La Fin

Well, as the great host of Looney Tunes characters would say: that's all folks! My stint in France has officially come to an end; chalk dust is gathering on my lesson plans, a few more much-neglected plants have died (although Basil the Second is bursting with health) and Chez Nous is all hoovered and tidied in preparation for Stage 2 of the Unwelcome Ant Invasion of the kitchen.

I've had a fantastic time pottering around in France and have certainly honed my Franglais skills. I hope this blog, which has been cathartic to the extreme in times of beaurocratic and linguistical crisis, has served to record a few of the lessons I've picked up along the way. I thoroughly recommend that you forget all of them if you should ever find yourself in the same situation; it's just so much more fun to experience them for yourself!

Back in September, in my hazy days of squinty optimism, I set myself the following aims:

- Climb lots
- Ski lots
- Eat lots
- Learn lots
- Become fluent

Have I been successful? In a rather Soviet fashion, I set myself high targets, with the hope of getting at least some way towards achieving them. Of course, being an arts student, I managed to avoid any numbers and left the vague quantity of 'lots' in the majority of my aims. This is such a gloriously flexible and quaintly cosy figure that I can't help but embrace the feeling of having reached it.

Climb lots
I've bouldered in Fontainebleau, ice-climbed locally and in England (quite an achievement in any year, especially when I'm meant to be in France!), danced up multi-pitch routes in Savoie and the Calanques and thrutched my way up (and sometimes rapidly down) single pitch delights on some of France's finest limestone offerings: French ethics in Orpierre, with its generously bolted offerings; naps below the Dentelles de Montmirail with its razor sharp holds; and an utter spanking at Buoux, with its unpronounceable name and technical pockets. I've carried a trad rack across rivers and over barbed wire fences, which almost counts as climbing trad, and I've successfully dodged droppings by smoking belayers or confused Frenchies who didn't quite understand my panicky shrieks of 'SHIT, BOLLOCKS, SorryforswearingSHIT-I'm gonna fall-watchmewatchmeTAKE! TAAAKE!'.
I've bumped up my indoor lead grade, thanks largely to the relentless enthusiasm of my retired Grenoble climbing partner, and I've mucked around on a fair amount of via ferrata with nimble non-climbing friends. It's going to be difficult returning to trad, particularly grit, but my newly-adopted backup of resorting to French ethics in times of stress must be discouraged by British tutters.

There can never be enough climbing, but I was fortunate in being in a climbing area and meeting lots of enthusiastic and welcoming people. I never did manage to convert them to going to the pub after training, but I did stolidly defend British climbing against their dismissals of 'But zer are no mountains in Eeengland!', and have done my bit for promoting British traditions: watch out for a host of French people leaping to tearooms nationwide for cream teas with fresh strawberries.

Most important lesson learned: If it says it's 5c, eet eez 5c!

Ski lots
For two months, I slid down mountains on wooden planks at least once a week. I still find it a very strange sport, but I've managed a few black runs, a couple of which I even chose to do, and I've had the privilege of watching lots of very good skiers whizzing around looking über-cool. I've had a good tour of Alpine ski resorts, with hot chocolate sampling in Val Thorens, Les Arcs, La Plagne, La Norma, Val d'Isere and many more. Whilst I can no longer join in the faux-snobbery of the Savoyards, as they take the piss out of 'les touristes', I am quite the expert on the nursery slopes of the main resorts. Nobody need know I should be much better...sssh...

On a different note, I've become a real fan of 'skating' - the most recent development of cross-country skiing. Sure, it's full of people in lycra tights and another great place to be utterly shown up by OAPs, but it's really good fun whizzing through snow-covered forests and collapsing in front of a crepe, utterly exhausted after a few hours of intense exercise.

Most important lesson learned: Skiing is intrinsically silly and illogical, so all instincts and reason should be ignored: lean downhill, don't think, don't look at things you want to avoid, lean into your skiboots until your shins are screaming, and embrace the madness!

Eat lots
Well, on the plus side (in every sense of the phrase), I've now got an excuse to buy new clothes! Expanding wasitline aside, the past few months have been an absolute delight. I've worked my way through various delights in the patisserie, have had the obligatory frogs' legs, escargots and foie gras (yes, I know, don't worry: I'll save an orphan or something for my ethical sins) and have been fed more fondue, tartiflette and other combinations of cheese, potato and bacon than I could ever have imagined. I've also had some pretty traumatic food experiences and am now slightly more wary of ambiguous meat dishes.

Most important lesson learned: French meals start and finish late. It's a fine line between devouring your bodyweight in pistachios and aperitifs from hunger, as it's gone 9pm, and eating beforehand, but being stuffed to bursting when your lovely host insists on giving you 'just one more helping' of the fourth pudding to be brought out, when it's approaching midnight and there's still the cider and coffee to go.

Learn lots
I've learnt lots about French culture. Some cultural events I had no idea about, such as le Tirage des Rois (finding little trinkets in a special cake on Twelfth Night), Beaujolais Nouveau (festivities caused by a new wine coming out) and Carnaval. Other cultural stereotypes exceeded all expectations: strikes, dog poo on the streets, smokers everywhere, beaurocratic faffs and erratic shop opening times. Some stereotypes were sadly untrue: they don't actually eat that much garlic, I hardly saw any striped jumpers, and nobody really says sacré bleu any more.

I've come to love the French, with their apparently unanimous 'Fuck Sarkozy' attitude, their blunt ways with friends ('Yes, this meal you just cooked for me is rather crap') and their romantic offerings. I was pleasantly surprised to be offered nuggets of poetry by homeless people in the ghetto-etto near my house: 'You are beautiful, Madame', 'May you have a wonderful evening'. Try getting treatment like that from any stranger in the UK on a Saturday night.

I've also learned a lot about other cultures, through meeting people from around the world. It seems it's only non-French people who ever go out at night in Chambery. I've mingled with other assistants from the USA (West Philadelphia born and raised...you can do the rest!), Trinidad, Germany, Italy and even the exotic climes of Swindon. I've lived with people from France, Norway, Sweden, Moldova, Germany, Austria, Brazil, South Africa and Japan, and I've learned that almost all these people will always be better at English than I can ever hope to be in French. Apart from the Americans - we definitely don't speak the same language ;-)

Become fluent
I'm still hindered by being instantly obvious as a Brit. There have been times when I've entered a room alone, dressed in purely French clothes, a French carrier bag in my hand, and before even opening my mouth, I'm greeted with a cheery 'Bonjour! Anglaise?'. According to someone experienced in such matters, it's due to my face. Great.

Still, I've waffled unwaiveringly, have destroyed any last ounce of pride, and have made pretty much every linguistical blunder possible. It's still slightly surprising every time a French person responds to something I say - it seems these strange noises coming from my mouth actually mean something to some people. Must be a good sign.

As for fluency in Franglais, I'd say I've greatly improved. Strange things are now 'bizarre'; if I want to do something, I either 'have envy to do it', or 'have the intention to do it'. I talk about 'the car of my parents', rather than 'my parents' car', and I can swear quite convincingly at French drivers as I swerve around on the wrong side of the road.

Conclusion
I've loved every minute of these past few months, although admittedly some of the earlier minutes in the day required a little more oomph to fully appreciate. Never before had I experienced quite so many domestic crises in such a short period; from early morning drill attacks the other side of my bed, to firemen and gas leaks, to powercuts, to broken boilers and ant invasions. Never again will I live on such a busy road or have to put up a sign requesting a female housemate to stop peeing all over the toilet seat (still a mystery, and sorry to our lovely male housemate who we were ready to accuse!).

I didn't travel around France as much as I expected, because I just found far too much to do in Savoie. It was a mountain sport fanatic's dream and I wish I could have stayed there in the summer for more mountainbiking and, hmmm, I don't know...maybe a spot of rock-hugging...not that I'm really into that sort of thing, you understand.

I've made new friends:

This friendly furball jumped into the last ski lift down with me, panicked in a corner for a bit and then decided I was okay and smothered me in big doggy kisses all the way down.

This cheeky chappy distracted me whilst his friend tried to devour Sam's coat, starting with the armpit, much to his alarm.

...and seen some beautiful places:

But now it's time to return to Blighty. To the land of baked beans, Radio 4 and Cheddar cheese. To a place where I can gabble away in English at a normal speed, where I can pop to the newsagents on a Sunday, where I can wake up to the sound of nothing but birdsong and my cat scratching at the bedroom door. There's nothing like living abroad to reveal hidden feelings of patriotism. The Queen's alright, really. The Beatles were pretty damn good. Shakespeare wasn't bad at knocking out a ditty. I'm still English at heart, but I have a whole new feeling of appreciation for the great diversity of France, particularly Savoie, with its mountains and meadows and its warm and welcoming folk.

Zee End.

Ecole

[The last few posts were written when they happened, but typed up later, hence the dates being a bit out.]

I had my last day at school today. The typical mix of lessons ranging from temping jobs to obesity. Also in typical fashion, my last class was cancelled at the last minute. So much for dramatic au revoirs. As if rain wasn't a bad enough start to the morning, the drinks machine in the staffroom was out of order. Quelle desastre. Lots of panicky profs twitching around in search of a caffeine fix and no hot choccy for my breakfast.

I've not written much about my experiences in the schools, aside from a few funny incidents. For the large part, this has been because I've spent far more time doing other things. Being an assistant can definitely be what you make it; it can define a year abroad, or it can simply be one experience amongst many others. The three schools have swapped around in my mental list of Happy Places, although all have had their sins and their saving graces.

- The collège (middle school) with the 'problem children' turned out to also have some lovely kids, and the rather sparse staffroom became a hub of sociable bodies and home-made cake at break time.

- The collège with the climbing wall and rural appeal had lovely English teachers, but the other teachers never replied to my cheery 'bonjours' and talked over me, passed chocolates around everyone except me, and generally stared at me as if I had a cow stuck on my head. Despite this, it was really nice sticking with the same classes and watching them progress. It also had the most impressive array of spirits and chocolates in the staffroom, but no hot chocolate.

- The lycée had some absolutely lovely classes and some really awful ones. It was nice having in-depth discussions with some classes and the English teachers were the most bonded group of all the schools, perhaps because there were more of them. The staff room had very comfy seats and a resident artist, who went round drawing caricatures of the various colourful characters floating around. Then again, there were other times, in lessons, when irate frothing in English had no effect whatsoever on the gum-chewing, frantically texting adolescents slumped on the tables in front of me.

Lesson Learned

1. School uniform
French schoolkids don't wear school uniform. Aside from much mirth when viewing pictures of British children (quickly cut off when reminded that we don't start school at 8am or go in on Saturday mornings), this should mean that they have much more opportunity for personal expression. So why, why, why do they all dress the same?! The main uniform seems to be black and dark colours. I started rebelling by wearing a colourful top and stood out a mile (which was a relief after being mistaken for a student by various overzealous teachers trying to ban me from the staffroom). There were, of course, various 'alternative' kids, who all wore exactly the same uniform of baggy trousers and rainbow bags from the 'alternative' shop in town. Some from both ends of this magnificent spectrum of diversity managed to look very smart and glamorous. Others, with their enormous flashy trainers, white tracksuit trousers and bumbags (no, I kid you not) prevented any lessons on chavs, for fear of misunderstanding.

2. Teachers
Almost without exception, all the teachers dressed very well, especially the language teachers. No stereotypes of worn jackets with leather elbow patches here; they were a very glamorous bunch. In contrast to this, there was a surprising lack of self-confidence amongst many of the better English-speakers. Perhaps it was daunting being faced with a native speaker, although any doubts must have been removed once they heard my French! It was difficult to reassure someone that their English was fine when they seemed to have adopted the rather English response of a reluctance to believe compliments. Then again, maybe they just didn't believe me: my own English seemed to flounder desperately when put on the spot.
Felicity, could you just spell ostentatiously aloud for us?
Do you say sh-edule or sk-edule?
What's the English for 'ski piste'?
Why don't you give a little presentation about St George's day...now?
And countless other examples, all met with hesitation, much doubt and grovelling apologies as I butchered my own language.

3. Teaching English
I quickly learnt what worked and what didn't.

- 'You need a sheet' was inevitably greeted with great mirth, as fifteen French kids heard 'You need a shit'.

- Repetition exercises had to have a clear end, or fifteen joyous voices would repeat my desperate pleas to get them to stop:
Me: 'Okay, good'
Class: 'Ohh-kaay goood'
Me: 'No, that's finished now'
Class: 'Non, zat's feeneeshed now'
Me (gesturing wildly): 'STOP!'
Class (gesturing wildly): 'STOP!'

- When spelling words aloud, any hesitations were interpreted as letters by confused students. 'Er' is the French for E. 'Oh' is O, and so on. Not helped by E being the sound for I in French, and G and J being the other way round.
A simple question: 'Feeleeseetee: how do you write 'get' in 'what do I get?'
+ A simple response: 'Okay, er...G...E...T...er...question mark'.
= A crazy new word: 'Okejitquestion Marc'

- It is essential to make it really obvious when a question requires an answer and not just repetition. A friend teaching in a primary school found it rather frustrating when the entire class cheerily responded to 'How are you?' with 'How are you?'. I had similar examples in a couple of the colleges:
'Who can tell me the French for 'factory'?
Fifteen hand enthusiastically shoot up. Excellent.
'Zee French for factory!'
'No, I'm asking a question: Who can tell me the French for 'factory'?'
'Oo can till me zee French for factory?'
'No, no, no, I want an answer! Never mind; it's 'usine''. A hand shoots up again. 'Yes?'
'Usine is 'factory'!!'.
Yes, thank you for that masterful insight...

- Despite these miscommunications, I generally really enjoyed teaching. We had some cracking lessons, with my favourites being a re-enactment of a section from a film and a Marmite tasting session. It was great experiencing three schools and seeing the differences, and really brought back memories of my French lessons.

La Grande Braderie

Twice a year, Chambery hosts a 'Grande Braderie'. This is essentially a giant car boot sale, without the cars. Shops and local traders set up stands selling end-of-the-line bargains and trinkets, and families set up deckchairs and tables piled high with second-hand junk. And it really is a sight to behold: roads cordoned off, car parks overflowing, more people in the streets than for Carnaval or even (quelle honte) the Strike to End all Strikes...and all on a Sunday, when the town is normally deserted. All just to buy other people's crap.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not averse to trawling through this crap in search of hidden treasures. It's just that no one seems to draw the line. Second-hand underwear really is taking it too far, 50 cents a piece or not. There's a fantastic array of artefacts, ranging from Polly Pocket to wagon wheels (and I don't mean the chocolate ones!), from escargot forks to skis to wigs. I pick up a fondue/raclette kit and proudly carry it around, indiscriminately bashing into small children and old ladies as I leap from stall to stall.

It's a great idea, especially since it's free for anyone to have a stall, and it's really sociable. I get the impression that some items appear year after year, but it doesn't really matter; Chambery is alive on a Sunday. My last Sunday.

Somewhat tragically, a near fatal overdose of Churros, chocolate and chips sees me bed-bound for an impromptu nap, my head spinning with nostalgia prompted by the goods on show.


Lessons Learned
This day carried a rather more serious lesson than many. While in the death throes of over-indulgence, I mustered the strength to speak to a lovely friend who is busy saving the world in Africa. She was also feeling ill, but kindly listened to my complaints before revealing hers: suspected malaria. There's me, feeling sick from pure gluttony on a shopping trip; the epitome of Western greed and decadence, whilst she's suffering from a serious illness whilst trying to provide desperately poor people with some form of nutrition. That left a far worse feeling than any sugar-coated lump of deep-fried badness and certainly made me think.

French Ethics: It is 5c!

My last day of local cragging and I'm flailing around on a route that should be well within my capabilities. The guidebook says it has a hard start, but this is ridiculous! Just as I'm employing some more extreme French ethics, a bloke wanders up:

'Hmm...I was hoping to work on zat route.' (Common climbing speak for thrutching about on a bit of rock that's probably beyond your capabilities.)
'I wasn't expecting to have to!' I reply
'Non, I mean I want to do work on eet'
I give him a quizzical look. 'Eh'?
'All of ze important holds have snapped off.'

Ah, that would explain why it feels so hard.

'Oh, so it's now graded 7 something, is it?'
'No, eet eez a 5c.'

It most definitely is not a 5c.

'Eet eez a 5c.' And with that, he whips out a drill and starts drilling away at the rock to form new holds.
I really can't believe my eyes. In the UK, it is mightily controversial even to drill bolts into cliffs for protection. If someone got out a drill and started altering the rock, tea would most certainly be spilt in spluttered indignation and ethical outrage. If that drilling maniac happened to be French, well...moustaches would certainly be set a-quivering both sides of the channel.

If only we had that much rock to play with in the UK...

A Weekend That Wasn't Meant To Be

Sometimes, I get the feeling that climbing involves more than just fighting gravity. Since the Great Meatball Disaster of last year, I've been pretty successful in rock-hugging at weekends. With spring trying its best and the call of a trad multipitch route (very rare in this part of France to find accessible rock without metal bolts drilled into it), I was happy. Perhaps too happy...

Baptiste had called me on Thursday evening. The proposal: climb all day Friday, spend the night with his friend in a mountain refuge for which he had the keys, climb all day Saturday. Yippee! With the sort of enthusiasm that only comes after excessive sugar consumption, I lept on an early train to Annecy.
At that point it all started to go wrong...

I meet Baptiste. Hmm, the rock's still wet, let's wait.
3 hours later: Hmm, looks like rain. Sod it, let's go anyway.
1 patisserie stop later: Ah, so there's still snow up here. Really wish I'd brought waterproof shoes.

We drop off Baptiste's friend to go walking in the middle of a snow field (in Converses) and drive back to the crag.
MERDE! What? Ah, putain! What?! I've forgotten something really important.
My mind races: shoes? he'll just have to climb in trainers; harness? we can improvise one; chocolate? well, I suppose I could share mine.
'What have you forgotten?'
The ropes.
Ah. Yes, that's probably a bit of an issue.

A fruitless visit to the parents of a nearby long-lost friend (oxymoron?) and a more successful return to Baptiste's house later and we're back at the bottom of the cliff. It's raining. We bodge a slippery path over barbed wire fences, through spiky bushes and between trees. We cross two rivers only to find another, even less welcoming torrent of wetness. Simply impassible, as Lewis Carroll would say. Somehow, despite never being further than 100m from the start of the route, we had got sucked into a Gorge of Doom. Steep-sided rock that crumbled if we so much as fluttered an eyelash at it on one side, and an increasingly violent torrent of water on the other side, coming from the rather inconveniently placed, enormous waterfall in front of us.

A very panicky, slippery slab descent (me) and raping by pointy rock (Baptiste) later and we were sat in the car in a torrential downpour, nervously hoping Baptiste's friend hadn't panicked upon returning to the meeting point earlier to find the car distinctly absent. Refuge plans were called off as nobody fancied several kilometres of knee-deep snow with trainers on. Barbecue plans were deemed too ambitious and we settled for a kebab and a DVD.
Plans were made for an assault on a multipitch sport classic on Saturday.

The conversation the following day went something like this:

Baptiste! Wake up! We're leaving in 10 minutes...[faff]...Okay, we're about an hour and a half behind planned time; shall we do something more accessible before the rain comes?
Naaah...it'll be fine.
I don't really want to walk an hour and a half just to be rained on.
Pas de soucis; we'll just walk very quickly.
Uphill? With big rucksacks?!
Oh, stop moaning, you soft Brit!
What about that nice cliff there?
Ah oui, that's nice: a 10-minute approach and some good routes. Should be in the sun as well.
Sounds great!
Nah, I've driven past it now.

Over an hour of slipping around on mud, cowpats, scree and snow (still no waterproof shoes) later, and we arrive at the bottom of the cliff. Baptiste was right; it does look like an amazing line: up the arete of a pillar, abseil down the back, then up a clean slab to the top.

Baptiste touches the rock. It starts to hail. A lot.
Hail turns to sleet to snow to rain on the first three pitches. The climbing is fantastic, but the limestone lives up to its slimestone nickname in the wet and we take it in turns to be freezing. Baptiste leads a stunning and exposed pitch involving swinging round the pillar, and I gibber my way up an easy scramble where the bolts are far too far apart for my liking.
We retreat after the pillar, just as the sun comes out. And stays stubbornly out for most of our descent back to the car.

Bad decisions? Maybe. But I reckon some weekends are just not meant to be...


Lessons learnt
This time it's a pronunciation lesson learnt by Baptiste. I can't remember what we were talking about, but he suddenly came out with the line 'You know, when someone shits on his girlfriend'. Er, no...is this some weird French thing? If so, I don't want to know about it! He tries to explain. 'Like when you shit on your exam paper at school'. Not improving the situation here, Baptiste...

Some (thankfully less graphic than expected) gesturing later, and I'm more than a little relieved to be able to correct his pronunciation: 'cheeeeating', not 'shitting'!

Jab Gibbers

Giving my affinity for furries and my knack of finding silly ways of hurting myself, I decided that Hep. B and Rabies injection would be a Jolly Good Idea for my forthcoming trip to the Land of Paddington Bear. Of course, the timing of these meant I had to have them in France. A quick flash of research revealed little difference in cost between France and the UK, so I decided a trip to the Centre de Santé Publique would be a new cultural experience.

Me: Hello, I'd like to book an appointment please.
Woman: Okay, how about Tuesday at 2pm?
Me: Sorry, I can't do Tuesdays. How about Wednesday?
Woman: Er, okay...what about Tuesday at 4pm?
Me: Um, I really can't do Tuesdays, I'm afraid. Any other days of the week?
Woman: Monday at 5pm?
Me: Yes, that sounds great.
Woman: Okay, so that's Thursday at 2pm.
Me: Er...no, I thought it was Monday at 5pm?
Woman: Oh yes, silly me! Okay, so Monday at 1pm.
Me: No, 5pm.
Woman: Whoops! Of course; 5pm on Thursday.
Me: No... Maybe it would be easier if I came in later today with my diary?
Woman: How about Tuesday at 2pm?
Me: Okay...

Sometimes it's easier to rearrange an entire day than to attempt battle with French receptionists.

An appointment and thousands of health leaflets later, I turn up for my first jabs. Now, maybe it's just my experience of particular doctors' surgeries in the UK, but every time I've had an injection it's gone something like this:

Nurse: So what are you going to do on holiday?
Me: Well, I'm going to - JAB!
Nurse: All done!

All done in a flash, occasionally with the warning that it might sting a little, and all done on a normal chair in the nurse's room.

In France, it seems like a much bigger deal. I'm lead to a terrifyingly complicated chair, which has more moving parts than a K'nex Ferris Wheel kit. I feel powerless and have strong flashbacks to torture scenes from American drama series. The nurse gets the needle out of the fridge, fills out a certificate with complicated chemical names that are being pumped into me, and shows me. Is that okay? Yes. Is my name spelt correctly? Yes. Is my date of birth wrong? No. Am I definitely going to Peru? Have I had all the other injections? Am I not allergic to vaccinations? It's a terrifying drill in linguistical and organisational skills, and there are so many negatives thrown in, I start just shaking my head around in the hope that she'll assume the right answer.

She shows me the box to confirm she's pumping the right disease into me. Okay, yep that's great. Just ask me about my holiday and jab it in. She takes a new rubber glove out of its packet and snaps it onto her hand. She asks which arm I'd like it in. Does it make a difference? She re-rolls my sleeve up, tells me to relax. No, relax! Relax the muscle. There you go. Taps the syringe, squirts some liquid in the air. Tells me it's cold and it's going to hurt. Asks if I'd like to watch or not. Gives me a count-down. And it's in. Big relief.

After all that, I'm briskly accompanied to the payment desk and sent on my way. In the UK I'm always told to wait ten minutes in case of an extreme reaction. I'd assume that's a bit more serious than the nurse not rolling my sleeve up properly, but there you go. Strange old world.

I've never had a problem with injections before, but with a build-up like that, it's amazing anyone gets vaccinated at all in France!

Bloody Bises Encore

Just another quick rant about the bises. I've become quite used to them now, and even manage to go for the correct side most of the time, until someone from a different area comes along and throws it all into confusion. What's annoying, and I mean really annoying is when I've come into school at 8am to teach accountancy students something horribly serious and important. I squeeze past the smokers surrounding the school gate; I crawl up two flights of stairs, I reach my corridor. My classroom is approximately 15 metres away. It takes approximately 15 minutes to get to it.

Why? Because every single student seems to feel the need to greet every other student. They probably just chatted together on the bus, then separated for a few minutes. They are in the same classes all day every day; they know they're going to see each other. But still they have to kiss! Not just a simple 'hi', or a quick hug, but a full triple whack of bises. It doesn't seem to work with the few kids who have managed to form an orderly queue outside the classroom; most greetings seem to require lunging across my path for a nuzzling session, or a manly shaking of hands for a minute without stopping, blocking the corridor and thus causing a whole flurry of similar greetings as nobody wants to be left out. This is all well and good, but for goodness' sake; it's a school! Harumph.


Another mini rant in case you thought I'd finished...

Two things have struck me about the French and transport and they're so contrary that I feel the need to comment.

In cars, people never seem to notice the traffic lights changing. Well, they probably choose to have selective vision, shall we say, for red lights, but it's incredible the number of times I've been trapped at a green light because the car in front hasn't noticed it's time to move. A quick honk of the horn usually does the trick (yep, for everyone who has ever sat in my car and been instructed to shout HONK every time I was cut up or we went over that narrow bridge near home, you'll be pleased to hear that Felicia is now the proud bearer of a working horn), but it's really most unBritish, and just tends to draw more attention to the weird foreigner with her 'wrong way round car'.

In a complete reversal of this situation, the French seem to get prematurely excited about trains stopping. The first few times I saw people leap out of their seats while the train was still bobbing along at full speed, I started to panic. SPIDER!! There must be a spider! Oh my goodness, where is it?! Is it on me?! Okay, no, probably not a spider. Is there an engine failure? A bomb?! A streaker outside the train? A multi-coloured sheep that everyone's clamouring to see? I want to see! Oh wait, did someone just fart? But no, unless I have been missing something obvious every time, people do just tend to stand up on average ten minutes before their stop.

Of course, I understand if they have an enormous suitcase that needs several minute of coaxing out of the luggage racks, or if they're in a real hurry, but when it's the end of the line and everyone has to get off anyway, what's the hurry?! I try to feel all smug as I enjoy a few more minutes of sitting on my arse, but sometimes I get caught up in the euphoria of Nearly Arriving and find myself in the same situation as tall people who stand up too early on planes, and have to dodge falling luggage, small children and furries, as elbows and coats go a-flying.

Gare d'Enfer

I know it seems like I'm on permanent holiday here, but I've just got a bit behind on uploading my blog entries; it's now warm and sunny and a completely different holiday from my Lausanne adventures.

I head down to the Calanques for a blissful few days of sunny sea-cliff climbing on the most amazing limestone cliffs. Undoubtedly one of the most beautiful climbing destinations in the world and the ice-cream's not half bad, either. In a typical attempt to Have Fun in the most stressful and time-pressed way, I decided to go home for one evening then head off to Fontainebleau for another few days of chilled out forest bouldering (mucking around on boulders with giant crashpads and toothbrushes). This was also excellent, particularly because of the presence of a pizza van on the campsite.

Climbing paradise: sea-cliffs in the Calanques.

Unfortunately, in-between these two snippets of serenity, these two nuggets of niceness, these two pockets of paradise, I had to earn my way and survive The Train Station From Hell.

I am not built for big cities. I have to run across main roads unless the little green man is there; I look the wrong way at crossings, I get lost all the time. Suddenly being thrown into the capital city's busiest (I hope) train station is not a good situation.

I have 30 minutes between my trains.
I have to get a train to Fontainebleau. This sounds easy.
I queue up at the ticket desk. Wrong ticket desk. Go downstairs.
I go downstairs. The wrong downstairs. Go upstairs then downstairs again.
I go downstairs. I queue up at the ticket desk. Wrong ticket desk again.
I go down more stairs. Wrong floor.
I go upstairs. I find a ticket machine. On the 3rd attempt: success! I have a ticket.

Now to find the platform...There are signs for the metro, for buses, for mainline trains, for RER trains, for TGV trains...a veritable maze of different pastel colours, squared numbers, circled letters and so on. I followed one for a while until ending up back at my starting point and join a very slow queue to find out where to go. This is the first queue I should have joined, but I'd been avoiding it because it was so very long and crawling along.
Back at a different upstairs again and I finally find my train.
Sit on train and breathe. Briefly.
Run back out of train to find composting machine (in France, you have to stamp your tickets before getting on the train).
Look at watch: this Mega Faff took an hour and a half.

Turn up at Fontainebleau to find out the car picking me up is 2 hours late.

The things we do to hug rock...

Vous or tu?

Anyone who's done a bit of French knows the Frenchies have a bizarre habit of using two words for 'you'. Not satisfied with three words for 'the' (although admittedly nowhere near as confuzzling as the German equivalent), they've got this fascinating conundrum designed specifically to throw foreigners into great confusion and cause unnecessary offence nationwide.

I don't know about you, but at school I distinctly remember learning s'il vous plait years before s'il te plait, and voulez-vous coucher avec moi far before tu veux un orangina ...or were they from songs? That last examples is particularly noteworthy:
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? (Do you want to sleep with me? (No, I'm not asking you! That's the translation...pfff..))
Surely it's a bit odd to use the formal version of 'you' with someone you're about to bump uglies with.

Even stranger was an incident I witnessed the other day: French man drove into the back of French Woman's car in the carpark. He leapt out, shouting: "Putain de bordel de merde! Putain! Qu'est-ce que vous avez fait?!" (Oh, you silly billy! What have you done?). Whilst hurling abuse at this poor woman, he still used the polite form of 'you'. I quizzed a friend about this and he replied: "Well, it's a sign of respect, isn't it?" Naturally.

In a reverse situation, I have managed to offend teaching colleagues by using 'vous', who despite them being twice my age and never having met me before, insist upon 'tu'. This is lovely, but never explained to poor English schoolchildren, who eventually become poor English assistants! Then there are countless shop assistants and bank workers who I've unthinkingly addressed with 'tu', and the people with whom I appear to be in a permanent 'vous' stalemate; both parties possibly too afraid to attempt a 'tu' at this late stage.

Horseplay

Whilst trying to persuade tutoring dad that my friend's sister would make a great penpal for his daughter, I decide to extoll the virtues of the family.

"Oui, ils sont super gentils. Ils ont une jolie maison...et ils ont des cheveux et tout!" (Yes, they're really nice. They've got a lovely house...and they've even got horses!).

Tutoring dad gives me a funny looks. I decide to emphasise the horses.

"Oui, beaucoup de cheveux!" (Yep, lots of horses!)

It's only on the way home that I realise my error: cheveux is in fact 'hair'... An easy mistake to make, since chevaux is 'horses'. At least he will be more than reassured that his daughter will be communicating with a very hairy family...hmm...

Non-Faffy CAF

Since Christmas I've been on a bit of a mission to try to stay upright on skis. In fact, it's not so much avoiding the horizontal that seems to be the problem; more the general consensus that skis should point firmly downhill and move. I'm more a followed of the 'traverse-sl-o-w-ly-across-the-slope-careful-now-reach-the-edge...and...PANIC!Quickturndon'tlookdown-Oh-crap-pointing uphill again' school of thought. Rather inconveniently, I seem to be the sole disciple of this underrated discipline.

Free lessons with a robust young Frenchman seemed like a sensible option, especially when I often get 1:1 tuition due to being distinctly CRAP compared to the savoyards who perfect black runs and slalom in primary school, having been skiing since the age of two.


So, if any Chamberien is foolish enough to be awake before dawn on a Sunday morning, they might just have the misfortune to see a dishevelled bunch of assistants shuffling across town, boots weighing upon our necks like enormous cowbells, skis balanced precariously across our shoulders, creating a medley of slapstick noises as they whack against lamp-posts, buildings and people.


Each trip usually starts with the delightful old man in front of us telling us we MUST speak in French:


Old man: Oh look Feleeeceeeteee eez asleep! Feeleeceeteee are you asleep? Feeleeeceeeteeee!
Me: Maintenant je dors plus (I'm not sleeping now!)
OM: You must spik in Francais!
Beth (in French): Yes, we do. We even speak French at home, with our French housemate.
OM: No, that's useless! You must spik ze French!
Beth (in French): Okay, we'll speak French today.
OM: Pas compris! Non! You not understood.
Us (in French): Yes, we've understood.
OM: Zey are spiking in Eeeenglish! You must spik in French!

At this point on a typical trip, Sam, our American friend, might interrupt to nobly defend us. This inevitably diverts Old Man's attention to Ze Americain to whom he has inexplicably taken a strong disliking.

We eventually arrive at an exotic destination, bleary-eyed and fuzzy, and suspiciously survey the weather, which will dictate the course of the day. Come snow or shine, we then head up to the slopes. I take a lesson in the morning with my ever-patient, pre-Raphaelite-haired, orange-trousered ski teacher, then we meet the other CAF-istes for a picnic. This can involve glorious panoramic views of Alpine peaks, or soggy sarnies in a steaming picnic room. The most memorable so far was an 80th (!) birthday celebration featuring champagne, cider, wine, doughnuts and a thousand sorts of cake...

More skiing in the afternoon, either with others from my lesson, or, if I was alone, with one of the many people who have adopted me as a pet project. Wonderfully, this often ends with a hot chocolate in a cosy bar.

As the lifts shut, we pile back into the coach, melting snow steaming up the windows. Rosy-cheeked and aching-limbed, we pass round a small flask of something potent, always in a red sock, and watch the mountains alight with fire as the sun heads back for its own après-ski snooze.

Lausanne

'Let's go travelling!' the enthusiastic email says. Okay! I hardly need persuading. The only slight hitch is that two weeks of holiday seem to have turned into two free days, one of which is spent comatose after driving back from Blighty. Chronic apathy and all that.

Switzerland is the chosen destination and Lausanne seems as good a place as any for a day of shamelessly touristy shenanigans. Due to a slight oversight in Franco-swiss relations, the most convenient train leaves at a time that is acceptably only to Jack the Ripper and Thatcher, and we all know what became of them. Nevertheless, I once again form a strange bobble-hatted silhouette whizzing down the streets of Chambery, baguette à la main, with seconds to spare.

I look forward to beautiful views of rolling Swiss hills and tasty toblerones and promptly fall asleep. Am woken up by a not-so-beautiful or tasty conductor wanting to see my railcard. Can only hope he hadn't been poking me too long while I lay slumped, gaping-mouthed and twitching.

Switzerland appears through the windows, snowy and very cold. My companion cheerfully informs me that the forecast predicted highs of -2 degrees. The train arrives and we leap out into the bustling metropolis of Lausanne, ready for a day of exploration and culture.

Hang on; where are all the people? A quick hunt around reveals that the shops don't open until 10am.
Somehow, sneakily, we seem to have become ever so slightly French, and we're shocked that people haven't been up and about since 8am.

After a not-so-brief introduction of Lush to a Trinidadian, we explore the old town, bags full of natural deodorant and massage blocks. Lausanne is very steep and it's good fun slipping around on compressed ice with massive drops scarily close. Our map doesn't show that the streets are at different levels, so some crossroads turn out to be bridges a significant height above the other road. You've got to admire that stubborn Swiss determination in building a city on such a steep hill.

And I thought climbing was my most risky activity...A typically graphic French warning sign.

We soon leave the town centre and head towards a large green area on our tourist map. In real life it's rather more white, being submerged beneath a foot of snow. Still, it's pretty, and we look forward to seeing some sites marked on the map: a small castle, a hermit cave, a chocolaterie and a lake. Luckily, the snow proves entertaining for my companion, who hasn't experienced much in her native Caribbean home. I say this, because nearly all our eagerly awaited sites aren't quite as expected:

- The 'petit chateau' is extremely petit and appears to be little more than a house with a fancy name.
- 'L'hermitage' turns out not to be an ancient hermit dwelling place, but an art centre that is distinctly shut.
- 'La chocolaterie' never appears. Big disappointment.

Fortunately, we're treated to an impressive view over the city and the lake and a cosy, little restaurant at the top of the hill provides Swiss cheese and ducks.

The rest of the day sees a bimble through town, an attempted passport exchange with a man selling crepes, lake-side unicyclists on obstacle courses, an amazing children's play area (tested!) and the Olympic Museum, complete with giant, moving models of abs and various other body parts. The outdoor escalator particularly impresses: what better way to encourage people to participate in sport...

A characteristically hassled sprint back to the station and we're safely on our train, back in time for Plus Belle La Vie, France's favourite soap.

Red Nose Day, Grand-pères et les pompiers

A few memorable incidents from the past week:

Words and phrases invented by schoolchildren
'funning' (= to have fun) eg: We were funning on holiday.
'curly flower' = cauliflower

These were accompanied by a suggestion for a rainy day to 'watch TV on the dog'. Poor dog! Apparently they meant to watch a programme about dogs. Hmm...


Red Nose Day
This doesn't seem to exist in France, so I had great fun explaining the concept to one of my older classes with photocopies of a beaming Lenny Henry and various red nose designs.
The task: 'Come up with your own themed day for charity. Explain it and decide on an event to help raise money'.
The results:

Group 1: Stop Smoking Day.
Me: So what's the aim?
Group: Everyone stops smoking for a day.
Me: Okay...what about people who don't smoke?
Group: *hesitation* They should stop smoking.
Me: *tactful pause and choose acceptance* And which charity is it for?
Group: Smokers.
Me: You mean smokers who get lung cancer?
Group: Smokers don't spend money on smoking for a day so they have more money. Me: I see....

Group 2: Condom day
The aim: every school pupil must go to school wearing as many condoms as possible attached to their clothes.
The event: a competition to see who can blow a condom into the biggest balloon.
The charity: anything that helps fight AIDs.
I was so relieved that they'd actually got a charity, I rather glossed over the technicalities. I'm sure it would be a real hit in the primary schools...

Group 3: Baby day
Me: Okay, girls, this sounds like a nice day. What's the aim?
Girls: Everyone pays money to dress like a baby and the money goes to baby charities.
Me: Well, that's a good idea; I think that could work. What's your event?
Girls: A stand in the town hall selling babies.
Me: Oh, I see...hold on, you mean selling baby clothes and toys?
Girls: No, selling babies.
Me: Ah.

You can imagine the rest of the lesson!

St Patrick's Day
For no particularly obvious reason, apart from an excuse to drink a lot, France seems to be really into St. Patrick's Day. We headed to the most popular Irish bar in town and bumped into some other assistants and their friends. We had a shouted conversation over the enthusiastic Irish band playing outside.
French bloke: So, do you go out much with French people?
Me: I climb with French people, but I don't go out much in the evening with them.
French bloke: Quoi? (Pardon?)
Me: La plupart de mes amis francais sont grimpeurs et ils ne sortent pas beaucoup le soir. (Most of my French friends are climbers and they don't go out much in the evening)
French bloke: Tes amis sont tous grand-pères?! (Your friends are all grandads?!)

Silly French words sounding the same (albeit shouted over very loud music!). So now I seem to have given the impression that my social group is mainly OAPs, who, quite typically, don't have much of a nightlife.
Arse.

Les Pompiers
Saturday night a few evenings ago saw me bopping away at an Irish folk/rock concert in a nearby town, completely with comedy Irish-French accents.
I arrive home in a fuzz of accordian echoes, feet still a-tapping but completely exhausted and ready to crawl into bed.

There's a fire engine in the road. I'm far too tired to pay much attention and decide to postpone the drama.
I open the door and start walking upstairs to my floor. 'Bonsoir!' A male voice greets me. 'B'soir', I mutter back, not even mustering the energy to look at whichever housemate is saying hi. 'Bonsoir', 'Bonsoir madame'. The greetings continue. I look up. There are 3 French firemen in my house, all smiling at me and greeting me in a rather gentlemanly fashion. One even takes his helmet off.
WOW. Pretty much every girl's fantasy, and they're really not bad looking at all. I take a second to appreciate my good luck before reality dawns and I realise that they're probably not here as a nice Saturday night surprise for me, but perhaps for something a tad more serious.

A tad more serious turns out to mean a gas leak in the road outside our house. The road is blockaded off, my housemate is told she can't enter the house for the next few hours (although there seems to be no concern for everyone still in the house), and the fire engine is joined by several more. At precisely 3:10am the drilling of the road starts. This whole kerfuffle continues for the next couple of evenings and all my curtain-twitching, blue flashing lights dramas are fulfilled.

Des vieillards

Old men

I've noticed a certain proliferation of active old men these past few weeks. First, there was the retired teacher Beth and I met on the train. Like most people, he instantly knew we were English (afternoon tea crumbs on our faces, perhaps?) and started chatting to us about his retirement. He didn't want to waste his long-awaited freedom and so had decided to buy an accordion and travel around playing it. Et pourquoi pas?!

Then, there was the 84-year-old cruising up 6b+s at the climbing wall. I've found a regular climbing partner in a retired woman who spends all her free time climbing. Not such a bad life. She's got a gang of friends whose average age must be well into the seventies and whose average climbing grade remainds stolidly a notch above mine.

This was followed by a chap's 80th birthday on a recent ski trip. I wasn't sure whose birthday it was, so I kept looking around for a frail, little old man shuffling up to enjoy a small glass of champagne before sitting down for the afternoon to reminisce over his halcyon days of wooden skis and dayglo one-pieces. My reverie of faux-nostalgie was suddenly interrupted by a spritely chap decked out in the latest gear, a bottle of champagne in one hand and his skis in the other. The gathering burst into song and I realised that this cheery chap, who honestly looked no older than 60, must be the octogenarian. This was inspirational to say the least and I toasted his youthfulness by consuming my body weight in cake.

Lessons learnt
- Pretty much anything you do, an eighty-year-old Frenchman can do better.
- Life does not end at 70.
- It's not such a bad thing that French TV is rubbish.
- No matter how hard they climb and how old they are, French pensioners should never wear lycra.

Ski Championships

First day of the winter holidays: a 6am start to head off to the World Ski Championships in Val d'Isere. Told you I was getting better! ... Okay, okay, I was going as a spectator, but I'm sure I'll be invited next year.

Five of us cram into a car and head off into the mountains, where we join a theme-park sized queue for a shuttle bus and receive lots of freebies, my favourite being the event pass with an in-built thermometer. It cheerfully tells us it's around freezing. I'd never have guessed. The bus driver eventualy turns off the looped message welcoming us to 'the event of our lives' in several languages and we listen to the men's downhill. The French champion prepares himself, he approaches the starting ramp, he launches off, and- ...we enter a tunnel. The Frenchies are not happy! We re-emerge just in time for his finish. Decide repressing mirth is optimal for survival.

The day is full of good surprises:
- Free drinks in the Salomon tent.
- The music accompanying the women's descent; carefully chosen to offend pretty much every nationality attending (Rammstein for the German competitor was a particular favourite).
- The Milka tent with free samples and no limit on coming out and immediately joining the queue again.
- The helicopter that lands near us then suddenly takes off with an enormous floodlight attached [picture to come]!

The best surprise is saved for the end. It's the slalom, the much-awaited final descent in the men's 'super-combo'. This is the big decider; the Event of Events. We position ourselves in the midst of the buzzing crowd, faces a-painted, flags a-waving. The French are confident of their success: they have several stars in the final. The commentator is equally cocky, gabbling on about the French skiers at every possible opportunity. It starts well: Frane quickly gains first and second place. An etranger steals second, but the crowd is confident of the two remaining national heroes providing a spangling set of medals.

Remaining national hero number 1 arises. The hope of a nation, an inspirational rolemodel, the star of the country.
He stacks it. Crashes straight into a pole and goes arse over tit into the slope sweepers (by every slalom gate there is a team of people who frantically sweep up after each skier). The crowd is not happy. No fear, for Remaining French Hero is here! He steps up, flashes the camera a winning smile and, in one of the best examples of deja vu, promptly whacks into a pole. Every French person in the audience whimpers slightly.

A few obscure competitors crawl down at the 'unimpressive' speed of several hudnred kilometres and hour and France starts to celebrate. Two of the top three places guaranteed. A party atmosphere sneaks into the crowd and has a quick boogey around. Even the commentator is waxing lyrical about the great triumph. Eventually, he pauses and says there still remains one last competitor; some bloke from Norway who had a spectacular groin-slicing injury last season. "Let's give him a round of applause to make him feel better" is the rather patronising encouragement. The crowd half-heartedly responds, engrossed in France's prancing victors on the interview stand.

ZOOM - a lycra bullet whizzes past and easily takes first place.
Truly a slap in the face with a soggy mackerel for France. Bloody hilarious! We leave before some moustachioed and heartbroken fan sees our glee and bursts into tears.

All in all, a cracking day out.

Carnaval

We have pancake day (and long may it live!); the French have Mardi Gras. It all sounds very exotic until you realise it translates as something along the lines of 'Fatty Tuesday' or 'Greasy Tuesday'. Crepes being something of a national speciality anyway, the focus of this festival lies in 'Carnaval'.

So, there I am, on my merry tod, with the rarity of a free Saturday afternoon. 'Carnaval' seems like an enlightening cultural experience and I feel someone should go. Alors, my mind full of fuzzy childhood memories of my town carnival (a few papier-mache coated lorries and always the baton-twirling girls and the ever-cheerful Sally Army), I head into town.

Quelle surprise! I haven't seen so many people since The Strike To End All Strikes. As soon as I reach the Elephants, I'm in a different world. 3-foot Disney princesses garnish me with silly string whilst a miniature Batman holds me at gunpoint, a giant candyfloss/poodle in the other hand. Confetti explosions fill the air and my ears are bombarded with a bizarre melange of Elvis, War of the Worlds and circus music.
So this is Carnaval...

I allow myself to be swept into the crowd and watch the show. The sixty-year-old Elvis impersonator, complete with spangly suit, reassures the crowd that whilst he may not be a good singer, he's damn good-looking. He moves on (unlike the elderly women beside me, still gazing rapturously after him) and the next tractor pulls up. (Naturally, in rural Savoie, all the floats are pulled by tractors.) This is an elaborate affair with an enormous bent crane on hydraulics. A deep-sea diver is inexplicably dangling from the centre whilst an alien trapezes past him, occasionally dropping a ball to the ship's captain below in a haze of smoke. Cracking stuff!

So many of the floats defy definition and description; I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.

The last stunt involved two towering poles, each with a dancer on. The dancers climbed up sans rope and started making the poles sway. I shuffled around nervously, trying to get out of their line pf plummet in case it all went wrong, but soon realised that this encompassed most of the square and, as I'm sure Elton John would agree, it wouldn't be such a bad way to go anyway - surrounded by merry people and a colourful fuzz of sweets, balloons and glitter.

Le grève des grèves

Three friends from home decided to visit and sample fondue, skiing and French culture. They were certainly in luck with the latter: they had inadvertently chosen to arrive on the day of France's biggest strike in years. Sarkozy had made a bit of a silly comment about nobody paying attention when there is a strike. So there it was: 'Le Grève des Grèves', the strike to end all strikes...'There will be a 'before January 29th' and an 'after January 29th,''... The headlines filled me with excitement at the prospect of a cracking manifestation, not to mention a day off.

Until, that is, I realised that my friends would quite probably be stranded at Lyon airport...which would be assuming they could still catch their flight if the airport staff were on strike. Fortunately, we found a private bus company and they arrived in perfect time for a good old protest.

"Why are they on strike?" someone asked. Good question. The banners being enthusiastically waved around started to answer the thought, and then didn't stop. I've not seen such a barrage of complaints since the local council back home decided to change to twice-weekly bin collections.

The teachers were there to protest about school reforms.
The nurses were there to protest about medical reforms.
The unemployed were there to protest about being unemployed.
The employed were there to protest about the crisis.
The Socialists were there to protest about capitalism.
The capitalists were there to protest about socialism.
The greens were there to protest about abuse of the environment.
Even the association of interpretaive artists was there with its handmade sign.

We were there for the show! And what a show we had. A first class view from the top floor of Galeries Lafayette, then soaking up the carnival atmosphere as people handed out balloons; played the guitar, cranked out songs and met long-lost friends all around us. I began to see why the French were so enthusiastic about these manifestations. We left before the fireworks and an enormous procession around town, but the sound of chanting followed us round the streets as we clutched our propaganda and went in search of Les Eléphants....