Fall in France

For someone who never EVER expected to write a blog, I am coming to find that I rather enjoy chronicling my weekly adventures in France and sending them out into cyberspace. I do not presume that all of what I have to say is vastly important or even interesting – on the contrary, much of it is quite banal. However, there is something about writing that I consider deeply therapeutic. On the days that I sit down to reflect on my week and give it written form, I find myself transformed. Perhaps part of this transformation has to do with the fact that I take comfort in routine and a small amount of self-discipline. Perhaps another part of me misses exercising my brain at a level that exceeds eighth grade education. Perhaps some strange and inhuman piece of me misses the satisfaction of doing homework now that I have no professors to guide me. In any case, blogging has provided a surprisingly sweet outlet for organizing my thoughts on a weekly basis. But this blog is not about the art of blogging, this blog is about…

Adventure. This is a word that I use frequently in my entries, I know. But, as I cannot find an adequate synonym, the word shall stand. This week’s adventures were of a subtler kind, the kind that masterfully disguise themselves amongst the hustle and bustle of everyday life. I dreamt of hurricanes and earthquakes on Sunday night, never expecting that my students would somehow manifest their unpredictable tempers on Monday morning. But so it was, six hours of hurricanes and earthquakes accompanied by crying, shouting, and stomping as I have never experienced it before. I think that someone must have forgotten to tell me that it was national teen-crisis day. Ironically enough, I got online later only to discover that it was International Children’s Day. Very funny Google.

The rest of the week followed much the same pattern. For the first time in my nearly two months of teaching, I was forced to take down the names of two students who were disruptive during my session with them. When I reported back to the professor, he took their carnets, which I believe has earned me the eternal wrath of those two particular students. A “carnet” is a very handy booklet which tracks the behavioral issues of each student. If they arrive to class without the carnet, they immediately earn a detention. Teachers sign the carnets whenever someone misbehaves, along with a brief note of what they were doing. The carnet is then re-signed by a hall-monitor-like person who is in charge of discipline. There is a system of points that are deducted each time the carnet is taken, but that’s another story too complicated to detail here. In short, they don’t mess around with disobedience.

This should come as a relief to me, seeing as most students do not want their carnets taken. However, I have come to find that it is a double-edged sword. Students do not want their carnets taken, so most of them behave. For those that do not behave and whose carnets are taken however, they remain sullen and disinclined to work for several sessions. So, we’ll see how I fare in the coming days with the students I punished this week.

Along with the onerous weight of teen hormones that I had to combat this week, I also fell into the trap of talking about Thanksgiving. As a traditional American holiday, I thought that Thanksgiving would be the perfect topic to get students thinking and speaking about different cultural traditions. What I did not anticipate was the sad, nagging sensation in the pit of my stomach that accompanies a holiday spent without family. Based upon their ethnocentric conception of the world, it was very difficult for my students to grasp the importance of Thanksgiving in the United States and thus to understand why I might miss my family at this time of year. Some of them tried to equate Thanksgiving with Christmas, where instead of presents everyone just eats copious amounts of food. Many others assumed that it was Christmas and were shocked to find out that we celebrate Christmas just like they do, on the 25th of December. (What? They celebrate Christmas in other parts of the world?) I found this somewhat funny, and could not help thinking of the years I spent as a child, believing that my family invented hot chocolate and that we were the only ones who knew about it…

My students were not the only ones to show incomprehension at the mention of Thanksgiving. I found myself close to tears in the fruit aisle at the grocery store looking for cranberries that could not be located. Kévin couldn’t understand why I was so upset about a berry, but it was difficult for me to explain the traditional significance of cranberry sauce for me. How could they not have cranberries? How could they not have sweet potatoes? Didn’t anyone know how important these holiday items were for me? Alas, France thwarted my attempt at having a complete Thanksgiving meal. It did not, however, prevent me from patching together the best dinner that I could under the circumstances.

After spending four hours cooking in the tiny toaster oven in our kitchen, which happens to be the only oven in our kitchen, I am happy to report that I managed to bake rolls, scalloped potatoes, turkey, stuffing, and apple pie. I also threw together mashed potatoes, a citrus vinaigrette, and an apple-walnut salad. Kévin’s shining achievement of the evening was the green beans á la crème that took him all of ten minutes to prepare. The lack of cranberry sauce and yams notwithstanding, I’d say we did a pretty good job. Kévin pronounced himself thankful for the food, I pronounced myself thankful for my year in France, and we finished the evening with an episode of Tintin to celebrate the holiday.

On a somewhat stranger side note, I found a falcon with a broken wing at the beginning of the week that had the poor fortune to have fallen near the school right at the end of classes. Kévin and I came to the rescue with a box and a large blanket to trap it in, only to find that we had no idea how to care for an injured bird of prey.

Luckily, we were able to contact a bird rescue specialist who gave us instructions on where to bring the falcon the next day. The falcon proved a beautiful, albeit scared and wounded houseguest on Tuesday night, but we were relieved to be able to send it to Nantes for professional care on Wednesday morning. For all my talk of wanting an animal to care for and shelter, I did not expect a falcon to be the first to fall under my protection. I was thinking more along the lines of a slobbering domesticated dog.

The final irony of this whole excursion occurred to me on Wednesday afternoon as I was cleaning out the plastic bin that the falcon had occupied during its brief stay with us: it has been the only living thing, aside from Kévin and me, to set foot in this house since our arrival in Challans. The fact that we placed it, unthinkingly, in the guest bedroom for the night only made the realization more comical. What could all of this possibly mean? As a strong believer in signs and portents, there is only one meaning I can make out. It’s something along the lines of, “Emily, it’s time to get off your bum and meet more people – like real, living, breathing Homo sapiens.”

And so, I move onto my second quest and another adventure – finding friends in France. Updates will be forthcoming… A la prochaine!