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.
Sunday, 22 March 2009
Saturday, 14 March 2009
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
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....
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....
Whoops
Apologies for the distinct lack of waffling recently. I have been spending many a merry lesson scribbling, only to lose all future blog entries in a tsunami of frantically tidied paperwork as I search for something in my room or attempt to maintain the semblance of being vaguely organised for private tuition chez moi. Life has also been generally getting in the way.
Still, I have successfully retrieved a significant backlog of tales, trivia and tittle tattle; so shall now type them up very slowly on a silly French keyboard. Apologies in advance for any stray letters - they're all a bit confused on this contraption...
Still, I have successfully retrieved a significant backlog of tales, trivia and tittle tattle; so shall now type them up very slowly on a silly French keyboard. Apologies in advance for any stray letters - they're all a bit confused on this contraption...
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