the whole system of meeting someone. Surely 'conseilleur' isn't the word for the machine? Is it really that simple to get a social security number? I start wondering who I could get one for...if only Bas and Pom were still with me...
"Ze green button," she snarls, somehow managing to combine two doses of withering pity with a shot of disdain.
Well, it can't be that bad. Everyone knows it's the red buttons you have to watch out for.
I hit it.
A little slip of paper shoots out: You are number 166. There are 5 people in the queue.
Only in France do they have to turn the most elegant of British institutions into a butchery of Argos-style individualism. I fume in a corner, my indignation and sanity slowly being eroded away by Kate Bush's persistent warblings of Wuthering Heights on repeat.
Eventually, I'm summoned into a room.
The next 10 minutes are without doubt the most confusing 10 minutes of my time in France, if not my time on Earth.
Once I've asked the woman to slow down, repeat herself, slow down again, and eventually write some of what she's saying down, the conversation goes something like this:
Incredibly irritating old bat: What is your number?
Me: Well, see, that's the problem. I don't have one yet.
IIOB: I need zee number!!
Me: Well, yes, so do I!
IIOB: You cannot see me without a number.
Me: *many English profanities under my breath*...I need a number. Please.
IIOB: Are you or are you not number 166?
Me: Oh. Yes.
[She takes my number and promptly throws it into the bin. I'm sure the one person after me in the queue was incredibly grateful that she checked in case I'd cheated the system.]
IIOB: Alors, what eez ze problem?
Me: I don't have a social security number and I need one for my hou-
IIOB: Well I can't give you one.
Me: Where do I have to go to get one?
IIOB: Here.
Me: Er...well, here I am. How do I get one?
IIOB: You need to talk to a conseilleur.
Me: I thought that's what I was doing now.
IIOB: [Sigh]. Do you have a payslip?
Me: No, I can't get a payslip until I've got a number.
IIOB: Well, you can't have a number until we've got a copy of your payslip.
Take the last three sentences, add a background beat of decreasingly polite noises to indicate irritation, throw in a constant crescendo, a modulation on each repeat to a slightly higher key, and an increase in tempo. Repeat until exhausted.
Voila: la beaurocracie francaise.
Vive les pompiers!
The other week, there I was sat at my desk trying to phone those who so lovingly brought me into this world. The usual battle was underway; a tangle of headphone wires resembling my après-tornado hair (a look I frequently sport) and the internet phoneline fireworks had just launched an unnecessarily aggressive offensive against my patience. A particularly persistent Catherine wheel crackle had just interrupted my flowing description of a 6c I'd been working on.
Oooh...Aaaah.
Mother dear: Why are you cooing?
Me: Oh, was I? sorry, it's just the pretty blue lights flashing outside.
Hang on - blue lights flashing outside?
Me: Er...I'll be right back...
A quick goggle outside revealed most of the French fire brigade rushing around outside my house, with a few police cars thrown in for good measure. I ran to get Beth.
"Do you think the house is on fire?"
"Ooh, er, maybe we should go and see."
"Well, they'd probably have told us if it was. I don't want to interrupt them if they're doing something important. [Pause] Especially not in French..."
An excited flap with our French housemate later and we were outside, apparently in the middle of some Buffy-style apocalypse. Fire engines lined the roads, smoke billowed from the lane beside out house, water was pouring down the street, and teams of men in full breathing equipment were dashing around heroically. A van of men with clipboards was parked outside my bedroom window, with two official-looking chaps hurriedly erecting a 10 foot pole on the top.
It was all a bit E.T.
Further investigation revealed that it was in fact all an elaborate training exercise, completely with smoke machines, pretend victims and closed roads. A fanastic show nonetheless, with front-row seats on my balcony, despite the giant pole wobbling past my window in search of signals from space, or some such endeavour.
As I was wallowing in the glorious drama of it all, my computer bleeped at me.
"Darling, are you alright? Is your house on fire?"
Back to normality...
Oooh...Aaaah.
Mother dear: Why are you cooing?
Me: Oh, was I? sorry, it's just the pretty blue lights flashing outside.
Hang on - blue lights flashing outside?
Me: Er...I'll be right back...
A quick goggle outside revealed most of the French fire brigade rushing around outside my house, with a few police cars thrown in for good measure. I ran to get Beth.
"Do you think the house is on fire?"
"Ooh, er, maybe we should go and see."
"Well, they'd probably have told us if it was. I don't want to interrupt them if they're doing something important. [Pause] Especially not in French..."
An excited flap with our French housemate later and we were outside, apparently in the middle of some Buffy-style apocalypse. Fire engines lined the roads, smoke billowed from the lane beside out house, water was pouring down the street, and teams of men in full breathing equipment were dashing around heroically. A van of men with clipboards was parked outside my bedroom window, with two official-looking chaps hurriedly erecting a 10 foot pole on the top.
It was all a bit E.T.
Further investigation revealed that it was in fact all an elaborate training exercise, completely with smoke machines, pretend victims and closed roads. A fanastic show nonetheless, with front-row seats on my balcony, despite the giant pole wobbling past my window in search of signals from space, or some such endeavour.
As I was wallowing in the glorious drama of it all, my computer bleeped at me.
"Darling, are you alright? Is your house on fire?"
Back to normality...
Wednesday, 10 December 2008
Choc, horreur...!
Twice or thrice a week, I do something that seems to cause a mild epileptic fit in everyone who witnesses it. People gesticulate, twitch and shout at me, eyes a-boggling, hands a-flapping. Admittedly, this is far from a rare occurence with me in England, but there's a subtle difference: back home it's usually people inside the car.
Yes, my shocking action is to drive...with...wait for it...the steering wheel on THE WRONG SIDE!!
The scandal.
I have actually been stopped by people kindly informing me that my steering wheel is on the wrong side. Oh gosh! How on earth did that happen?! Thank goodness someone pointed that out before I felt too normal here.
It's not without its benefits, though. Sometimes I feel I've achieved celebrity status. On a mountainbiking jaunt in the hills a couple of weeks ago, a group of road workers cheered and waved as I went past on the way, on my way home, on my scenic, if slightly unintentional detour back up the hill, and again as I finally headed home. There's nothing like it for that warm, fuzzy feeling of familiarity, combined with slight embarrassment.
Lessons learnt
Not many Brits make it down this far in the car.
Yes, my shocking action is to drive...with...wait for it...the steering wheel on THE WRONG SIDE!!
The scandal.
I have actually been stopped by people kindly informing me that my steering wheel is on the wrong side. Oh gosh! How on earth did that happen?! Thank goodness someone pointed that out before I felt too normal here.
It's not without its benefits, though. Sometimes I feel I've achieved celebrity status. On a mountainbiking jaunt in the hills a couple of weeks ago, a group of road workers cheered and waved as I went past on the way, on my way home, on my scenic, if slightly unintentional detour back up the hill, and again as I finally headed home. There's nothing like it for that warm, fuzzy feeling of familiarity, combined with slight embarrassment.
Lessons learnt
Not many Brits make it down this far in the car.
Tuesday, 9 December 2008
Bodging avec Baptiste
Shortly after Paris I spent a spiffing weekend with a Frenchie called Baptiste who lives in a nearby town. The aim was two days of local multipitch climbing.
Friday night
Baptiste and friends: Salut Flick!
Moi: Salut!
Baptiste and friends: Alors....leveryquickfrenchthatsimpossibletounderstand...hein?
Moi: Er...oui...*nervous laugh*
Baptiste and friends: Bof...wearenotspeakinganylanguageinexistencebutjustmakingnoisestoconfuseyou...n'est-ce pas?
Moi: Le mm-hmm.
*Confused stares*
Moi: Eh...ben...bof...alors...quoi! *big smile*
Saturday morning
10:30am: Wake up. Panic about excessive lie-in. Reach near hyperventilation stage but decide it's too cold for such a big panic and retreat further under duvet.
10:35am: Baptiste leaps into his living room in a similar panic.
Midday: Reach parking spot in time to eat chocolate eclair. (No point in carrying excessive weight up the route...). The road is a bit icy.
12:10pm: Both realise we've forgotten our big, warm, snowproof mountaineering boots for the approach.
12:30pm: Cold! The snow on the approach walk-in is rather deeper than anticipated. We keep losing the path. This is fine for Baptiste, who glides around effortlessly, but not so good for me. My feet appear to be magnets for everything interesting under the snow. Several times in a row I put my foot through a big hole into a stream or a cowpat. Yum.
1pm: Decide we haven't got time to do the intended route if we want to drive back alive, as the snow on the road will turn to ice as soon as the evening cold sets in. Spot a feasible cliff up a slope and set up an ab rope for toproping. Very fun abseil!
The route turns out to be rather hard (in the 7s I think!), not helped by the water on half of it and my snow-soaked climbing shoes. French ethics are employed to scale the cliff, the rope, and various trees at the top.
Sunday
Lovely multipitch in the sun with gorgeous views and only one case of elbow-crippling rockfall.
Spiffing.
Friday night
Baptiste and friends: Salut Flick!
Moi: Salut!
Baptiste and friends: Alors....leveryquickfrenchthatsimpossibletounderstand...hein?
Moi: Er...oui...*nervous laugh*
Baptiste and friends: Bof...wearenotspeakinganylanguageinexistencebutjustmakingnoisestoconfuseyou...n'est-ce pas?
Moi: Le mm-hmm.
*Confused stares*
Moi: Eh...ben...bof...alors...quoi! *big smile*
That seems to do the trick!
Saturday morning
10:30am: Wake up. Panic about excessive lie-in. Reach near hyperventilation stage but decide it's too cold for such a big panic and retreat further under duvet.
10:35am: Baptiste leaps into his living room in a similar panic.
Midday: Reach parking spot in time to eat chocolate eclair. (No point in carrying excessive weight up the route...). The road is a bit icy.
12:10pm: Both realise we've forgotten our big, warm, snowproof mountaineering boots for the approach.
12:30pm: Cold! The snow on the approach walk-in is rather deeper than anticipated. We keep losing the path. This is fine for Baptiste, who glides around effortlessly, but not so good for me. My feet appear to be magnets for everything interesting under the snow. Several times in a row I put my foot through a big hole into a stream or a cowpat. Yum.
1pm: Decide we haven't got time to do the intended route if we want to drive back alive, as the snow on the road will turn to ice as soon as the evening cold sets in. Spot a feasible cliff up a slope and set up an ab rope for toproping. Very fun abseil!
The route turns out to be rather hard (in the 7s I think!), not helped by the water on half of it and my snow-soaked climbing shoes. French ethics are employed to scale the cliff, the rope, and various trees at the top.
Sunday
Lovely multipitch in the sun with gorgeous views and only one case of elbow-crippling rockfall.
Spiffing.
Le 'Vin' novembre
Yes, I know, I'm very behind in my blogging. I frantically scribble things on the train, late at night, in the staffroom and on the rare occasion when one of my classes is busy working, but I have an inconvenient habit of then losing my scribblings. Let's hope they're lost in my room and not scattered around France causing offense all over the place!
So, some exciting things that have happened recently:
- The 20th November was 'Beaujolais Nouveau' day. Some marketing genius has managed to get the entire country in a multicoloured fuzz of excitement about the arrival of this year's version of Beaujolais wine. It's a pretty impressive publicity feat and has become something of a tradition, with cafes, restaurants and even some patisseries stocking the new glug.
Apparently rich Brits race their swanky cars to France and back in an attempt to be the first to crack open a bottle this side of the Channel. Why they can't just pop over on a night ferry and drink in the middle of the sea beats me.
Naturally, we felt it appropriate to participate in this French tradition, and it seemed right to do this at lunchtime, when the rest of the country vanishes into restaurants. The wine was okay and came in a fantastically colourful bottle which has joined the other objects in my room attempting to hide the giant TV. Sadly, I missed the tasting session at my school. Oh well, there are still all the bottles of spirits in the staffroom for 50 cents a pop...and that's in the nicest school!
In other news...
I'm sorry to announce the untimely death of Bas and Pom. Bas unfortunately succumbed to the fatal drought of The Weekend When Flick Went Climbing and Forgot to Water Him, and was finished off by The Week When Flick Kept Looking At Him And Worrying But Still Never Got Round to Watering Him. Very tragic times, and seemingly completely unavoidable.
Pom held out a little longer, but at the grand old age of 2 months, he sadly turned a rather funny shade of crimson, wrinkled his berries in disgust and with a melodramatic thud, departed from his earthly realm...
After a suitably dramatic panic, I scooped him up, but all to no avail.
His memory shall live on.
I don't want to end on a sad note, so...
Here's a picture of a lovely little piglet at the market. Panic not - he's there for a fundraising stall, not for Sunday roast.
Awwwww....
So, some exciting things that have happened recently:
- The 20th November was 'Beaujolais Nouveau' day. Some marketing genius has managed to get the entire country in a multicoloured fuzz of excitement about the arrival of this year's version of Beaujolais wine. It's a pretty impressive publicity feat and has become something of a tradition, with cafes, restaurants and even some patisseries stocking the new glug.
Apparently rich Brits race their swanky cars to France and back in an attempt to be the first to crack open a bottle this side of the Channel. Why they can't just pop over on a night ferry and drink in the middle of the sea beats me.
Naturally, we felt it appropriate to participate in this French tradition, and it seemed right to do this at lunchtime, when the rest of the country vanishes into restaurants. The wine was okay and came in a fantastically colourful bottle which has joined the other objects in my room attempting to hide the giant TV. Sadly, I missed the tasting session at my school. Oh well, there are still all the bottles of spirits in the staffroom for 50 cents a pop...and that's in the nicest school!
In other news...
I'm sorry to announce the untimely death of Bas and Pom. Bas unfortunately succumbed to the fatal drought of The Weekend When Flick Went Climbing and Forgot to Water Him, and was finished off by The Week When Flick Kept Looking At Him And Worrying But Still Never Got Round to Watering Him. Very tragic times, and seemingly completely unavoidable.
Pom held out a little longer, but at the grand old age of 2 months, he sadly turned a rather funny shade of crimson, wrinkled his berries in disgust and with a melodramatic thud, departed from his earthly realm...
After a suitably dramatic panic, I scooped him up, but all to no avail.
His memory shall live on.
I don't want to end on a sad note, so...
Here's a picture of a lovely little piglet at the market. Panic not - he's there for a fundraising stall, not for Sunday roast.
Awwwww....
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Gay Pareee
Rain
DVD evening
Explore the quartier
Flea market missing
Foot in Seine - Seine has waves
28 different sorts of hot chocolate
Cinema on Champs Elysee
Eiffel Tower blue and sparkling
Giant orange rabbits
Catacombes: big queue
Musee d'Orsay
Culture
Best crepe ever
Unidentified package on metro tracks
Opera: kite-flying millepede, adults dressed as chickens. Czech with French subtitles. Feel posh.
Come home
Snow on mountains
DVD evening
Explore the quartier
Flea market missing
Foot in Seine - Seine has waves
28 different sorts of hot chocolate
Cinema on Champs Elysee
Eiffel Tower blue and sparkling
Giant orange rabbits
Catacombes: big queue
Musee d'Orsay
Culture
Best crepe ever
Unidentified package on metro tracks
Opera: kite-flying millepede, adults dressed as chickens. Czech with French subtitles. Feel posh.
Come home
Snow on mountains
Monday, 17 November 2008
Une petite crise de foie
The weekend dawns. Sven has promised to take me climbing.
Friday night
Leave Chambery sans probleme.
Reach town with lots of S's in its name. All signs point to that town. Get ensnarled in residential ghetto. Sven admits it may be the wrong town with lots of S's in it.
It is.
Reach T juntion: Left - 'Toutes directions' (all directions). Right - 'Autres directions' (other directions). That's French logic for you.
Eventually get back on the correct road. Wiggle around the mountains. Some kids have spray-painted over the name of our destination village. Amazing how there are vandals even in idyllic ski resorts.
8km before we arrive: ROUTE BARREE (road shut, sorry). Ah, maybe it wasn't chavs after all.
A big detour on more winding roads later, and 7km in the other direction from our destination: ROUTE BARREE (road shut, haha).
Zees ees starting to tek ze peas. Sven mutters someting about 'locals only' areas where they don't bother with signposts for tourists.
2 hours, 200km and much comfort-eating later, we finally get there having taken a ridiculously long detour as our only remaining option.
A summary of Saturday
- Attempt to be adventurous with food.
- Buy mysterious meatballs from charcuterie. "I don't normally tell people what's inside until they've tried one" says the butcher, encouragingly. He tells Sven anyway: heart, liver, muscle and lung.
- Eat some of said ball before climbing - lung appears to be wrapped around everything else.
- Climb 2 routes. Very hot. Feel sick. Very sick.
- Fall asleep for 2 hours at the bottom of the crag, harness and shoes still on.
- Wake up feeling sunburnt. Feel sick again. Fall asleep for another half an hour.
- Retreat to bar. Feel a bit better.
- Forgetting previous culinary mishaps, order mulled wine, which is listed on the menu alongside grog. Enthusiastically slurp it down through a straw. Turns out to be grog and mulled wine combined. Feel rather ill again.
- Camp by 8th century ruined castle.
Slightly more successful Sunday
Wake up late. Bakery. No guidebook. Sharp rock. 4.5 routes. Hard. Retreat to bar. Ice cream. Drive along same country road as a rally race. At the same time. Survive. Home by 6. Eat spaghetti.
Lessons learnt
- No need to be adventurous with food. Never again.
- 'Vin chaud - grog' is an inclusive 'and', not just two things with the same price.
- The bottom of a cliff in the South of France overlooking vinyards and rustic villages is one of the best places I've ever had a nap.
- Spiders eat horsemeat.
- Climbing is a great excuse for travelling (okay, I already knew that one!)
- Olive trees take so long to grow that it's usually easier to get an old one delivered straight to your garden:
- Nothing beats spaghetti and ketchup after a hard weekend's climbing.
Friday night
Leave Chambery sans probleme.
Reach town with lots of S's in its name. All signs point to that town. Get ensnarled in residential ghetto. Sven admits it may be the wrong town with lots of S's in it.
It is.
Reach T juntion: Left - 'Toutes directions' (all directions). Right - 'Autres directions' (other directions). That's French logic for you.
Eventually get back on the correct road. Wiggle around the mountains. Some kids have spray-painted over the name of our destination village. Amazing how there are vandals even in idyllic ski resorts.
8km before we arrive: ROUTE BARREE (road shut, sorry). Ah, maybe it wasn't chavs after all.
A big detour on more winding roads later, and 7km in the other direction from our destination: ROUTE BARREE (road shut, haha).
Zees ees starting to tek ze peas. Sven mutters someting about 'locals only' areas where they don't bother with signposts for tourists.
2 hours, 200km and much comfort-eating later, we finally get there having taken a ridiculously long detour as our only remaining option.
We spot a clearing in the forest for camping and drive into it. "Er, Sven, this looks a bit mud-" SCHREE! WHIRR!! We're not moving. The wheels are creating a lovely melange of mud and twigs. Unable to reverse, Sven drives further in. We are now on the forest, rather than in it - the undergrowth is entangled round our wheels and if my window wasn't shut, there would be a decorative array of twigs and branches skewering my eyeballs, hair and clothes kebab-stylee.
I get out and try to push. Nothing happens except the car seems to get taller. A quick look down brings the exciting revelation that I am in fact sinking in very sticky mud. I stand and flap uselessly as Sven attempts dramatic reversing manoeuvres and 23-point turns. It suddenly seems very dark and I swear I can hear wild boar surrounding me. It's all a bit Blair Witch.
We eventually find a sensible spot and crash out for the night. The next day dawns a little later and a lot damper than expected, so we abandon dramatic multipitch plans and drive 2 hours further South to the Dentelles de Montmirail - some dramatic limestone 'teeth'. A summary of Saturday
- Attempt to be adventurous with food.
- Buy mysterious meatballs from charcuterie. "I don't normally tell people what's inside until they've tried one" says the butcher, encouragingly. He tells Sven anyway: heart, liver, muscle and lung.
- Eat some of said ball before climbing - lung appears to be wrapped around everything else.
- Climb 2 routes. Very hot. Feel sick. Very sick.
- Fall asleep for 2 hours at the bottom of the crag, harness and shoes still on.
- Wake up feeling sunburnt. Feel sick again. Fall asleep for another half an hour.
- Retreat to bar. Feel a bit better.
- Forgetting previous culinary mishaps, order mulled wine, which is listed on the menu alongside grog. Enthusiastically slurp it down through a straw. Turns out to be grog and mulled wine combined. Feel rather ill again.
- Camp by 8th century ruined castle.
Slightly more successful Sunday
Wake up late. Bakery. No guidebook. Sharp rock. 4.5 routes. Hard. Retreat to bar. Ice cream. Drive along same country road as a rally race. At the same time. Survive. Home by 6. Eat spaghetti.
Lessons learnt
- No need to be adventurous with food. Never again.
- 'Vin chaud - grog' is an inclusive 'and', not just two things with the same price.
- The bottom of a cliff in the South of France overlooking vinyards and rustic villages is one of the best places I've ever had a nap.
- Spiders eat horsemeat.
- Climbing is a great excuse for travelling (okay, I already knew that one!)
- Olive trees take so long to grow that it's usually easier to get an old one delivered straight to your garden:
- Nothing beats spaghetti and ketchup after a hard weekend's climbing.
Mont Granier - un petit epic
Beth, Matt and I decide to conquer Mont Granier, the impressive-looking mountain towering over Chambery.
It all starts out fantastically (a steep, slippery slog aside): grapes, rotisserie chicken, local cheese, baguette, sun, impromptu bouldering and gorgeous views.
It all goes wrong when Matt starts telling the gruffalo story...
Matt (in his best primary school teacher voice): "I'm going to eat you up little Beth", said the rather angry gruffalo. "Nooooo" screamed little Beth! "Eat Felicity, for she is far tastier!"
Er, guys, are we definitely on the right path? We seem to be heading downhill. I always thought the top of a mountain was rather more in the uphill direction...
Right, it says on our utterly reliable web printout that we're supposed to be on a well-marked path.
I saw a sign maybe half an hour ago. Or maybe it was just a bit of moss...
Well we've already been behind us. And in front of us is downhill. The big snowy mountains are on our right, so we're heading in the right direction. Maybe we should just scramble up the cliffs to the left and we'll find ourselves on the summit ridge.
Sure, what could go wrong?
20 minutes of bimbling later:
Hmm...who would have thought the top would be so hard to find?!
Er...does anyone have a plaster? I appear to be bleeding.
I reckon if we just head in this, no that, no, er...some direction, then we'll find...something.
What times does it get dark again?
10 minutes later:
Ooh look at that mountain over there!
Hang on, that's higher than us. Aren't we meant to be on the highest mountain around?
That must be our summit then - we just need to walk forward for maybe an hour and we'll be there. Awesome!
5 minutes later:
Ah.
Oh.
Arse.
That's quite a big drop between us and the right bit of the mountain.
Yep.
So I guess the mountain's a U shape and we've managed to traverse too far round the U.
Seems so.
Poo!
Well, we're kind of on the summit plateau. I vote we go down or we won't make it down before it gets dark.
Okay, which way?
Er...
10 minutes later
Okay guys, I think I've found a bit of cliff we can scramble down easily! I'll go down first and see if it's do-able. You all know the emergency number, right?....Yep, it's fine...safely down!....That's it Beth, foot a bit lower, great....Matt, it's just a bit to your left, okay?....Excellent, we're definitely on the right path now. That was all a bit of an advent- FUUUUUCK-ING HELL MATT!!
Matt had found the whole thing so relaxing that he sort of forgot to hold on and is now plummeting down the scramble, his body strangely horizontal, limbs flailing around Matrix style.
What if he cracks his head open?! Where's the helicopter going to land? Does he have the grapes in his bag still? Really shouldn't be worrying about grapes right now. Oh shit, I really shouldn't be swearing so much. Oh gosh, he's still falling. It's only a couple of metres - why is he taking so long?! Ouch, he just bounced out of a tree. Okay, now he's about to land...Oh, he's about to land! BEEEETH!! CATCH HIM!!
Beth and I stare at each other for a second, then she lunges forward and stops Matt rolling all the way down the hill. We make a huge girly fuss over him, but miraculously most injury has been avoided thanks to the emergency sleeping bag in his rucksack. We all stare up at the rockface, incredulous that those few metres could host such a drawn-out plummet.
We return chez nous with new respect for the mountain and a little less respect for ourselves...
It all starts out fantastically (a steep, slippery slog aside): grapes, rotisserie chicken, local cheese, baguette, sun, impromptu bouldering and gorgeous views.
It all goes wrong when Matt starts telling the gruffalo story...
Matt (in his best primary school teacher voice): "I'm going to eat you up little Beth", said the rather angry gruffalo. "Nooooo" screamed little Beth! "Eat Felicity, for she is far tastier!"
Er, guys, are we definitely on the right path? We seem to be heading downhill. I always thought the top of a mountain was rather more in the uphill direction...
Right, it says on our utterly reliable web printout that we're supposed to be on a well-marked path.
I saw a sign maybe half an hour ago. Or maybe it was just a bit of moss...
Well we've already been behind us. And in front of us is downhill. The big snowy mountains are on our right, so we're heading in the right direction. Maybe we should just scramble up the cliffs to the left and we'll find ourselves on the summit ridge.
Sure, what could go wrong?
20 minutes of bimbling later:
Hmm...who would have thought the top would be so hard to find?!
Er...does anyone have a plaster? I appear to be bleeding.
I reckon if we just head in this, no that, no, er...some direction, then we'll find...something.
What times does it get dark again?
10 minutes later:
Ooh look at that mountain over there!
Hang on, that's higher than us. Aren't we meant to be on the highest mountain around?
That must be our summit then - we just need to walk forward for maybe an hour and we'll be there. Awesome!
5 minutes later:
Ah.
Oh.
Arse.
That's quite a big drop between us and the right bit of the mountain.
Yep.
So I guess the mountain's a U shape and we've managed to traverse too far round the U.
Seems so.
Poo!
Well, we're kind of on the summit plateau. I vote we go down or we won't make it down before it gets dark.
Okay, which way?
Er...
10 minutes later
Okay guys, I think I've found a bit of cliff we can scramble down easily! I'll go down first and see if it's do-able. You all know the emergency number, right?....Yep, it's fine...safely down!....That's it Beth, foot a bit lower, great....Matt, it's just a bit to your left, okay?....Excellent, we're definitely on the right path now. That was all a bit of an advent- FUUUUUCK-ING HELL MATT!!
Matt had found the whole thing so relaxing that he sort of forgot to hold on and is now plummeting down the scramble, his body strangely horizontal, limbs flailing around Matrix style.
What if he cracks his head open?! Where's the helicopter going to land? Does he have the grapes in his bag still? Really shouldn't be worrying about grapes right now. Oh shit, I really shouldn't be swearing so much. Oh gosh, he's still falling. It's only a couple of metres - why is he taking so long?! Ouch, he just bounced out of a tree. Okay, now he's about to land...Oh, he's about to land! BEEEETH!! CATCH HIM!!
Beth and I stare at each other for a second, then she lunges forward and stops Matt rolling all the way down the hill. We make a huge girly fuss over him, but miraculously most injury has been avoided thanks to the emergency sleeping bag in his rucksack. We all stare up at the rockface, incredulous that those few metres could host such a drawn-out plummet.
We return chez nous with new respect for the mountain and a little less respect for ourselves...
Choses Amusantes
Signs seen in and around Chambery:
Dancing tea...it's all a bit Beauty and the Beast here.
Frogs every Friday night! Yes!
Fanshy shome whishky?
Frogs leg curry anyone?
Speaks for itself!
Saint Francois of the dirty people.
Disclaimer
I am an ignorant, Franglais-speaking, immature student. I find these things funny. So tee hee!
Dancing tea...it's all a bit Beauty and the Beast here. Frogs every Friday night! Yes! Fanshy shome whishky? Frogs leg curry anyone? Speaks for itself! Saint Francois of the dirty people. 
Disclaimer
I am an ignorant, Franglais-speaking, immature student. I find these things funny. So tee hee!
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
Grenoble et le retard
A bunch of us popped along to Grenoble to sample the cultural delights. Well, I say that...I fancied it because it was raining so all mountain-related frolics were resigned to dramatic plans for the future. Beth wanted to go because her favourite H&M shirt had got mangled in the dryer and there's a big H&M in Grenoble. Both utterly convincing reasons methinks.
My thoughts on and in Grenoble
1. Urgh it's wet.
2. H&M looks exactly the same everywhere.
3. I think I'll buy a beret.
Due to all-too-foreseeable weather problems, we decide to head to a hot chocolate cafe recommended in my guidebook.
It promises thick hot chocolate with dried fruit, biscuits and a variety of tempting munchies.
It's shut until 6pm.
We spend a wholesome hour in the bar next door.
6pm: Immense effort as we shuffle back to the cafe. Big smiles: "6 chocolats chauds s'il vous plait!"
They don't do hot chocolate anymore.
Never trust a tourist guidebook. Especially if it's a whole year (*gasp* - a whole year?!) out of date.
We traipse across the road. It's pissing wet. Find a 'rebellion' bar with pictures of Che Guevara and French strikes everywhere. Beth has Grog, Verity has a glowstick in her drink, I get my hot chocolate. All is okay. Afterwards we roll into...
The Fondue Place
6 enthusiastic people
+ 3 cheese fondues
+ Wine
+ Giant chocolate fondue
= Much merriment.
The retard
Covered in cheese, chocolate and goodness knows what else, we leap on the last tram to get on the last train. (No, we still hadn't learn about the problems associated with last trains). Arrive gasping on the platform.
*RETARD: 5 MINUTES* (5 minutes delay*) [*The English is not in uppercase, as I'm sure the same notice in England would have been apologetically whispered, rather than enthusiastically shouted in brash capitals]
Okay, no problem. Time to let the fondue settle in our stomachs again.
5 minutes later: *RETARD 10 MINUTES*
5 minutes later again: *RETARD 15 MINUTES*
Even a bunch of franglais-speaking arts students can begin to see the pattern here. We retreat to the main station where an annoying french chav spins around us squeaking 'Oh la la chocolat'. We ignore him, laugh with him, laugh at him, just plain cackle, but all to no avail.
30 minutes later: *RETARD INDETERMINE * RETARD INDETERMINE * RETARD INDETERMINE * (indeterminately delayed, awfully sorrry)
This is accompanied by an announcement: "Mesdames et Messieurs, on regrette de vous informer qu'il y a un retard indéterminé à cause des animaux sur la voie. Merci pour votre compréhension."
Animaux sur la voie...animals on the tracks?! What sort of animals could cause every train heading into Grenoble station to be delayed? The French are hardly the sort to grind national transport to a halt because of a kitten on the tracks. Nor a horse. Nor any animal I can think of. We conclude that it must be a herd of cows or a very angry wild boar.
One whole hour and 45 minutes later: We collapse into a taxi courtesy of the French rail company, the humour of the situation having turned into snooziness. I sit next to a French girl who turns out to also like climbing. (I do sometimes wonder if my range of conversational topics is a little limited...) I rather patronisingly assume she occasionally topropes indoors. Turns out she climbs around 7c and competes. Oh well...she probably didn't just have a guilt-free fondue fest.
Lessons learnt
- Apparently I am seen as a dominant female (revealed after several rounds of the highly hypothetical 'truth' game: kiss/marry/kill/touch inappropriately/shag). I fear slightly that this makes me sound like a moustachioed Thatcherite...
- Even cities aren't much good in the rain.
- You can find the same H&M shirt thousands of miles away. Unleash your wildest tumbledrier fantasies and mangle those tops without fear.
- Fondue hangovers exist. The next morning I felt like I was about to give birth to triplets.
Postscript
Matt sleeps on my floor as we get home too late for his bus. He casually informs me over a week later that at 3am, and again at 6am, I leapt out of bed, screamed 'SHIT, SHIT!!', turned the light on and ran out of the room.
He assumed this was vaguely normal behaviour for me.
Oh dear.
My thoughts on and in Grenoble
1. Urgh it's wet.
2. H&M looks exactly the same everywhere.
3. I think I'll buy a beret.
Due to all-too-foreseeable weather problems, we decide to head to a hot chocolate cafe recommended in my guidebook.
It promises thick hot chocolate with dried fruit, biscuits and a variety of tempting munchies.
It's shut until 6pm.
We spend a wholesome hour in the bar next door.
6pm: Immense effort as we shuffle back to the cafe. Big smiles: "6 chocolats chauds s'il vous plait!"
They don't do hot chocolate anymore.
Never trust a tourist guidebook. Especially if it's a whole year (*gasp* - a whole year?!) out of date.
We traipse across the road. It's pissing wet. Find a 'rebellion' bar with pictures of Che Guevara and French strikes everywhere. Beth has Grog, Verity has a glowstick in her drink, I get my hot chocolate. All is okay. Afterwards we roll into...
The Fondue Place
6 enthusiastic people
+ 3 cheese fondues
+ Wine
+ Giant chocolate fondue
= Much merriment.
The retard
Covered in cheese, chocolate and goodness knows what else, we leap on the last tram to get on the last train. (No, we still hadn't learn about the problems associated with last trains). Arrive gasping on the platform.
*RETARD: 5 MINUTES* (5 minutes delay*) [*The English is not in uppercase, as I'm sure the same notice in England would have been apologetically whispered, rather than enthusiastically shouted in brash capitals]
Okay, no problem. Time to let the fondue settle in our stomachs again.
5 minutes later: *RETARD 10 MINUTES*
5 minutes later again: *RETARD 15 MINUTES*
Even a bunch of franglais-speaking arts students can begin to see the pattern here. We retreat to the main station where an annoying french chav spins around us squeaking 'Oh la la chocolat'. We ignore him, laugh with him, laugh at him, just plain cackle, but all to no avail.
30 minutes later: *RETARD INDETERMINE * RETARD INDETERMINE * RETARD INDETERMINE * (indeterminately delayed, awfully sorrry)
This is accompanied by an announcement: "Mesdames et Messieurs, on regrette de vous informer qu'il y a un retard indéterminé à cause des animaux sur la voie. Merci pour votre compréhension."
Animaux sur la voie...animals on the tracks?! What sort of animals could cause every train heading into Grenoble station to be delayed? The French are hardly the sort to grind national transport to a halt because of a kitten on the tracks. Nor a horse. Nor any animal I can think of. We conclude that it must be a herd of cows or a very angry wild boar.
One whole hour and 45 minutes later: We collapse into a taxi courtesy of the French rail company, the humour of the situation having turned into snooziness. I sit next to a French girl who turns out to also like climbing. (I do sometimes wonder if my range of conversational topics is a little limited...) I rather patronisingly assume she occasionally topropes indoors. Turns out she climbs around 7c and competes. Oh well...she probably didn't just have a guilt-free fondue fest.
Lessons learnt
- Apparently I am seen as a dominant female (revealed after several rounds of the highly hypothetical 'truth' game: kiss/marry/kill/touch inappropriately/shag). I fear slightly that this makes me sound like a moustachioed Thatcherite...
- Even cities aren't much good in the rain.
- You can find the same H&M shirt thousands of miles away. Unleash your wildest tumbledrier fantasies and mangle those tops without fear.
- Fondue hangovers exist. The next morning I felt like I was about to give birth to triplets.
Postscript
Matt sleeps on my floor as we get home too late for his bus. He casually informs me over a week later that at 3am, and again at 6am, I leapt out of bed, screamed 'SHIT, SHIT!!', turned the light on and ran out of the room.
He assumed this was vaguely normal behaviour for me.
Oh dear.
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
Lost in Translation
Delightful story from last week:
Who: Class of 13-year-olds.
Where: Computer room.
Teacher: "Research Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks on the internet. Make a poster. In ANGLAIS!!"
30 children duly go to Wikipedia or similar.
30 children copy and paste a huge section on Martin Luther King into an online translator.
30 children put up their hands and say they're finished.
Teacher beams at me and asks me to go and check their work.
3 unintentionally hilarious results from the online translator
1."Rosa Parks went out at the age of 92" (from the French éteindre, meaning 'to pass away', but also 'to extinguish', as in a flame.).
Me: "That's nice - where did she go?" My attempt at wit is met by blank stares. Oh well.
2. "Martin Luther King was a penis of the black civil rights movement".
membre = member = penis.
Someone was definitely having a giraffe with that translation programme.
Luckily the children don't understand the word, so I gently encourage them to delete it, whilst cackling away to myself inside.
And, the best:
3. "Martin Luther King was a brilliant student. He worked hard to achieve his ultimate aim of becoming an avocado."
avocat = avocado/lawyer.
At this point I failed utterly to suppress my mirth and received concerned looks from strangers for the rest of the day as I relived the moment.
Children are wonderful.
Who: Class of 13-year-olds.
Where: Computer room.
Teacher: "Research Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks on the internet. Make a poster. In ANGLAIS!!"
30 children duly go to Wikipedia or similar.
30 children copy and paste a huge section on Martin Luther King into an online translator.
30 children put up their hands and say they're finished.
Teacher beams at me and asks me to go and check their work.
3 unintentionally hilarious results from the online translator
1."Rosa Parks went out at the age of 92" (from the French éteindre, meaning 'to pass away', but also 'to extinguish', as in a flame.).
Me: "That's nice - where did she go?" My attempt at wit is met by blank stares. Oh well.
2. "Martin Luther King was a penis of the black civil rights movement".
membre = member = penis.
Someone was definitely having a giraffe with that translation programme.
Luckily the children don't understand the word, so I gently encourage them to delete it, whilst cackling away to myself inside.
And, the best:
3. "Martin Luther King was a brilliant student. He worked hard to achieve his ultimate aim of becoming an avocado."
avocat = avocado/lawyer.
At this point I failed utterly to suppress my mirth and received concerned looks from strangers for the rest of the day as I relived the moment.
Children are wonderful.
L'escalade
Early experiences
1. Plastic-pulling: After a frustrating week of working out climbing sequences in my head round the house, school and even the Elephant Fountain, I finally got to hug some rock. Well, it was plastic, but let's not be fussy.
A few of us went to Aix-les-Bains, the nearby OAP paradise spa town, which was trying to show its 'hip'n'happening-ness' by hosting an outdooor sports festival. We watched some impressive mountainbiking displays, then had our own über-extreme effort on a pedalo. Everyone was up for a go on the climbing wall, despite the extortionate 3 Euro charge for one ascent.
We join the queue, acutely conscious that we are twice the height and at least twice the age of everyone else.
Nobody is on the hardest route. I rehearse the sequence mentally. It looks achievable.
Suddenly, I'm pushed forward: "Here - she can climb - she wants to try the hard one!"
"Erm, actually, I don't have my shoes, and-"
I pause as the breath is squeezed out of me. A petite French woman is trying to squeeze me into a kids' harness.
"Excusez-moi, this isn't going to work..."...grunt, puff, merde!..."er, c'est trop petit pour moi! YEOW!!"
The French appear not to have heard of hips. By now the woman is sweating in her efforts, face a deep crimson, biceps-a-bulging. A good-sized crowd has gathered, no longer shouting instructions to the climbers, but offering immensely unhelpful advice to my torturer.
Eventually she twigs and gives me an adult harness. I pick up some shoes and am gently told to try a bigger size for beginners.
All possible humiliations covered, I drag myself up the route and after a characteristic amount of effort, slap for the top. Win a rucksack for my efforts. Sit down feeling chuffed and watch a ten-year-old cruise his way up effortlessly.
Git.
2. Adventures with Sven: Sven promises to whisk me away for a weekend of sport climbing in Orpierre. Spend a few days gleefully trying out the phrase "Oh, I'm just popping to the South of France this weekend" until even I want to give myself a slap.
We form a group of four: a Quebecois, an Anglaise, a Francais and a Deutschlander. My linguistic brain goes SPLAT and I spend the journey admiring the blizzard.
Hang on...A BLIZZARD?! This was meant to be a sunny sport climbing trip. And we're camping. Bugger.
Fortunately, all turns out fine and I am spoilt by a village geared towards climbing and routes with bolts 50cm apart. Also finally find a cheap drying rack in the supermarket. Success all round.
Saturday night sees a huge camp fire and a veritable feast of escargots, fondue, venison and melted choccy nanas. Yum.
3. Fear of Fred: Meet a bloke working in the local climbing shop. He's called Fred, laughs at my French and is free on Mondays. Perfect. Look forward to my introduction to local crags all week until Sunday evening when Sven jokingly mentions how happy Fred must be to have found a stranded anglaise to introduce to French 'culture'.
Monday: have emergency meeting with Beth. She reassures me that I'm not being stupid: "After all, it's not like he's taking you up some dodgy lane in a forest with no-one around!" Erm, actually, that's exactly what he's doing.
Grande panique!
My phone rings. Plus Grande Panique! He's up the road. I can't understand a word he's saying. "Er...d'accord?" I hang up. Bollocks.
Say my farewells to Beth, arm myself with a nutkey and greet Fred by telling him how great Dan is.
It turns out fine, of course.
Lessons learnt
- Everyone called Fred is friendly. No exceptions.
- Climbing-related words in French are mysteriously bovine: 'vaché' (literally: cow-ed), means 'safe', 'du mou' (Mooo!) means 'slack, and 'en moulinette' (mooooo-lynette) means 'on top rope'.
Monday, 3 November 2008
Le médecin
To join the Club Alpin Francais, which is the climbing and skiing equivalent of a giant Christmas box of Quality Street, all potential members require a medical certificate to say that they won't fall to bits the second they even say the word 'mountain'.
Righty-ho then. Off I trot to the doctor.
Doctors in France are mainly private and this one at least has no reception.
A note on the door tells me: 'Ring the bell and come in'. Okay. DRIIIINNNGG. Hmm...nobody in sight. I sit on a chair and read a very informative magazine article for ten-year-olds discussing the relative merits of reading on the bog.
A good ten minutes pass and still no sign of life from any of the doors around me. I swear I can hear someone's leg being hacked off with a rusty nail file.
I cough loudly in the hope that my undoubtedly friendly doctor will leap out, present me with the required certificate and give me a sticker for being brave. Nothing happens.
I go back outside and ring the bell for a little too long. Still nothing.
Maybe the doctor has accidentally injected himself with paralysing fluid Mr Bean-style and is lying on the floor, arm outstretched, waiting for me to burst in and record his dying words of genius. Or to save him, I suppose, but that would be far less dramatic, and we are in France after all.
I burst in. "EXCUSEZ-MOI MONSIEUR! JE VIENS!"
Ah. A bemused doctor and patient stare at me.
"Uh...pardon. Je suis anglaise." The catch-all general apology. After all, my nationality usually seems to be accompanied by some sort of apology, or at least an embarrassed shrug and the sort of facial expression usually reserved for treading in a particularly sloppy shit.
5 minutes later I am called in.
Fully prepared for the normal questions (Are you pregnant? Do you have heart problems?), I smile upon hearing the first question: "Vous êtes enceinte?" (Are you pregnant?) "NON!" I declare proudly, beaming at the bloke.
He frowns. Thousands of detailed questions follow about every possible health problem. He really seems to want there to be something wrong with me. I finally 'confess' that my parents are short-sighted. He sighs and asks if I'm pregnant.
Hang on, hadn't I just answered that? Suddenly it occurs to me that the pregnant question wasn't that at all, but had in fact been "Vous êtes en bonne santé?" (Are you in good health?).
Arse.
The following 20 minutes involve various embarrassing poses as he dislocates my shoulder, pokes and prods my ribs, and, for some unknown reason, makes me do thirty squats, arms outstretched, with no top on. Later conversations with genuine Frenchies reassure me that this is perfectly normal, but nevertheless it leaves me with a deep suspicion of all things medical and French.
Righty-ho then. Off I trot to the doctor.
Doctors in France are mainly private and this one at least has no reception.
A note on the door tells me: 'Ring the bell and come in'. Okay. DRIIIINNNGG. Hmm...nobody in sight. I sit on a chair and read a very informative magazine article for ten-year-olds discussing the relative merits of reading on the bog.
A good ten minutes pass and still no sign of life from any of the doors around me. I swear I can hear someone's leg being hacked off with a rusty nail file.
I cough loudly in the hope that my undoubtedly friendly doctor will leap out, present me with the required certificate and give me a sticker for being brave. Nothing happens.
I go back outside and ring the bell for a little too long. Still nothing.
Maybe the doctor has accidentally injected himself with paralysing fluid Mr Bean-style and is lying on the floor, arm outstretched, waiting for me to burst in and record his dying words of genius. Or to save him, I suppose, but that would be far less dramatic, and we are in France after all.
I burst in. "EXCUSEZ-MOI MONSIEUR! JE VIENS!"
Ah. A bemused doctor and patient stare at me.
"Uh...pardon. Je suis anglaise." The catch-all general apology. After all, my nationality usually seems to be accompanied by some sort of apology, or at least an embarrassed shrug and the sort of facial expression usually reserved for treading in a particularly sloppy shit.
5 minutes later I am called in.
Fully prepared for the normal questions (Are you pregnant? Do you have heart problems?), I smile upon hearing the first question: "Vous êtes enceinte?" (Are you pregnant?) "NON!" I declare proudly, beaming at the bloke.
He frowns. Thousands of detailed questions follow about every possible health problem. He really seems to want there to be something wrong with me. I finally 'confess' that my parents are short-sighted. He sighs and asks if I'm pregnant.
Hang on, hadn't I just answered that? Suddenly it occurs to me that the pregnant question wasn't that at all, but had in fact been "Vous êtes en bonne santé?" (Are you in good health?).
Arse.
The following 20 minutes involve various embarrassing poses as he dislocates my shoulder, pokes and prods my ribs, and, for some unknown reason, makes me do thirty squats, arms outstretched, with no top on. Later conversations with genuine Frenchies reassure me that this is perfectly normal, but nevertheless it leaves me with a deep suspicion of all things medical and French.
5 Choses Super Cools
5 things that are still cool in Savoie
1. Mullets - fortunately limited to mountain villages, but still a veritable tragedy for all involved.
2. Finger skateboards - hours of fun popping ollies in your lap.
3. Roller skating - kids, businessmen, even shop assistants in the hypermarket.
4. Strikes - we had them in the 80s. Everyone moaned. France has them almost every Tuesday and Thursday. Sometimes in Chambery they even put a stick in the ground and set it on fire. Exciting stuff.
5. Mopeds - 15 -year-olds attempting wheelies on hairdryers. Everywhere.
1. Mullets - fortunately limited to mountain villages, but still a veritable tragedy for all involved.
2. Finger skateboards - hours of fun popping ollies in your lap.
3. Roller skating - kids, businessmen, even shop assistants in the hypermarket.
4. Strikes - we had them in the 80s. Everyone moaned. France has them almost every Tuesday and Thursday. Sometimes in Chambery they even put a stick in the ground and set it on fire. Exciting stuff.
5. Mopeds - 15 -year-olds attempting wheelies on hairdryers. Everywhere.
Quelques Petites Merdes
There are a few annoyances I feel I must share, if only as a cathartic exercise and to put off any few lingering readers with nothing better to do.
- Some mysterious beastie keeps biting me. I won't go into details, but the range of locations of bites is extremely interesting. Must refrain from scratching in public. Can't work out what the little critters are. I squashed one of the buggers against my wall yesterday. Serves it right for gorging on me. Apparently it might be grape flies. Always knew there was more to wine than bad breath and hangovers.
- French people smoke A LOT. I guess we're spoilt in England with out rules that people actually follow, but it's really noticeable here. The secondary school I work in is near empty at breaktime as students and teachers alike pour out for their fix. The scrum to get out the second the bell rings, fag boxes held aloft like VIP tickets to an exclusive gig is equalled only by the gaggle waiting for the lift up two floors for the great Black-Lung-ed who can't puff and pant their way up to the classroom.
This cancer-stick rant was triggered by a day of travelling where ever train, bus and tram journey involved a cloud of smoke being blown in my face.
I'm still politely British enough to feel I should mention that I have several friends who smoke (although I now sound rather early 20th century bourgeoisie - "yes, we have coloured friends, don't we darling? We're ever so open-minded.") My friends who smoke are considerate and English and pretend to give up sufficiently frequently to be endearing in their habits.
- An almost daily occurence now: the apparent misapprehension of my Franglais.
Me: "J'aime la fondue"
Entire class: "Er...wot?! She likes what? Never heard of it."
Me: "Fondue! It's a local speciality!"
Blank stares.
"You know...fondue!!"
Class: "Fondue? Er..."
Me: "FON-bloody-DUE!!"
Eventually, one bright kid: "Oh - fondue!"
Rest of class: "Aaaah - fondue!"
There are only two syllables. I can't be saying it it that wrong. And this happens daily with different words. Gah!
- Opening hours: I know it's all been said before, but honestly, which bright spark thought that shutting everything for at least 2 hours at lunchtime every day was a good idea? Combine that with everyone having a really long lunchbreak and you've got a Really Stupid Situation.
Problems caused: obscenely early starts, excessively long working days, massive queues in all shops for the 5 minutes a day when they are actually open.
Don't even get me started on Mondays...
- Some mysterious beastie keeps biting me. I won't go into details, but the range of locations of bites is extremely interesting. Must refrain from scratching in public. Can't work out what the little critters are. I squashed one of the buggers against my wall yesterday. Serves it right for gorging on me. Apparently it might be grape flies. Always knew there was more to wine than bad breath and hangovers.
- French people smoke A LOT. I guess we're spoilt in England with out rules that people actually follow, but it's really noticeable here. The secondary school I work in is near empty at breaktime as students and teachers alike pour out for their fix. The scrum to get out the second the bell rings, fag boxes held aloft like VIP tickets to an exclusive gig is equalled only by the gaggle waiting for the lift up two floors for the great Black-Lung-ed who can't puff and pant their way up to the classroom.
This cancer-stick rant was triggered by a day of travelling where ever train, bus and tram journey involved a cloud of smoke being blown in my face.
I'm still politely British enough to feel I should mention that I have several friends who smoke (although I now sound rather early 20th century bourgeoisie - "yes, we have coloured friends, don't we darling? We're ever so open-minded.") My friends who smoke are considerate and English and pretend to give up sufficiently frequently to be endearing in their habits.
- An almost daily occurence now: the apparent misapprehension of my Franglais.
Me: "J'aime la fondue"
Entire class: "Er...wot?! She likes what? Never heard of it."
Me: "Fondue! It's a local speciality!"
Blank stares.
"You know...fondue!!"
Class: "Fondue? Er..."
Me: "FON-bloody-DUE!!"
Eventually, one bright kid: "Oh - fondue!"
Rest of class: "Aaaah - fondue!"
There are only two syllables. I can't be saying it it that wrong. And this happens daily with different words. Gah!
- Opening hours: I know it's all been said before, but honestly, which bright spark thought that shutting everything for at least 2 hours at lunchtime every day was a good idea? Combine that with everyone having a really long lunchbreak and you've got a Really Stupid Situation.
Problems caused: obscenely early starts, excessively long working days, massive queues in all shops for the 5 minutes a day when they are actually open.
Don't even get me started on Mondays...
Séjour à Blighty
Popped home at the weekend for a couple of Rather Important Birthdays. I had planned this back in the naive English summer days spent daydreaming of quaint mountain village schools where I, the exotic foreigner, would bring the great language of English to a future generation, apostrophes and all.
At the stage, my petit sejour rapidly looked like never leaving daydream territory itself: "If a member of your family dies and you really need to get home, you MUST tell the school a year in advance, never be paid again and go straight to hell".
Hmm...so a long weekend of bithday fêtes probably wasn't going to go down too well. If only I'd known I'd have a two week holdiay shortly after...well, let's be honest, I'd probably still have gone anyway, but let's blame my lack of knowledge for now.
Anyway, much paperwork and negotiating later, I got a couple of days off and tootled back to Blighty as a surprise for the matriarch.
She cried.
3 times at the airport.
Once at home.
Once again Far Too Early the following morning.
And again when I left.
Dan didn't cry, except perhaps once in frustration at my incessant waffling, having rediscovered how to tickle my native tongue. Nevertheless, a jolly good time was had by all.
Lessons learnt
- There is a major financial crisis giong on. I was aware of this before leaving, but had managed to put it all aside in my own personal disgust at Euros seeming expensive. "FIVE Euros?! But that's five wotsits. In England that would be FOUR thingies. Pfff..."
- English people, at airports at least, now think I look French, whilst French people still know I'm a rosbif.
I may be reaching true Franglais status.
Or perhaps just staring blankly in response to all languages, including my own, in a bleary-eyed mess.
At the stage, my petit sejour rapidly looked like never leaving daydream territory itself: "If a member of your family dies and you really need to get home, you MUST tell the school a year in advance, never be paid again and go straight to hell".
Hmm...so a long weekend of bithday fêtes probably wasn't going to go down too well. If only I'd known I'd have a two week holdiay shortly after...well, let's be honest, I'd probably still have gone anyway, but let's blame my lack of knowledge for now.
Anyway, much paperwork and negotiating later, I got a couple of days off and tootled back to Blighty as a surprise for the matriarch.
She cried.
3 times at the airport.
Once at home.
Once again Far Too Early the following morning.
And again when I left.
Dan didn't cry, except perhaps once in frustration at my incessant waffling, having rediscovered how to tickle my native tongue. Nevertheless, a jolly good time was had by all.
Lessons learnt
- There is a major financial crisis giong on. I was aware of this before leaving, but had managed to put it all aside in my own personal disgust at Euros seeming expensive. "FIVE Euros?! But that's five wotsits. In England that would be FOUR thingies. Pfff..."
- English people, at airports at least, now think I look French, whilst French people still know I'm a rosbif.
I may be reaching true Franglais status.
Or perhaps just staring blankly in response to all languages, including my own, in a bleary-eyed mess.
English things I had missed:
> An abundance of grateable cheese
> Radio 4
> Cottages
> Proper pubs
> Conversations about the weather
> Orderly queuing
> Common cultural references beyond David Beckham and yellow American cartoon characters. Jeremy Clarkson, Terry Wogan, even Fern Cotton brought waves of love for my homeland.
> And, of course, friends and family.
Friday, 31 October 2008
L'école
In case anyone is under the mistaken impression that I am here on an extended holiday, please let me reassure you otherwise. For I am a working woman (and not the Parisian, Moulin Rouge sort of 'working woman', thank you very much - a proper, state-employed salariée).
My title is teaching assistant, or assistante anglaise, and this can involve anything from recording those annoying language tapes they force on you at school to taking up to 15 children on my own and trying to inflict some of the Queen's own on them. My experience so far has mainly been of the latter variety, with varying degrees of success.
I work in 3 schools:
- A lycee (Sixth Form college) - this involves teaching lost of people my own age and sometimes older, and they still insist on calling me 'Madame'.
- Two collèges (Secondary schools) - one has a climbing wall (hooray!), but makes me come in just for an hour on Thursdays, ruining my Day of Rest (boo!). The other has 'problem children' from a special home for delinquents in the town, whose distraction tactics involve such joys as sticking their fingers in power sockets and making buzzing noises. How special.
We have a great little clan of teaching assistants in Chambery and we've spent many a happy evening eating crepes or sat in a bar bemoaning our three hours of work the following day. 12 hours a week takes up more time than you'd think...honest.
The good bits
- My commute to the lycee involves cycling past a chateau and a field of horses which I always say hello to. My favourite is called Albert. He looks just like the others and is always the one sticking his head over the fence to have a nosey at the strange English girl pootling past.
<--Albert
- I'm broadening the older students' vocab with important modern words. This week it was 'minger'.
- I seem to have achieved near celebrity status in one of the schools, where English people are seen as very exotic.
The bad bits
- School starts at 8am. This is very, very WRONG.
- I said 8am. This needs repeating.
- All schools are uphill from Chambery, which is bad for early morning cycling motivation.
- I do an introductory lesson with each class where I present myself. Rather too many times now, I've been asked if I have children. No. Do I want children? Probably. When do I want children? In the future. How many children do I want? No idea! What will I call my children? Er, any more questions, maybe about my pets?
Conclusion of the Confusion
I work in 3 different schools
with 10 different teachers
with 15 different classes
making 30 different groups.
Merde.
My title is teaching assistant, or assistante anglaise, and this can involve anything from recording those annoying language tapes they force on you at school to taking up to 15 children on my own and trying to inflict some of the Queen's own on them. My experience so far has mainly been of the latter variety, with varying degrees of success.
I work in 3 schools:
- A lycee (Sixth Form college) - this involves teaching lost of people my own age and sometimes older, and they still insist on calling me 'Madame'.
- Two collèges (Secondary schools) - one has a climbing wall (hooray!), but makes me come in just for an hour on Thursdays, ruining my Day of Rest (boo!). The other has 'problem children' from a special home for delinquents in the town, whose distraction tactics involve such joys as sticking their fingers in power sockets and making buzzing noises. How special.
We have a great little clan of teaching assistants in Chambery and we've spent many a happy evening eating crepes or sat in a bar bemoaning our three hours of work the following day. 12 hours a week takes up more time than you'd think...honest.
The good bits
- My commute to the lycee involves cycling past a chateau and a field of horses which I always say hello to. My favourite is called Albert. He looks just like the others and is always the one sticking his head over the fence to have a nosey at the strange English girl pootling past.
<--Albert- I'm broadening the older students' vocab with important modern words. This week it was 'minger'.
- I seem to have achieved near celebrity status in one of the schools, where English people are seen as very exotic.
The bad bits
- School starts at 8am. This is very, very WRONG.
- I said 8am. This needs repeating.
- All schools are uphill from Chambery, which is bad for early morning cycling motivation.
- I do an introductory lesson with each class where I present myself. Rather too many times now, I've been asked if I have children. No. Do I want children? Probably. When do I want children? In the future. How many children do I want? No idea! What will I call my children? Er, any more questions, maybe about my pets?
Conclusion of the Confusion
I work in 3 different schools
with 10 different teachers
with 15 different classes
making 30 different groups.
Merde.
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