tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7050927035918747862024-03-19T05:19:07.119-07:00La Vie en RosalieRosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-13261447572754541542010-05-29T05:03:00.000-07:002010-05-29T05:22:30.666-07:00Saturday mornings are one of the best things about living in Lyon, because I get to go to my market. There are a lot of different markets in Lyon, and they happen almost every day except Monday, but my favorite is the Marché de la Parc Tête D'or, a fifteen minute walk from my house. It's big enough that I can find almost anything I want, but not so big that it takes ages to see everything. Best of all, it stays open until 1:30p, so I can go even if I don't manage to make it out of the apartment until noon.<br /><br />It's open year-round and I've gone most weeks since getting here, but this time of year is so lovely - everything is ripe and beautiful and delicious, and as soon as you get close you can smell strawberries. Today it was just such a perfect place, and so full of the good things in life, that I couldn't keep a smile off my face as I did my shopping.<br /><br />As if all that weren't enough, it's cherry season now! Cherries are one of the very best things about summer. I could eat them all day, and I would buy them at almost any price. Fortunately I didn't have to follow through on that, as things are not expensive at my market. :)<br /><br />Here is a picture of my new favorite booth. Why yes, man behind the counter, the way to make me a loyal customer is in fact to feed me free cherries while I wait in line. :D<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UNv4STquNKls-ApQGzlX5mKDTPled3AKMdWHSmKPjei20kPitFrDbcDYqend2x5xHxO7AgqonZ7Avn7eQkQukJh80bwU6U_w0lVaANYwJiRMjYR2dsp5SuJvz0Mq5TH-kTMT4Tbic8p3/s1600/IMG_0193+marche.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UNv4STquNKls-ApQGzlX5mKDTPled3AKMdWHSmKPjei20kPitFrDbcDYqend2x5xHxO7AgqonZ7Avn7eQkQukJh80bwU6U_w0lVaANYwJiRMjYR2dsp5SuJvz0Mq5TH-kTMT4Tbic8p3/s320/IMG_0193+marche.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476662145053746002" border="0" /></a>Seriously, how could you resist this?<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Everything looked so delicious that I may have gone a bit overboard today, but I still didn't spend much more than 20€. Here is my bounty:<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2MzaQ8SmlaDDSMvNLpnCsLojOL8SQ-_n5bekpFqH2V8NUpPeHfkuUDchIZco86AGvuwnaosUO8d8-JRCaX_o3WHI6ykp3WIP5gT4ODJMRzpGsD9NDgOGRlUTSDloIPsZ8_EkaUhUui7Zh/s1600/1+IMG_0195.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2MzaQ8SmlaDDSMvNLpnCsLojOL8SQ-_n5bekpFqH2V8NUpPeHfkuUDchIZco86AGvuwnaosUO8d8-JRCaX_o3WHI6ykp3WIP5gT4ODJMRzpGsD9NDgOGRlUTSDloIPsZ8_EkaUhUui7Zh/s320/1+IMG_0195.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476662906042134610" border="0" /></a>There were a lot more cherries when I first bought them, but I couldn't resist eating them while I walked home. They were perfect.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The purplish pods between the peas and the green beans are my experimental food for the week. They were labeled as "coco rouges" and I was instructed to shell them, but not to eat them raw. We'll see what I come up with.<br /><br />It's been a good week. Almost everyone I've seen over the past few days has made a special point of telling me what an improvement they've noticed in my French since the beginning of the year, which although I still have a long way to go, is still very nice to hear. Last night I went out to dinner with two of my teachers from School 2, one of whom is Scottish (but has been in France for decades) and the other of whom is French. Conversation was in French, and I was able to not only follow what was being said but actively participate, with only a few instances of asking the Scottish teacher for a word or phrase. At one point, she complimented me on my accent by saying that I've done a better job of getting rid of my American accent in French than she has with her Scottish one, which I'm not sure I believe, but it was awesome to hear. (That's not to say that I pronounce everything correctly in French; just that when I mispronounce things, I'm at least doing it with sounds that exist in the French language, rather than sounds from American English.) I also got a compliment about it today from one of my coffee guys, and to top it all off, I just took a placement test for a French class I'm hoping to take in June and got the highest level they give. Of course, that's from a written (largely multiple choice) test and does not reflect the difficulty I still have thinking on my feet when trying to speak, but still, a huge confidence-booster.<br /><br />(The one person who does not seem happy to see my linguistic progress is my old nemesis <a href="http://vieenrosalie.blogspot.com/2010/01/french-bureaucracy-reminds-me-of-those.html">the concierge</a>, who seems to resent the fact that I can now communicate my demands that he <span style="font-weight: bold;">do his job and fix things</span>, preventing him from simply staring at me like I am a crazy foreign lady and waiting for me to go away. I think he is frustrated that he has to make up real excuses now. But seriously though it would be nice to have a single working light in the corridor on my floor. And a light in my kitchen. And a working freezer compartment in the refrigerator. And a working back burner. FIX MY THINGS DAMMIT.)<br /><br />Okay, I'm off. It's a beautiful day, and I'm heading out to a Brazilian music festival with Ana, then to Michael's for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raclette">raclette</a> and Eurovision and fun and friends. More anon.<br /></div></div></div></div>Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-80495498910548802022010-05-27T14:27:00.000-07:002010-07-19T11:49:44.519-07:00Today was my last day at work. I won't say I'm sad to be done with teaching, especially since I'm lucky enough to be bowing out right at the time of year when kids see sunshine through the window and lose their minds at the thought of having to waste their time on stupid useless <span style="font-style: italic;">English</span>. But overall, it's been a solid year, and my kids have been really sweet to me over the past few weeks as they've found out I was leaving. Among other things, I have received:<br />- Four classes' worth of sweet things written about/to me on blackboards<br />- One "card" (i.e. sheet of paper) full of adorable goodbye messages, including my favorite, "you will miss me" (written totally accidentally and non-ironically - the grammar of that phrase is the opposite in French, "vous me manquerez").<br />- One surprise party, including homemade cake from one of my girls! :)<br />- Three dinner invitations by teachers, at least two of which I will happily accept<br />- An unexpected 20€, since they are actually refunding my money that I never spent at the school cafeteria and forgot I had even given them<br />- Many many lovely sentiments from various members of the staff, especially at School 1. Okay, only at School 1; no one at School 2 actually realized I was leaving apart from the teachers I work with. But I'm okay with that.<br /><br />So I've come to the end of this phase of things, and today I realized suddenly that I have no idea what to do with myself, now. "Suddenly" isn't entirely accurate; honestly, for about two months I've been thinking about very little other than what my Next Big Thing is going to be. But I forgot to think about what happens in the meantime, before I leave here, and what I want my days to look like.<br /><br />As I type this I'm sitting out on my balcony, the one with the gorgeous 14th-floor view of the rooftops of the city and the full yellow moon. I have these moments here, looking out at this view or walking next to the river or noticing the way the warm afternoon light plays across the buildings on the <i>presqu'île,</i> where I can't imagine ever leaving this place. I've been struggling with that a lot lately, and for all the time and thought I put into it, I don't seem to be any closer to convincing myself what to do.<br /><br />If you asked me to list everything I want in a city, Lyon has almost all of those things:<br />- It's really, really beautiful.<br />- Getting around couldn't be any easier - transit goes everywhere with decent regularity, and if I'm out after the metro I can take a free bike from anywhere in the city to anywhere else, or I can just walk. Relatedly, I can also get from this city to almost anywhere in western Europe with a minimum of hassle. At absolutely no point during this year have I thought "man, this would be way easier if I had a car."<br />- It's safer than basically anywhere else I've ever lived, at least in my experience (I don't have stats to back it up, but it feels true).<br />- There are innumerable small, non-chain shops in which to buy basically anything I need.<br />- There are not one but two rivers, which is something I've missed since leaving Boston.<br />- Financially, living here is really easy, especially since I'm eligible for a hefty housing subsidy and (of course) really cheap and available healthcare.<br />- It doesn't snow very much or rain all the time.<br />- Supermarkets here are kind of awful, but actual markets along the lines of farmers' markets in the US are everywhere, and almost every day, and cheap. Since I don't like buying packaged things and I do like buying real food and interacting with the people who sell it, that is pretty awesome.<br />- I get to speak French here, which I love. Although really, it could be any of my languages and I'd be just as happy.<br />- As a whole, people here are very friendly and polite, and patient with my limited French.<br />- And then there's an intangible - something. I feel easy here, like nowhere else I've ever lived. Even in the middle of winter, I never had a day where I walked out of my apartment and thought "damn, I hate it here." That sounds like a low bar to set, but it hasn't been true of anywhere else I've ever lived - that's not to say I've hated them consistently, just that they've all had their moments of that. Here, if I'm having a bad day, I can almost always make it at least a bit better just by going out into the city. I'll see something beautiful or interesting, or I'll have a short chat with my <a href="http://vieenrosalie.blogspot.com/2010/03/ive-been-jotting-down-things-to-write.html">coffee guys</a>, or I'll overhear a funny conversation and be proud of myself for understanding it. Something.<br /><br />So Lyon has all of those things, which is great. But here is what Lyon doesn't have:<br />- Any opportunity for meaningful work. I could, without much hassle at all, come back here again in September and do the same job again. It would be even easier this year since I have all my lesson plans, there would be a minimum of grief, I would meet the new assistants and make friends, and it would probably be a pretty fun year. I'm not saying that's not appealing in some ways, but I'm kind of at a point in my life where I want to have a real job, one that's going somewhere and doesn't have an end date. One that involves me doing work that's actually useful to someone, rather than the glorified babysitting gig I have now. And ideally, one that pays more than the bare minimum necessary for survival, so I can have a bit of a safety net that isn't my parents (not that I don't appreciate all the help they've been giving me! Hi, Mom & Dad). And in France, with my current qualifications, I basically can't get that. I don't have a European BA, and frankly although it's much better than it was a year ago, my French isn't up to the task. My options here, as far as I can tell, are either a) English assistant or b) bartender in one of the numerous Anglophone bars around here. Neither is exactly what I'm hoping for.<br />- Quite frankly, very many friends. I met a lot of amazing people this year, who I consider good friends and hope to stay in touch with - but they're gone, they've moved back home. I didn't get to know a lot of French people this year, mostly because even after eight months, my language skills are not really to the point where I can consistently follow conversation among native speakers. Especially if that conversation is taking place somewhere remotely loud, like a restaurant or a bar. Don't get me wrong, I've met a lot of friendly French people and several of them have gone out of their way to include me in things, but at a certain point I get tired of constantly asking people to repeat themselves (or more likely, pretending to follow the conversation until someone asks me a question and I get caught out).<br />I know I would make friends here eventually; the bigger and more important point is that I really miss the friends I already have, back home. Of course, this is where it bites me that I've moved seven times in the last six years; it's not like it will ever be realistic again for me to want to have my good friends all in one place. And that's part of what goes into this too - I'm getting tired of moving, and I can't decide where to stop.<br /><br />There are other things that play into this, of course. With my relatively limited language skills, there's a lot going on around me that I don't really get, and that I would very likely be troubled by if I did. I only have the barest sense of how politics work here, so issues that would really get to me back home just sort of aren't part of the picture when I think about France. I'm definitely not saying ignorance is bliss here, and it's getting less true as I understand more, but I can't help wondering how much is going on beneath the surface that would start to bother me if I stayed here for longer.<br /><br />Last night I had a really interesting conversation with Michael and Imogen, two of my Australian friends, about race and how it's perceived and dealt with in the US vs Australia vs France. One of the conclusions that we came to is that issues of race seem to be a lot less dealt with here than they are back home. I'm not trying to say that in the US it's something that's been taken care of or that we deal with it effectively, but I think most people who live in the States have had to at least think about racial issues at some point in their lives. Most people (not all, but most) are reasonably good about avoiding blatant racism, even if they're not so great at questioning the stereotypes that they hold on a subconscious level. Here, despite the fact that there are some pretty serious racial/cultural/ethnic tensions going on between ethnic French people and the north African community, it just doesn't really seem to have taken hold that racial slurs are serious and potentially hurtful <span style="font-style: italic;">even if you think you're just kidding</span>. The other night I was at a small get-together at which a French guy, the friend of a friend, said something that roughly translates to "man, it's really hot in here! I should buy myself a little Indian child to fan me with palm fronds." Our mutual friend, who is an Anglophone, reacted pretty much the same way I did: wide eyes, and what essentially boils down to ". . . did that just come out of your mouth??" The reaction from the French guy was basically "oh come on, English speakers are soooo PC, it's totally obvious I was just kidding, why are you making this into an issue." And honestly? I don't think he was lying; in his own head, I don't think he is racist. Unfortunately, that's not the same thing as <span style="font-style: italic;">actually</span> not being racist, and it's a pretty widespread attitude here.<br /><br />Another (though comparatively minor) example comes from my classroom - for several weeks I was showing all my classes photos of some of my friends, and they would describe what they saw in the photos, try to guess their hobbies and jobs, and ask me questions about their age and family and whatever else they could figure out how to say at whatever level of English they had. One of the people I showed photos of was a friend who was born in the US and is of half-white, half-Korean descent. When I asked the kids to describe this particular friend, in almost 100% of my classes someone would pipe up with "She is Chinese!" To which I would reply, nope, guess again. Eventually someone would go ahead and ask me "what is her nationality?" and I would say, well, she was born in the US, so she is American. One of her parents was also born in the US, and the other was born in Korea. And every single time, the response from the kids was basically "hey, that was a trick question! We already guessed right when we said she was Chinese, and now you're just nit-picking." I didn't really get into it with them, largely because of language barrier issues, but I did try to express the fact that this is an American person, just like everyone else who is born in America and everyone else who decides to become American. Nationality and ethnicity are so divorced for me, having grown up in a place where they are basically different by definition (you can't be "ethnically American"), that it still really jumps out at me how much that is not the case here. Half my kids, if I ask their nationality, will tell me they are from Algeria or Tunisia or Morocco. A few of them really were born in north Africa, but if you ask them specifically, most of them were born in France, and many of them have never been to "their country" at all. Which, in terms of who they consider themselves to be, matters exactly not at all.<br /><br />I'm not trying to add fuel to any "they just won't integrate" arguments. It's not just that the kids self-identify that way; it's that a whole lot of ethnically-French people would 100% agree with what they're saying and would (at best) be confused if the kids tried to describe themselves as French. They have French passports, which from my American perspective kind of settles the question, but somehow what passport you carry and what nationality you are considered to be don't have to be the same thing. I should make the point that these are not radicalized kids; these are not the kids you heard about a few years ago rioting outside of Paris. I teach in good, fairly middle-class schools where kids get disciplined for "excessive rudeness to teacher" and "refusal to take out his workbook until 45 minutes after the start of class" (quoting here from discipline notices on the teacher's room bulletin board), and there are basically no fights or violence of any kind. This is an extremely mainstream view. France is a country that bans "all religious symbols" (meaning the hijab) from its public schools, then turns around and holds school-sponsored Christmas tree sales every December. This is a contradiction that got me funny looks every single time I pointed it out; if I got any response at all, it was "well Christmas trees aren't really Christian; it's just a tradition we have" [note: the French for "Christmas tree" doesn't actually contain the word "Christmas," so that sounds slightly less ridiculous on its face than in English, but not much]. Leaving entirely aside the fact that "no religious symbols" is enforced if a girl wants to cover her hair, but not if a student (or teacher, cough) decides to wear a crucifix necklace.<br /><br />Anyway. That got long-winded and a bit off-track. What I'm saying is that in terms of almost anything rational, I should probably be making plans to move back home. I'm qualified for at least some of the kinds of jobs that I'm interested in, and I can get things done without a ton of effort trying to figure out what people are saying to me, and I miss my friends a lot. And even though I'm not really ready to say that our culture is better than French culture, I understand it better and have a better handle on what its pitfalls are. Every time I sit down and write this out and really pore over all the details of staying and going, I convince myself that I should start looking for a job and an apartment in DC. And then I turn off my computer and go really anywhere at all in this city, and I can't shake that thought of <span style="font-style: italic;">how can you ever leave this, how could you be thinking about walking away</span>. So I don't know what to do, and I don't make plans, and I find myself at the end of my job with no real idea of what is supposed to happen next.<br /><br />In any case, my lease runs out in a month and four days, so I suppose I'll have to know by then. In the meantime, it's summer, and summer is one of my favorite things.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP7E2FI0AH4c1yW1u5BxfrVA-zIotzGOoAz-T1sgd1IKI70Es2srLP1tIAPGSmkF1slPdt8zvyA_FjIXWCCA-jd_I1moNt9cDJFql6l57W7iM5oDtAJVMtlZBc3Z5HyufI3upYDvHJ2a2y/s1600/photo.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP7E2FI0AH4c1yW1u5BxfrVA-zIotzGOoAz-T1sgd1IKI70Es2srLP1tIAPGSmkF1slPdt8zvyA_FjIXWCCA-jd_I1moNt9cDJFql6l57W7iM5oDtAJVMtlZBc3Z5HyufI3upYDvHJ2a2y/s320/photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476079649964947778" border="0" /></a>Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-2471392164606171952010-04-28T16:17:00.000-07:002010-04-28T16:19:08.499-07:00I had hard time with my high school government teacher. I found him overly sarcastic, and was put off by (among other things) his habit of imagining he'd told us things that he had mentioned only in other classes. But on the second Thursday of school that year, after we filed in, he got us quiet and asked us just to listen. I remember I'd been dreading that day and the flag-waving that would come with it - it had only been two years, it was only about six months after the start of the war, and I was prickly about what seemed to me the exploitation of an essentially private grief. I remember trying (and failing) to get across why it so upset me that people who had watched on TV from far away should feel entitled to just as much grief as people who had actually lost someone they knew and cared about, as if the abstraction was worth just as much as the actual lives. There's a debate to be had there, I know, but I still fall squarely on that side of it. What I'm saying, I suppose, is that I was waiting to be upset by whatever came out when my teacher turned the cd player on.<br /><br />What he played couldn't have been further from my expectation: <i>Pie Jesu</i>, from Fauré's <i>Requiem</i>. It's a fairly quiet piece, and high, a soprano without much to back her. In that moment it was the perfect gesture to make, marking the day with solemnity and respect and stillness and the beauty of her voice. When it was finished he moved on with class without a word about it, letting the music speak for itself.<br /><br />A week ago I returned from a beautiful and blissfully email-free vacation to find a message waiting from the mother of a childhood friend. He had missed a bend driving in the middle of the New England night, gone off the road, and died instantly. It had been a dozen years since we'd seen each other and at least a year since last we spoke, but somehow he was never entirely out of my thoughts - a light in the back of my mind that I knew was shining somewhere in the world, if not near me. My twelve-year-old self was so sure that we were supposed to be in each others' lives that in the face of all evidence, I never shook off the assumption that we would find ourselves in the same place again and pick our friendship up where it left off. And now he's buried in Massachusetts and I'm in France, trying to figure out how to believe in finality.<br /><br />A few days ago Michael mentioned offhand that there was a Belgian orchestra visiting Lyon to play the <i>Requiem</i>, so last night the two of us and Hannah went to see it. I guess it's not cool to just openly like things now, so even the program was full of self-deprecating notes about famous people who hated Fauré and swore they would turn over in their graves if his music were to be played for their funerals. I don't care, particularly; I don't need to have sophisticated taste. To my ear they played well, and the Irish soprano had a lovely voice.<br /><br />When the concert was finished, we went down to the berges du Rhône to celebrate Hannah's last night in Lyon. While we were in the auditorium, half of Lyon had been watching their soccer team go down in utter defeat before Bayern. Much to our confusion, the remnants of the crowd were nonetheless in perfectly good spirits, drinking and chatting and even singing in the streets. We spent the rest of the evening just enjoying each others' company, laughing (particularly at Hannah's fake-indignant opinion that all these happy people should rightfully be going home to cry over their defeat) and talking about what happens next. Then Hannah and I velov'd home together for the last time and said goodbye.<br /><br />It's a shame that the first entry in a while that I write all the way through is such a low one; it really has been a very happy several months for me. I have a folder full of half-written blog entries that I put aside and then don't get back to until they seem irrelevant, but I'll try to make something of them soon.Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-36866840652100281832010-03-07T09:24:00.000-08:002010-03-07T10:21:25.645-08:00[I've been jotting down things to write about for months without ever quite getting around to actually posting. No more! I have a shiny new computer, several weeks without guests, I'm almost done lesson planning for the next few weeks and best of all it's no longer February, the month when all I want to do is sleep. Hooray!]<br /><br />Since I like black coffee, typically I prefer to save money and make it at home. But before I got around to buying a coffee maker (and figuring out where to keep one in my "kitchen"), I got in the habit of buying my morning espresso from these two guys who run a coffee cart essentially right in front of my building. They're pretty much the nicest and friendliest guys ever, and talking to them never fails to put a smile on my face - and given that I am still definitely not a morning person, that's well worth the paltry 1€ that they charge for a black espresso. They also remember my order and start making it when they see me coming across the square. Here's a picture, stolen from their Facebook page:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZBFTC0ViK2LIBqrH2KUX3awtZWcxcxvYWcdSgUtclpc3SSv3W1U1xZT0cEPswtt8oGovL6p7DS0d9U7FOpLgE7Cd9OpiFB1qLtYzD4y560ona10kRKKsMLDF1K0p4YkYB1M2TtvrqW2b/s1600-h/7425_155807928733_155807803733_2578510_6834266_n.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGZBFTC0ViK2LIBqrH2KUX3awtZWcxcxvYWcdSgUtclpc3SSv3W1U1xZT0cEPswtt8oGovL6p7DS0d9U7FOpLgE7Cd9OpiFB1qLtYzD4y560ona10kRKKsMLDF1K0p4YkYB1M2TtvrqW2b/s320/7425_155807928733_155807803733_2578510_6834266_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445945599629121794" border="0" /></a><br />I don't think I can get away with calling them friends, given that we don't even know each others' names, but I'm happy to be able to chat to them a bit before dealing with my morning commute. And they seem to enjoy telling me things about Lyon, at least judging by the way one of them sulked when he found out someone had already explained the Fête des Lumières to me before he got a chance to.<br /><br />They both lived briefly in the UK (which is where they got the idea for a mobile business selling coffee that you drink while you walk - neither concept has caught on much here), but their English isn't all that much better than my French, so they're really patient and willing to teach me how to say things. A few days ago it was really foggy, so while I waited for my espresso I asked the word in French. One of them gave it to me and asked the word in English in return, whereupon his friend jumped in with "je sais, c'est 'frog!'" ("I know it, it's 'frog!'") Adorable. :D It's impossible to be too self-conscious about my speaking after that, so I just go for it and find myself explaining things like the US environmental movement and death penalty politics and exactly what we do on Thanksgiving that I had no idea I knew enough words to express. My spoken French is still largely a mess, but as one of them told me, "tu te débrouilles" ("you manage"). It's getting there, if still more slowly than I want.<br /><br />This being France, their hours are flexible - ostensibly they're open 6-6, but they have no problem closing early if the weather is too stupid to make it worth bothering. I find that refreshingly sane - in this society, they can trust that their customers will think more along the lines of "good, I'm glad they're not out here freezing to death in this sleet" than "dammit where are they they're supposed to be making me my double caramel mocaccino."<br /><br />Anyway, what reminded me that I wanted to write about them was that on Friday morning they had the radio on, and one of them (on the right in the photo) was absolutely belting along with Radiohead's "Creep" in his French accent. I waited to see, and yup, he kept right on going when he hit the falsetto. Made my day. :)Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-42769876777352136072010-01-17T06:28:00.000-08:002010-01-17T14:08:27.873-08:00I wasn't sold at first, but I'm really starting to come around to French Sundays. When I got here there were so many things I needed to get done that I found it really frustrating that everything was closed. But it's pretty easy to plan around that, and I've definitely started to appreciate the idea of a day in the week that is just your own time. You can't run errands, so it's not your fault when you don't, and even the transit is infrequent, which creates the perfect excuse and opportunity for staying home and catching up on whatever you want to do. Like blogging. :)<br /><br />December was a busy month, in the best way. I wasn't sure how the holiday season would go, being far away from home, but it was filled with friends and good cheer and general loveliness.<br /><br />The holiday season kicks off in Lyon around December 5th, which is the start of the Fête des Lumières, or Festival of Lights. A few centuries ago there was plague in France, and evidently the city fathers negotiated some sort of bribe with the Virgin Mary that they would light candles for her forever if only the plague didn't come to Lyon. It didn't, and over the years the tradition of putting candles in the windows on the night of December 8th has morphed into an over-the-top, all-out, four-day lighting extravaganza complete with short films projected onto buildings, laser shows, and fireworks. What seemed like all of France descends on the city (especially this year, because the first day happened to be a Saturday), and it's a huge city-wide party. People set up tables everywhere to sell spiced wine and roasted chestnuts, and all of the light shows are free, and I had a thoroughly excellent time. One of the main things is that different organizations will commission light shows tailored to a specific building, so that the projection fits it perfectly, and it will seem like the action is happening in the building with characters going in and out of doors and windows, and cool things like that. Here's a video of the show at Cathédrale Saint-Jean, which is about the design and building of the cathedral: <object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/2JUnzhVAu2A&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/2JUnzhVAu2A&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br />(It's probably better to watch this one with the sound off, since it's mostly just crowd and wind noise.)<br /><br />Here's the show at the Préfecture, which was probably my favorite.<br /><object height="340" width="560"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FeWTVXIY4gc&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FeWTVXIY4gc&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="340" width="560"></embed></object><br /><br />I went three days out of four, and had a ton of fun. One of the coolest displays was this little courtyard where they had set up two projectors, one at either side pointing to the opposite wall. They were just projecting moving geometric shapes, but between the two walls, they had strung up this totally crazy display of very thin wires. Some were strung straight across, and then from them hung all different curled and crumpled wires going in all directions. In the dark you couldn't see that there were wires, you could just see little squiggles of light dancing in the air as the lines and shapes hit the wires and moved across them. That's probably a really confusing explanation, but it looked really neat.<br /><br />I think my favorite night was the first, because even though the crowd was way too big for the city streets here, everything was so festive and the crowd was really happy and I made some new friends - Michael brought his roommate Sonia (an assistant from Georgia who I had met before but not hung out with) and Darius, the German assistant from his school. Toward the end of the evening we also ran into a bunch of the other German assistants, all of whom speak English that puts my German to shame, and we drank cheap vin chaud and spoke three languages and had a beautiful time.<br /><br />Next up: Christmas in Berlin. :)Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-89283480125340375072010-01-15T10:07:00.000-08:002010-01-15T16:28:42.035-08:00French bureaucracy reminds me of those logic games we used to play in 6th grade, the ones that you solve by making a grid and marking off boxes until you're left with the right answer. I can't think how to explain them, so here's an <a href="http://www.puzzles.com/Projects/LogicProblems/SnowStorm.htm">example</a>. There's always a point where there's some key piece of information that you didn't notice or didn't get the significance of, and once you figure it out you can X out the rest of that row, and that leaves just one space in a certain column, so you have that answer too, and suddenly the whole puzzle is complete. The difference, of course, is that I knew all along what I needed and just didn't have it. But no longer! After three and a half months on the job, I finally have my pay stubs, and have spent the week destroying my to-do list. Somehow, getting that paperwork seems to have coincided with a period of what I can only describe as Being In The Zone - literally everything I have needed to do has suddenly been easy. Bureaucrats have decided not to care whether I made appointments, and have smiled at me and accepted my sometimes-questionable paperwork and my bad French and told me everything is going to be fine. Offices have mysteriously added lunchtime hours on my busy days. Strangers have stopped to give me directions to half-hidden locations before I even realized I was lost. There is simply no way that it can last, so I've been trying to do as many things as possible before the magic wears off.<br /><br />In the past week, I have:<br />- Sorted out my medical visit/visa validation (appointment is next month) and obtained an official paper stating that it is in process and I haven't actually overstayed<br />- Obtained paperwork from my landlord stating how much I pay in rent in order to qualify for a housing subsidy<br />- Submitted large sheaf of paperwork demonstrating my (lack of much) income in order to get said housing subsidy, which might be as much as half my rent. This included sweet-talking them into accepting the aforementioned official paper in lieu of an actually valid visa.<br />- Changed my address with my bank, who will hopefully now stop sending me things at my school.<br />- Submitted paperwork to enroll in state health insurance. Technically I have been covered since I started work on Oct 1, but I'm not in their system until this goes through, so I would have had to pay out of pocket and then file for reimbursement after my paperwork was in. Now, hopefully I won't have to deal with any of that if I get sick. (And I might even be able to get the bloodwork I'm about to be due for, wouldn't that be cool.)<br />- With pay stubs in hand, went to the community center a three minute walk from my apartment to ask about their sliding-scale yoga classes. Found out I can go for only about 3.75€ per class, which is excellent! I like this country.<br />- Booked tickets to Copenhagen next weekend! Procrastinating really paid off - this morning tickets were 100€ round trip, down from almost 300€ a couple days ago. Teesa will be there for a conference type thing, so I'll have good company and a free hotel room. Excellent. :)<br />- With the help of the kind-hearted stranger mentioned above, made my way to the city's lost-and-found warehouse in the middle of nowhere to retrieve my stolen wallet. I didn't mention this here, but right before the holidays someone came up behind me at a very crowded metro station and unzipped my bag, which was slung across my body but behind me. My own fault; it's almost the only dodgy part of town, and I know better than to keep my bag where I can't see it in that kind of crowd. I noticed within about five minutes and immediately canceled all the cards, but what I've really taken out of this experience is that Lyon has some of the world's most considerate thieves. They took my wallet out of the bag, but left everything else, including my ipod, camera, cell phone, passport, keys, and notebook. They then apparently removed the small amount of cash, but left everything else (US drivers license, credit cards, transit card, etc) and left the wallet someplace where it could be found. In the wallet was my meal card for School 2, so the city sent me a letter there to let me know. Seriously, where else would that happen? This is a good city.<br /><br />Today I also had the latest in a series of funny encounters with my building's <span style="font-style: italic;">concierge</span>, which is roughly analogous to a superintendent. These started shortly after I moved in, when I went to go and let him know about some minor problems with the apartment. Since my French is fairly shaky, I tend to prepare for things like this by going over the whole speech in my head, and this one started off with me telling him which apartment I live in (which is tricky because French numbers are not my friends). When I found him, he immediately threw me off my game by saying "oh, you're the girl who lives in apartment 1404," which I still have no idea how he knew. This of course left me flustered, and what I said came out something like this:<br /><br />"My roommate and me, we have some small problems. We have... the... burning thing? For [in Spanish] cooking? I'm sorry, for [in French] cooking? There are two? This one, the one here, the front one, he works. But the other, the one back, he doesn't work. Oh and also, we have three... we have... we need three lightbulbs. We have three lights who not work. The one, the one in the bedroom? And the one in the hallway. And the one, the one in the toilet, but there are two, but this one [motioning up] he works, but the other [motioning] he doesn't work. And also I need one these, I don't know how you say [pulls shelf peg out of pocket]. It's for the shelf of my desk, I have three, but I need one more, for the shelf. The shelf of my desk."<br /><br />It's worth mentioning, at this point, that he is also not a native speaker of French. Anyway, he decided it would be easier for me to show him than for us to actually communicate, so he said he would come up in ten minutes. And then never showed.<br /><br />Encounters, two, three and four were all similar. I would run into him by random chance, and we would have this exchange:<br />Him: "Oh! I have a package for you."<br />Me: "Oh, okay. Don't you leave a note in my mailbox when there is a package?"<br />Him: "Yes, but I couldn't." [Note: our mailboxes have large slots in the top, such that anyone can easily leave a note at any time.]<br />Me: "Oh. Why not?"<br />Him: "[Something I didn't understand.]"<br />Me: "..."<br />Him: "..."<br /><br />So as a side note, if you are planning to send me a package, it is probably best to let me know so that I can arrange to accidentally run into him and be told about it.<br /><br />Encounter five was in the elevator. Three Germans got on a couple floors below me, and the concierge got on a few floors below that. When they saw him, one of them said [in French] "Oh! We've been looking for you." He said "Okay. I have to go to the basement, but I'll be right back. I'll be back in two minutes, two minutes" and got off on a different floor. Immediately after the doors closed, one of the Germans said [in German] "Uh huh. Sure. Suuure you'll be here in two minutes. I just bet you will." So at least now I know it's not just me, hehe.<br /><br />Anyway, today I finally got around to writing down all of the things that I told him were broken in October and handed him the list. He looked very surprised and acted as if he had never heard any of this before, and promised to fix things "soon." So, we'll see.<br /><br />I have a huge note file I've been keeping of things to post about, and now that all these errands are out of the way, maybe that will actually happen more. I'm curious to know whether anyone is still reading after all the radio silence, so drop me a comment if you are! And now, I am very late to dinner at Hannah's, so I'm off. (Hi, Hannah! See you in five minutes.)Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-11920191872076281812009-12-23T05:20:00.000-08:002009-12-23T05:24:45.038-08:00En route to Berlin!Well hello there, Lyon-Saint-Exupéry. We meet again. I have to say I'm impressed with the ease of navigating you so far - check-in was painless, security was shockingly quick, your staff is friendly and polite, and you even seem to have saved this terminal's only electrical outlet just for me.<br /><br />Just in case you were getting ideas, though, I want to point out that no amount of good treatment on the ground will make up for a repeat of 2007's airplane-with-a-shattered-windshield experience.<br /><br />Do I make myself clear?Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-33092758141168331772009-12-06T13:07:00.000-08:002009-12-06T14:12:50.068-08:00Thanksgiving in pictures<p style="text-align: left;">Thanksgiving was some of the most fun I've had since being here. We ended up having thirteen people, including six Americans, two Brits, one Australian, one German, two Spanish and one French. We had a lot of fun introducing people to new foods, and everyone seemed to have a really great time. :)</p><p style="text-align: left;">(Note: most of these pictures are stolen from facebook, and are not mine.)<br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lWma2u9OdGtpAxQDtt5PNKww89TO9rpJRZkirdz6gZleG0Xre34BSX-LA-WIDzgQl6YlleYZjnn_TXGuvARgvSmnaQtBRe4CF9uCDSR9Ms8JDtIeWZdRYlQOgP2bU-cs5EzlRqm4NWDC/s1600-h/tg+13739_227695039828_558744828_4412210_4089004_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412108773455361122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lWma2u9OdGtpAxQDtt5PNKww89TO9rpJRZkirdz6gZleG0Xre34BSX-LA-WIDzgQl6YlleYZjnn_TXGuvARgvSmnaQtBRe4CF9uCDSR9Ms8JDtIeWZdRYlQOgP2bU-cs5EzlRqm4NWDC/s320/tg+13739_227695039828_558744828_4412210_4089004_n.jpg" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; height: 320px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;">Ryan, Hannah, Maty and I spent most of Wednesday preparing, so Hannah's first Thanksgiving experience was as a cook instead of just as a guest. Here she's learning to make "winnebagos" (or rutabagas, if you're not Michael). So delicious. :)</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvJRAqIqUcKa53bwdIGmPym82lQbOcOexr6ZS4IJfQ1SXix6LN9XmUEm4ES7IOiu84RDquSoWCGlTkQkhU3EvJ4QJMh5SUrekTC3aPIOmw3UEEy_xem6UOZssM4k7CaKZwECWINicGJgNm/s1600-h/tg+16439_186904533619_517528619_2875145_7678139_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412109044479850530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvJRAqIqUcKa53bwdIGmPym82lQbOcOexr6ZS4IJfQ1SXix6LN9XmUEm4ES7IOiu84RDquSoWCGlTkQkhU3EvJ4QJMh5SUrekTC3aPIOmw3UEEy_xem6UOZssM4k7CaKZwECWINicGJgNm/s320/tg+16439_186904533619_517528619_2875145_7678139_n.jpg" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;">Maty (pronounced mah-TAY), doing battle with the pumpkin. You can't get canned pumpkin in France, so we bought a whole one and then cut it into chunks and cooked it in the microwave. (More on French microwaves in a future post, probably.) Then we spent literally hours forcing the cooked pumpkin through a sieve to give it a smooth texture for pie. Maty realized that using a whisk with a mortar-and-pestle motion would make it go way faster than just pushing (which basically didn't work at all), and subsequently got stuck finishing it. It was so worth it, though.<br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoNG_tEDhBNT1S5RnjAxCGFYTKWltT4RNyY8AQLyzYTsU2W4JSxRWxUp64TiUy5riFSEn1Z7R9LRqUQKcwcD5grM_90fRLyVnEYC3AhyuIQsVKyK-wify1mPGL9HmM__N37eW9cC0zwOXu/s1600-h/tg+13739_228197539828_558744828_4416665_94912_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412109035736951042" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoNG_tEDhBNT1S5RnjAxCGFYTKWltT4RNyY8AQLyzYTsU2W4JSxRWxUp64TiUy5riFSEn1Z7R9LRqUQKcwcD5grM_90fRLyVnEYC3AhyuIQsVKyK-wify1mPGL9HmM__N37eW9cC0zwOXu/s320/tg+13739_228197539828_558744828_4416665_94912_n.jpg" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;">Making whipped cream for the pie. (I'm not sticking my hand in it; I'm sprinkling in sugar.) Everyone was really in awe of the fact that I made whipped cream with a whisk instead of a mixer, hehe. It's really not that hard.<br /></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5hjDP6l9J7TornSYc8LtsRh9EmQL91w8lzrOyhhtlEvnn8X9pSZzFahyphenhyphenDGZGIAPCRQY9goJSVtaWe1YUNtDl_dmKbcQJqTrDql-7tXYA_mHX6-3sTYENugX2Zrt5-Z9dVIfhMpkIBJwsX/s1600-h/tg+13739_227690239828_558744828_4412155_3714073_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412108771692828626" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5hjDP6l9J7TornSYc8LtsRh9EmQL91w8lzrOyhhtlEvnn8X9pSZzFahyphenhyphenDGZGIAPCRQY9goJSVtaWe1YUNtDl_dmKbcQJqTrDql-7tXYA_mHX6-3sTYENugX2Zrt5-Z9dVIfhMpkIBJwsX/s320/tg+13739_227690239828_558744828_4412155_3714073_n.jpg" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;">We decided that turkey was too much of a hassle, and I'm glad we did - some other assistants special-ordered one (which I gather was seen as somewhat similar to ordering a whole sheep instead of some mutton) and paid something like 99€, or in other words about $10/lb. Instead, Ryan and Hannah made amazing chicken, which was made with carrots and onions and oranges and roasted standing upright on the beer cans. The beer steamed up and made it moist and delicious, and also made for some amazing gravy.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2_Iq_3c-W-t_wxa6lKIF_zKnhdvO11Y0sbQkauSVzwZcLC7vOjZB29OJjU63JLZ5tPr1aTca5GJKVSiJc9Io1ygciMdCqWFbjvzLg_Yyg8HP509nMgxo9LmPA5McYTYmAWc-KfCnwrMuo/s1600-h/tg+13739_227695059828_558744828_4412214_2577648_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412108781794818418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2_Iq_3c-W-t_wxa6lKIF_zKnhdvO11Y0sbQkauSVzwZcLC7vOjZB29OJjU63JLZ5tPr1aTca5GJKVSiJc9Io1ygciMdCqWFbjvzLg_Yyg8HP509nMgxo9LmPA5McYTYmAWc-KfCnwrMuo/s320/tg+13739_227695059828_558744828_4412214_2577648_n.jpg" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;">We were afraid we were going to run out of food, so we made something like 2kg of mashed potatoes, which was absurd. Also pictured: stuffing, gravy, chicken, brussels sprouts, rutabagas with burnt onions, corn casserole (which was amazing), and cornbread (which was - well, the taste was mostly there, but the texture was closer to a brick than we might have hoped).<br />Quite the spread.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjb1TOTXd9HNItptUDc63uaDbyAEWjPz2Iyef0g-VdaJILrWhe5FXey5mYdnYnHzDNrw2GBQvfQPkgKHpXY_aW60KnJwMu0-1e3k75uUwY61OOQx5AVkvIow6Bd_1U5fATcmGk7dEtAB5/s1600-h/6+tg+16439_186904693619_517528619_2875173_1855319_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjb1TOTXd9HNItptUDc63uaDbyAEWjPz2Iyef0g-VdaJILrWhe5FXey5mYdnYnHzDNrw2GBQvfQPkgKHpXY_aW60KnJwMu0-1e3k75uUwY61OOQx5AVkvIow6Bd_1U5fATcmGk7dEtAB5/s320/6+tg+16439_186904693619_517528619_2875173_1855319_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412243466873468242" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;">Delicious, delicious pies. Two pumpkin, one apple. All our hard work with the pumpkin was definitely worth it here. I don't think anyone except the six Americans had tasted it before, and everyone was fairly suspicious of the idea of a sweet pumpkin dish, but as far as I know everyone really liked it. (Especially me - pumpkin pie is probably my favorite dessert. :D)</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvJRAqIqUcKa53bwdIGmPym82lQbOcOexr6ZS4IJfQ1SXix6LN9XmUEm4ES7IOiu84RDquSoWCGlTkQkhU3EvJ4QJMh5SUrekTC3aPIOmw3UEEy_xem6UOZssM4k7CaKZwECWINicGJgNm/s1600-h/tg+16439_186904533619_517528619_2875145_7678139_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412109044921198594" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1qrHaGLVv0FThipnwXXnDNifSb7bee7AnWWZ4KfDbJUarxHJ1rvwBff7R4RicS1mFU0ukQDQeHFLWSbePKUIMt8dDKnRPQvgpbuDvFKSp2WJRF1wX8Kz0jb35z9oi6SlwDbfaHZtBTm3y/s320/tg+16439_186904603619_517528619_2875157_2169850_n.jpg" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; height: 240px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;">Hannah and Michael</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuucycaTJZn063nuDPGdWBQEhmYDJrmEWwhB2zqsj1G8-AwtwB1x2FVhdhXLG7se9c2Q3hqY0nXQ46Y48lHXgx8BV_55UzhotoT1xajheG3vNy3gckMnx5kiKeMNrprxhAwX4zxN-U5cg2/s1600-h/tg+16439_186904613619_517528619_2875159_6084573_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412109047756474114" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuucycaTJZn063nuDPGdWBQEhmYDJrmEWwhB2zqsj1G8-AwtwB1x2FVhdhXLG7se9c2Q3hqY0nXQ46Y48lHXgx8BV_55UzhotoT1xajheG3vNy3gckMnx5kiKeMNrprxhAwX4zxN-U5cg2/s320/tg+16439_186904613619_517528619_2875159_6084573_n.jpg" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; height: 240px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;">Raquel, Lizzy and Hannah</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lWma2u9OdGtpAxQDtt5PNKww89TO9rpJRZkirdz6gZleG0Xre34BSX-LA-WIDzgQl6YlleYZjnn_TXGuvARgvSmnaQtBRe4CF9uCDSR9Ms8JDtIeWZdRYlQOgP2bU-cs5EzlRqm4NWDC/s1600-h/tg+13739_227695039828_558744828_4412210_4089004_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412108777664050306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3celHI2w96LDj229PYts6O9R9liIOoPcfLeahT6EN_6nQX6YYgZKTJtRVnrwEcHLTWIMGw1HlgDTFuOoMP9kHSvfnHMHGC6blMVx0-Nh_n6dmoPP_9HzFyrlCQI8KXRt9CFnZZGadDCW2/s320/tg+13739_227695049828_558744828_4412212_7263916_n.jpg" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; height: 240px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" border="0" /></a>Ana, Raquel, Ryan, Lizzy, Michael, me and Hannah. :)</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoNG_tEDhBNT1S5RnjAxCGFYTKWltT4RNyY8AQLyzYTsU2W4JSxRWxUp64TiUy5riFSEn1Z7R9LRqUQKcwcD5grM_90fRLyVnEYC3AhyuIQsVKyK-wify1mPGL9HmM__N37eW9cC0zwOXu/s1600-h/tg+13739_228197539828_558744828_4416665_94912_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412109039776611586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRUa4i8UNWW8CIiFPRjPnZ5gYWjpfcYCablodYAb5ADKXu0bFJd21-IxyzXNNUQuUom0IpQoBlaxoHAeS3qBSMfnsMM5gjs2yQoBU8_hdObDVy1Ga_e-0AmpDwucgkA9EjaIH2_qytWJhX/s320/tg+13739_228197554828_558744828_4416667_715634_n.jpg" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; height: 240px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" border="0" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;">And a last shot of pie, because it really was that delicious.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Overall, a night of good food and better friends. As it should be.<br /></p>Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-29585116882013671642009-12-05T07:37:00.000-08:002009-12-06T04:35:27.403-08:00One of my favorite things about living here is that it seems so much easier to make little connections with the people you run into on your daily routine. This morning I slept in and then went to my favorite outdoor market, which is my favorite basically because it's open later than the others and I can go even if I sleep past 11am. The people there are starting to know me, I think, especially the man who sells mostly onions and garlic. He has all these different varieties, at least five or six kinds of onions, and last week I asked him something along the lines of "There is kind of onion that makes less to cry?" Sadly the answer was no, and I suffered for my (delicious) rutabagas, but he was very nice and this week he gave me a big smile and recommended some new things for me to try.<br /><br />A few blocks from my apartment there is a bakery that sells what might be my new favorite food, <i>quiche oignon</i>. Basically, you take caramelized onions and put them in a pie crust with some cheese and maybe some egg or something, and it is so delicious. The main thing stopping me from eating them every single day is the fact that the bakery keeps strange hours, and I can't figure out what they are. But when I do, I'm going to be in trouble. Between that and the amazing kebab place I discovered literally around the corner from me, it's been a good few weeks for food.<br /><br />Speaking of food! Ryan and I hosted Thanksgiving a week and change ago, and it went exactly the way I'd hoped. Almost everyone we invited was able to make it, a majority of whom had never celebrated Thanksgiving before, and the food and company were both excellent. I've stolen a lot of other people's photos of the event, and I'll post them later on. Ryan, Hannah, a girl from NY named Maty and I cooked most of Wednesday, and had a ton of fun. Lessons include the fact that making pumpkin pie from scratch takes basically a year, especially if you have no mixer; French ovens have an internal logic all their own that no conversion chart will explain; cornbread made from ingredients that are <i>almost</i> like what you get in the States will not turn out as expected; and French kitchens may come with an oven and four burners, but that does not mean they are wired to allow you to use them all. But in the end everything was absolutely delicious, and the evening was a great success. Probably half the dishes were things most people had never heard of, let alone tasted, and the idea of a pumpkin dish that was sweet instead of savory inspired great suspicion. But everyone came around after tasting it. Also! I made rutabagas (as my family always does for holidays), and in France you can get them, but they're very pale yellow instead of orange. It turns out that when they are a less alarming color, everyone eats them and thinks they are delicious, instead of being afraid of them and thinking they are weird. Michael (who is Australian) for some reason could not keep the word "rutabagas" in his head, and decided instead to refer to them as "winnebagos," which I kind of love.<br /><br />Now I'm running out the door to go to the Fête des Lumières, about which more later. Two posts in one week, go me! :)Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-34069906042962431502009-12-01T15:54:00.000-08:002009-12-01T15:56:00.528-08:00My birthday yesterday was lovely. It was one of the days when my classes don't start until 10am, so I got to sleep in, which was much appreciated. Things went mostly smoothly at school, or what passes for smoothly at School 2 - one teacher complained to me that I "missed" her 9am class that I wasn't scheduled for; one teacher had her last day before her maternity leave and we still have no information about who her replacement will be; and a kid sang to himself all through my lesson and then showed up outside another of my classes to make faces at us through the window. So, relatively smooth.<br /><br />In the evening I went downtown to meet Hannah, Michael, Steven, Ryan and François for dinner. At Michael's excellent suggestion we went to a place called l'Épicerie, which is cozy and friendly and delicious and also affordable on an assistant's stipend. It was the first time anyone except Hannah had actually met François, so I think after three months or so of hearing about him they were starting to wonder if he was an imaginary friend. It was good to catch up with him again - our schedules have been at odds recently, so it was only the second or third time we'd managed to get together since I moved off of his couch and into my apartment. He's currently interning with some branch or other of the French police, which he's really enjoying but which means things like armed robbery attempts have been interfering with his social plans.<br /><br /> Anyway, everyone seemed to get along really well, and I was pleased to find that I understood most of what French was spoken. I communicate in French a good amount here, especially with Ana, but I still have some trouble with native speakers in situations like restaurants and bars when there's a lot of ambient noise. But I don't think I had to ask for translations at all, which made me smile even if only maybe a third of our communication was actually in French.<br /><br />After dinner François and Ryan headed home, and the rest of us met up with Ana at one of the <span style="font-style: italic;">péniches</span> (bar-boats) that docks along the banks of the Rhône. I mostly seem to go there at odd times (like 8:30 p.m. on a Monday), so this may not actually be true, but they always seem to be quieter and have a much better atmosphere for talking than the other places we go (which tend toward loud and jammed). This is also the time of year when everywhere seems to be selling hot spiced wine, which is one of my favorite things. Not the most exciting birthday, but pretty much exactly what I wanted.<br /><br /><br />I really am going to try to neglect this less. I've been taking notes on things I want to talk about, but it never quite seems like the right time to spend a few hours writing about them. I'll make the time, but not tonight.<br /><br />Thanks to all for the birthday wishes. :)Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-355077536612039272009-11-04T20:20:00.001-08:002009-11-04T20:20:11.609-08:00I've been feeling pretty quiet lately, so I took it slow for most of the break. Plans to travel never really came together, but I'm not too broken up about it. The first month and change here were pretty whirlwind, getting my bearings and meeting new people and learning my way around, and I think it was good to step back for a little while and take some space to breathe.<br /><br />It's getting to be the time that we've been warned about, when it's all not quite as shiny and new as when we arrived, but when things still don't come naturally and you can start to get worn down. I'm keeping an eye out, with my history of tanking when the sun gets short, but this year I think things are going to be okay.<br /><br />Today when I was walking near Bellecour I bought a paper cone of roasted chestnuts from a man with a cart. I've never had them before, but the smell of them caught me as I walked by, and they were exactly right - smooth and nutty and smoky and warm in my cold hands.<br /><br /><br />Hannah came over and we drank wine out on the balcony to celebrate the anniversary of last year's election. Thinking about that time is strange for me. I miss virtually nothing about it, and I have clear memories of what a misery it was. I also remember not feeling, all that often, like anything I was doing mattered at all. But it's been my experience that intensity on that level always leaves me with a nostalgia for those moments of joy that are so much more vivid for being stolen and rare.<br /><br />On the whole I much prefer things as they are now, when joy is something I can look for almost every day. But this day last year there was delight and tears and there were fireworks, even in Alaska, and it was beginnings and endings and waiting and getting ready to move.<br /><br />It's strange it's already been a year, I guess is what I'm trying to say, and it's strange it hasn't been three. And I still don't know what's next.Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-32995505302183674132009-10-29T06:03:00.000-07:002010-06-02T13:08:31.939-07:00Picture post!<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh507Q6YkSrkQih9hboLOxLppr74gIVZ0JQkTSR4-Bi2A7wpNaoG5TsFiJCzuGH0TzuSdPqacWGhJ4z5aKK8sNSxsvX1j4gQWfzFPg7PqZ_rTTfV9IuUJBABZnBeaHYE7FlwpIL-mkbbV54/s1600-h/DSCN0059+lyon+roman+theatre.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh507Q6YkSrkQih9hboLOxLppr74gIVZ0JQkTSR4-Bi2A7wpNaoG5TsFiJCzuGH0TzuSdPqacWGhJ4z5aKK8sNSxsvX1j4gQWfzFPg7PqZ_rTTfV9IuUJBABZnBeaHYE7FlwpIL-mkbbV54/s320/DSCN0059+lyon+roman+theatre.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397991932547164850" border="0" /></a>Théâtres Romains, or the Roman Theatre. It's still used for rock concerts in summer.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMCd-WnA7sh3vuImjdw5q56Qtm_cjjD5297DsMbEcZejOQsJtMJBL-BrRVm8JgyKu9n2K5mKbjXGtNLV_Hwb9oo7V2EwJ-Asc-1n7JEiawNV0vdpX9vOBqUiCRGimg41yEcdrmuNqALHO/s1600-h/DSCN0058+lyon+car+seat+safety+vest.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMCd-WnA7sh3vuImjdw5q56Qtm_cjjD5297DsMbEcZejOQsJtMJBL-BrRVm8JgyKu9n2K5mKbjXGtNLV_Hwb9oo7V2EwJ-Asc-1n7JEiawNV0vdpX9vOBqUiCRGimg41yEcdrmuNqALHO/s320/DSCN0058+lyon+car+seat+safety+vest.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397991929672051394" border="0" /></a>For any "Top Gear" fans out there. (I'm looking at you, Alice :D)<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ30hcFMLIFT-zVF0jG6FDtHwfDOsSDkf_nyUKmcAXzs2PXzhAOSmvC2S7Uwjhnxh7XrJdepEmfw_I0ucEFyR3qTOjtxo1gMrasnVdOvmLeD3Z6_cZWOwkK_kOAe4Ofu7f0gT4rBtC9_HF/s1600-h/DSCN0079+lyon+ukfc.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ30hcFMLIFT-zVF0jG6FDtHwfDOsSDkf_nyUKmcAXzs2PXzhAOSmvC2S7Uwjhnxh7XrJdepEmfw_I0ucEFyR3qTOjtxo1gMrasnVdOvmLeD3Z6_cZWOwkK_kOAe4Ofu7f0gT4rBtC9_HF/s320/DSCN0079+lyon+ukfc.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397994557159663618" border="0" /></a><br />Hannah, Jack and I made the mistake of thinking the name of this place was funny enough to warrant eating there. The food was awful, like KFC in terms of grease but with basically no taste. (So, it could be argued, a successful melding of "UK" and "KFC.")<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9nmoIfJQDTSSZI6ETUA-87dMPBbICQzTbjhF5hWo4_e0g0rzZQzpUBWrT-6JWh0hxR-mZHN4ApLKYSyW400Coe__S5oOJbmEyj2TleIOAPMrrMajkWqVblQ5sWXEUvlwq6FYlCuNLC-Sw/s1600-h/DSCN0080+lyon+exotic+drink.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9nmoIfJQDTSSZI6ETUA-87dMPBbICQzTbjhF5hWo4_e0g0rzZQzpUBWrT-6JWh0hxR-mZHN4ApLKYSyW400Coe__S5oOJbmEyj2TleIOAPMrrMajkWqVblQ5sWXEUvlwq6FYlCuNLC-Sw/s320/DSCN0080+lyon+exotic+drink.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397994564657647346" border="0" /></a>Exotic Poker Drink. Mediocre, but good compared with the food.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3YDnklYXkRd1vcZ_KwFb6EpOq-WHNYunEIHcKyfPb3fM39G0Fw38cnrgJybeVsIy2MqQA3XhMmA64DojOch2rbsC43JyssMkRLAcpWaySzNvUtGCw1XBfkgWlnyHUCm1-tZKDNEk7fF4D/s1600-h/me+Ana+smile.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3YDnklYXkRd1vcZ_KwFb6EpOq-WHNYunEIHcKyfPb3fM39G0Fw38cnrgJybeVsIy2MqQA3XhMmA64DojOch2rbsC43JyssMkRLAcpWaySzNvUtGCw1XBfkgWlnyHUCm1-tZKDNEk7fF4D/s320/me+Ana+smile.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397999134733080226" border="0" /></a>Me and Ana. :)<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA0GyIqFcW_pXzujWTx8hdHd5nJex7IS-zh1vrLxiOqkUQmNy3Uy7ibiceiup8SvEccD1PMgofJW9L1h4L-afFbGsDQv_Lu5hOWkotvgtSXX2tq7BCF-ASkIVxQRbpVUiV6qg5MkvXJk3_/s1600-h/DSCN0083+lyon+multimedia+mirror+building.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA0GyIqFcW_pXzujWTx8hdHd5nJex7IS-zh1vrLxiOqkUQmNy3Uy7ibiceiup8SvEccD1PMgofJW9L1h4L-afFbGsDQv_Lu5hOWkotvgtSXX2tq7BCF-ASkIVxQRbpVUiV6qg5MkvXJk3_/s320/DSCN0083+lyon+multimedia+mirror+building.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397994571760442850" border="0" /></a>Cool building near my apartment.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqzbf63kE4ptLj-zJ_M6vuCuS4gzvZiD0rM7HdaSbqoZAK1f-sMqFhLBfwVUQgV_WFDsZ64ZeSrC0L993Mv-18fU-bIzHKXAc-x7i8yf0Zk4whiDiTK_kjMuRBnsGLAHLPTAEQRQ57Jw1p/s1600-h/DSCN0066+lyon+diesel.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqzbf63kE4ptLj-zJ_M6vuCuS4gzvZiD0rM7HdaSbqoZAK1f-sMqFhLBfwVUQgV_WFDsZ64ZeSrC0L993Mv-18fU-bIzHKXAc-x7i8yf0Zk4whiDiTK_kjMuRBnsGLAHLPTAEQRQ57Jw1p/s320/DSCN0066+lyon+diesel.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397991937913878658" border="0" /></a>No one believes me about these ads, so I started taking pictures of them. They're "translated" into French in small print, but it doesn't say the same thing at all. The picture is kind of small, so here's what it says:<br />"'I keep thinking of how we first met and of that <span style="font-style: italic;">way</span> you looked at me - it lasted only an instant, but meant so much and now you've joined Baron Vassilo's office supplies company.' From 'The Most Private History of Baron Vassilo."<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmOlkTMlLXsWc1mxkg2R4tbRLQh80hRqeNVOo30RXsXMxu6mHSb61jqaYy-dt9FeeOKNnENSLmg6U5V_TM8JNqu9ghUnSCQrAVsNe8d55IAgDZFk_9xcA1E9bYQkhWnNFM8ZVqNHcqoPEb/s1600-h/DSCN0071+lyon+diesel.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmOlkTMlLXsWc1mxkg2R4tbRLQh80hRqeNVOo30RXsXMxu6mHSb61jqaYy-dt9FeeOKNnENSLmg6U5V_TM8JNqu9ghUnSCQrAVsNe8d55IAgDZFk_9xcA1E9bYQkhWnNFM8ZVqNHcqoPEb/s320/DSCN0071+lyon+diesel.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397991946285046994" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">But this is the one that's really amazing.<br />"We're very happy and we're such a good match. We like spending time together. There's nothing romantic in it, but we agree on one thing: All those bastard Martians can fuck off back to Mars."<br /><br />Say what??<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxVmFWQsqBNm_kLwsiNOAEa-xbESP3DlndkFN6PwYZzYbGTfYEPAllrKgIocebV-K9yxk9B1ub4p3_jDng6mVXbRCmtUL5Y8JTRoAIpXqq8AEaK8SOeKzOOpPy8gwGIzWxdSFDsX1lf3gT/s1600-h/me+Ana+Steve+sangria.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxVmFWQsqBNm_kLwsiNOAEa-xbESP3DlndkFN6PwYZzYbGTfYEPAllrKgIocebV-K9yxk9B1ub4p3_jDng6mVXbRCmtUL5Y8JTRoAIpXqq8AEaK8SOeKzOOpPy8gwGIzWxdSFDsX1lf3gT/s320/me+Ana+Steve+sangria.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397999136489154818" border="0" /></a>Drinking sangria with Steve and Ana (and Hannah and Michael, not pictured) under a bridge in the rain.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX0UbRGW5PTpIxA-h1e_rF5ytfJzm21nWY3Q7UPzzyzGXF4799Rw9lfDvD5CFeNkmQ4eDzdaqBN3GTphIQ8S9rNPL32yMY2x8MIEOfyU1TN8M9in1aks-DrNeyTkxoiLB3hjRRpfu9KUpw/s1600-h/DSCN0082+lyon+apartment+motorcycle.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX0UbRGW5PTpIxA-h1e_rF5ytfJzm21nWY3Q7UPzzyzGXF4799Rw9lfDvD5CFeNkmQ4eDzdaqBN3GTphIQ8S9rNPL32yMY2x8MIEOfyU1TN8M9in1aks-DrNeyTkxoiLB3hjRRpfu9KUpw/s320/DSCN0082+lyon+apartment+motorcycle.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397994566994755522" border="0" /></a>The really funny part about this picture - which I took out my front door - is that I live on the 14th floor.<br /><br />Here are some boring pictures of my apartment for those who have requested them:<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ZyE6hO6mVr6hNkq43Pg8LVQ45pLls9DHCbhtotjtluluniU90U_eWO06g410E5KPKffYclnQ8KsXARDay2ktuJoKOdImxZuTWTIgIVcApNPgwSaV77YqQ2R5Xo3Ppqo-6_WcnUx977Xh/s1600-h/DSCN0093+lyon+apartment+my+room.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ZyE6hO6mVr6hNkq43Pg8LVQ45pLls9DHCbhtotjtluluniU90U_eWO06g410E5KPKffYclnQ8KsXARDay2ktuJoKOdImxZuTWTIgIVcApNPgwSaV77YqQ2R5Xo3Ppqo-6_WcnUx977Xh/s320/DSCN0093+lyon+apartment+my+room.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397998846066823202" border="0" /></a>My room. It looks like I didn't put my clothes away; in reality that's where they belong, since I don't have a dresser or drawers.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjORiyPBUFOVdmSEMmBIK1UpX6UDuKmke_nD-d_k3-sNV67t2idgCO5gE8Q1QwPXOZNIxgHXtwoQKis0Zpgzs4y5yGzXohsKIJ3JKDp5uvYv52zHleUcC4Zm_hrFUZRH64Uc_B3bZgHvayc/s1600-h/DSCN0094+lyon+apartment+my+room+2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjORiyPBUFOVdmSEMmBIK1UpX6UDuKmke_nD-d_k3-sNV67t2idgCO5gE8Q1QwPXOZNIxgHXtwoQKis0Zpgzs4y5yGzXohsKIJ3JKDp5uvYv52zHleUcC4Zm_hrFUZRH64Uc_B3bZgHvayc/s320/DSCN0094+lyon+apartment+my+room+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397998849849070418" border="0" /></a>Other view of my room<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPoND_mqRG_gZPxGjj1BR9qGLGEt4oJ_f2ohOsPedYAh-IOSnwDtXxZdngaV9ETk2CSXtcUvegaskrDHxWPN5sne2jlqNBRggWyrSBYhSp_nhmGFXk6IEHOddTb-E8Nb0-wfVPlUkYWqzf/s1600-h/DSCN0091+lyon+apartment+living+room.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPoND_mqRG_gZPxGjj1BR9qGLGEt4oJ_f2ohOsPedYAh-IOSnwDtXxZdngaV9ETk2CSXtcUvegaskrDHxWPN5sne2jlqNBRggWyrSBYhSp_nhmGFXk6IEHOddTb-E8Nb0-wfVPlUkYWqzf/s320/DSCN0091+lyon+apartment+living+room.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397998842132889282" border="0" /></a>Living room/roommate's room, depending on time of day. The bed is what's known in France as a "click-clack," or in other words a sofa bed. The little teeny room at the end is our kitchen.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Y80WyBxA_vssXdA2V7ZZT7O6OrWlEn7R8tgpTllFTzByrZI8ckzMlqAG5jZMb6N34frBN_-uhUboyFQ6R8nOzu82rHOMz3W7o_etbNfVp_aafwD7HvYq2DOBBaXl5x7b878UPF8guC8q/s1600-h/DSCN0088+lyon+apartment+kitchen.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Y80WyBxA_vssXdA2V7ZZT7O6OrWlEn7R8tgpTllFTzByrZI8ckzMlqAG5jZMb6N34frBN_-uhUboyFQ6R8nOzu82rHOMz3W7o_etbNfVp_aafwD7HvYq2DOBBaXl5x7b878UPF8guC8q/s320/DSCN0088+lyon+apartment+kitchen.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397998833002592210" border="0" /></a>Pretty much our whole kitchen. Again, it's not that things aren't put away, it's that there is no "away." That cabinet you see next to the microwave is 100% of our storage space for the moment.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioAvbgoGfaJygilBpuLwpjw6G2zD3QErEcpRHd0gsi6cZ8nldYi7QHiFXKryghqlAICRE5ZPIKU7UU-VBl177BHInjCeLf6wPB-TJ4Q080jLNubQtPOzvxBsWjYhyA4xpiP0AFD84hOR9R/s1600-h/DSCN0090+lyon+apartment+living+room.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioAvbgoGfaJygilBpuLwpjw6G2zD3QErEcpRHd0gsi6cZ8nldYi7QHiFXKryghqlAICRE5ZPIKU7UU-VBl177BHInjCeLf6wPB-TJ4Q080jLNubQtPOzvxBsWjYhyA4xpiP0AFD84hOR9R/s320/DSCN0090+lyon+apartment+living+room.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397998836636453154" border="0" /></a>Living room from the kitchen<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZKmrpg69JqKvU12kdfvrk-Ah-pM22hQHx75-w6kkHmKulMlgovXgi1QQu4AaLGJugiLADGZq-oErTGgY7BdOSQjY55XqQdrTqn24KW6ITWzMSkrv121SJtgXHZlNgXX_FlXgrAlyw6zU1/s1600-h/DSCN0069+lyon+apartment+view.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZKmrpg69JqKvU12kdfvrk-Ah-pM22hQHx75-w6kkHmKulMlgovXgi1QQu4AaLGJugiLADGZq-oErTGgY7BdOSQjY55XqQdrTqn24KW6ITWzMSkrv121SJtgXHZlNgXX_FlXgrAlyw6zU1/s320/DSCN0069+lyon+apartment+view.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397991941524301202" border="0" /></a>And finally, our gorgeous view. Eastward, too, which makes waking up pretty easy. Pretty sweet.<br /></div>Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-24295614745089059552009-10-28T10:57:00.003-07:002009-10-28T10:57:59.749-07:00Oh man, it's been a while. I think the easiest thing to do is to start with a cast of characters. Here goes:<br /><br />Ana - a Spanish assistant from Salamanca. I've seen a lot of her lately, which has been really fun. And good for me - she doesn't speak English, so it's mostly when I'm with her that I really speak French. She works in the same school as Hannah and Ryan, and she, Ryan and Raquel are roommates. Their place is about a 5-10 minute walk from my first school.<br /><br />Hannah - I've mentioned her here before, I know. She's from Berlin and is one of the first people I met here. She also lives right near me, which is excellent because we can walk home together if we decide to stay out past the oh-so-late hour of midnight, when transport stops running. (Hi, Hannah!)<br /><br />Jack - British assistant who works in a primary school. Also one of the first few people I met.<br /><br />Marie - my roommate, a French art student. I don't know her super well yet, but she's really friendly, and also a little punk.<br /><br />Michael - another assistant, this time from Australia. He speaks really good German as well as French, which means hanging out with him and Hannah is a lot of linguistic fun. No, seriously, I'm not being sarcastic. I love it.<br /><br />Pierrick - Marie's friend who lives in our building. The spelling of his name is a total guess. Hanging out with the two of them is fun, mostly English with a little French, and always silly. They like to ask me to interpret the lyrics of bad-but-fun American pop songs, with hilarious results.<br /><br />Ryan - assistant from Michigan, lives with Ana. Since we see each other mostly around her, Ryan and I speak to each other almost exclusively in French, to the amusement of a French kid who we met at a party.<br /><br />Sara - assistant from New York. She is a ball of energy and lots of fun to be around. Fun fact: she was a flying carpet for Halloween as a kid, but not the one from Aladdin.<br /><br />Steven - assistant from the UK, though I forget exactly where. He like pub quizzes, and comes up with team names like "Team It Takes Three Entire Weeks to Open a Bank Account in Lyon" and "Team SFR Takes A Month to Start Your New Internet Connection In Lyon" (both true, btw). One of those people who seems to know everyone, and very fun and friendly.<br /><br /><br />And now, excerpts from the past three weeks, in no particular order.<br /><br />On the ninth, a week after starting work, we had our orientation. It was equal parts self-explanatory and confusing, with (on the one hand) a lot of information we'd necessarily already gotten from other sources since we were already on the job, and on the other hand tossed-off references like "oh, and of course you all know you're required to buy civil insurance, you should look into that, good luck" (not, of course, referenced in any of our paperwork or mentioned by any of our schools). On the plus side it didn't last long, and during the second half of it we met with other people who were teaching the same school levels as us to trade about lesson plans, discipline, dealing with our schools, etc. Frustratingly (for me), the woman who was facilitating decided to do it in French, although she speaks English (being an English teacher) and the orientation groups were split by language. I'm getting much much more comfortable in French, particularly with understanding, but this was a lot of detailed information that I really wanted to understand thoroughly. Fortunately, enough people started asking questions in French, gave up, and switched to English that she eventually gave up and stuck with that language.<br /><br />The ideas people gave were somewhat useful, with different games we can play with the kids and stuff like that, but it turns out that almost everyone else has vastly fewer classes than I do. I have 21 different groups, and really it's closer to 30 or 35, because with several of them I'll take half the class each time-slot, meaning I'll see a particular student once every four weeks instead of every two. (Most people I've talked to have a total of 10-15 groups, so more like 20 half-groups at most.) That really makes it hard for me to see how I'm supposed to build any kind of relationship with the kids - it's hard to demonstrate consistency when seeing me is so rare that it's necessarily outside of routine. But still, at least some of the suggestions seem like they'll be useful - not least the suggestion to inform the teachers at School 2 that I'm entitled to two weeks of observation before they get to send me off by myself. (They claimed that they'd "never heard of that" and "it must be a new policy," despite it apparently having been on the books pretty much since the program was conceived. But they did finally agree.)<br /><br />My favorite moment was toward the end when we got into a conversation about things that are different in the US and the UK, touched off by a reference in some of the suggested materials to "lollipop ladies." Apparently that's what they call crossing guards, because the stop signs they hold look like big lollipops. Anyway, that led to discussions of different holidays, like Thanksgiving for us or, for the British kids, Guy Fawkes Day. They explained it to us thusly:<br /><br />[Explanation of the plot and how he was captured]<br />"Yeah, and then he was burnt on a bonfire."<br />"No, hung, drawn & quartered!"<br />"THEN burnt on a bonfire."<br />"And on Guy Fawkes Day all the kids go around with effigies in wheelbarrows and burn them! It's really cute!"<br />[American] "Yeah, that sounds . . . cute. . ."<br /><br /><br />Most of my non-working (and non-hanging-out-at-my-apartment) time lately has been spent hanging out with Ana and Ryan and co, and that has been excellent. As mentioned above, talking to Ana means speaking French, and since a) I have no choice but to speak one of my foreign languages with her and b) she's not a native speaker either, any self-consciousness disappears. I've also found that I'm much better able to understand French when spoken by native speakers of Spanish, which is useful for now but probably not great in the long run - the reason it's easier is a combination of over-pronunciation of letters that are really meant to be mostly dropped, and a word-order that's familiar to me from Spanish but not technically correct, or at least not in common use. But for now the main thing for me is just to get out and get talking, and for that it's been perfect, not to mention a lot of fun.<br /><br />Also, my previous experience with tutoring ESL and with interpreting a bit for friends who aren't native to English, I seem to have a bit more of an awareness for who, at any given time, can't follow the thread of a conversation - remembering that Ana can't follow when we go into English, that some British non-assistants can't follow into French, and that most people can't come along into Spanish or German. That's not to say that I'm the only one who notices things, but I do a good amount of filling Ana in on what's going on during detours into English, which is both good practice and a lot of fun.<br /><br />Being Spanish, A is also of the opinion that lunch is a Meal, for which cold sandwiches and the like are Not Appropriate. Since their place is so close to my School 1, I've gone there for lunch a few times when our schedules mesh, which has been really nice. Ana claims not to like cooking, but last time I went over she made something called "arroz a la cubana," or Cuban-style rice. It doesn't sound like something I would like at all, but it was actually really delicious, not to mention easy:<br /><br />- Cook some rice.<br />- Put some tomato sauce in a pan and heat it until it's hot enough to boil. (She apparently normally uses straight tomato sauce, but she didn't explain when she asked me to pick some up, so I got veggie pasta sauce and it worked really well for this.) Into the hot tomato sauce, crack as many eggs as you have people. They should each be in a separate part of the pan, and if possible you shouldn't break the yolk. You can't really stir it without messing up the eggs, so she just sort of jiggled the pan every now and then to move things around slightly. Keep cooking it until the eggs are as cooked as you want them.<br />- Meanwhile, fry two or three bananas in butter until they're blackened and almost falling apart.<br />- When the eggs are done, serve everything together.<br /><br />I'm not really that big on eggs and normally I hate bananas, but this was inexplicably delicious.<br /><br /><br />Another cool thing of the past week was that Steve Yang (of TJ and UVA fame) dropped by for a visit, passing through from Paris to Geneva (and points beyond). My apartment is teeny tiny (pics to follow), so Ryan and Ana and Raquel generously offered to host him for me. Highlights include a tasty dinner at a local bouchon (a type of traditional Lyonnaise restaurant), another tasty dinner at a local vegetarian place Steve had read about, and general wanderings around the city. At one point we also decided to hike up from Vieux Lyon to Fourvière (aka the Elephant). There's a funicular you can take (which wikipedia informs me is the oldest still-used funicular in the world), but we decided to walk up about a million stairs instead, which seemed like a much better decision before the skies opened. By the time we made it to the top we were thoroughly drenched, but still in pretty good spirits. As a teacher at my school pointed out to me, in winter in Lyon, warm winds bring rain and cold winds bring sun. So we might have been soaked, but at least it wasn't too freezing.<br /><br />More soon. (Also, see below for another entry.)Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-60381511601535718932009-10-28T10:57:00.001-07:002009-10-28T10:57:46.518-07:00[I actually wrote this last week, but was holding off posting it until I'd written something else, so as not to leave things on a complaining note.]<br /><br />It's been an overwhelmingly good month so far, with just a few frustrations. I want to get those things out of the way so I can talk about how awesome everything is, so I suppose this will be an Entry of Complaints. It won't be too long.<br /><br />By far the biggest frustration has been sorting out my apartment. Which has been kind of a saga. Here's the deal:<br />I spent 2-3 weeks trying to find somewhere, anywhere, to live. This included a lot of emails/phone calls/texts and a very few apartment visits. Finally I found a girl who wanted me to be her roommate! Her name is Marie and she is a 20-year-old art student. The place is tiny, but in a good location, great view, decent price, and it's not like I have much stuff, so who cares if it's not very big.<br />Hilariously, it was after I finally found something that it got complicated. Marie had signed a contract with the rental agency to pay the entire rent, with the understanding that when she found a roommate, she and said roommate (me) would go back in together and write two new contracts, each for half of the original amount. Problems arose when I tried to go in, because I didn't have a French guarantor. I offered first my American parents, then the LocaPass service I mentioned before, and finally to pay the entire eight months of rent in advance (I would have borrowed it from my parents and paid them each month instead of the landlord). No dice. They do have a system whereby people are allowed to pay in advance, but a) it's only for people who are staying at least twelve months and b) you pay in six-month chunks. Why would they take my word that I would pay the 2nd six-month chunk, but they won't take my word that I'll pay for eight months? I have no idea.<br /><br />François (who was still putting me up through all of this) had been telling me that I needed to be patient because France can get pretty bureaucratic, and sometimes you just need to accept that things happen slowly, and look for a different solution. But when they refused even to accept my $4000 in advance - effectively cutting off the last alternative left open to people without French guarantors - he completely lost patience with how ridiculous things had gotten. He talked to his parents about it that night and they agreed to become my guarantors, which (as I mentioned before) is a hugely generous act, since in the worst case they could wind up owing a ton of money. My parents wrote them a letter to assure them that if anything were to happen they would (of course) be reimbursed immediately, but even so, I'm really really lucky to know such kind people.<br /><br />Of course, that's not to say that things are actually resolved yet. Marie gave me the keys, so I moved in last weekend, but I'm still not officially on the lease. When we went over with Mme Bargel to get everything taken care of, there was a wrinkle - because Marie is getting a new contract, they're refusing to use the paperwork she and her father filled out last month - apparently they think he might refuse to guarantee her for 360€ and will insist on guaranteeing her only for 720€. Or something. Meaning she's supposed to show back up with him, despite the fact that he lives an hour+ away and works full time, and the rental agency has no late or weekend (or lunchtime) hours. So finally they agreed to mail him the contract, which he'll sign and mail to Mme Bargel, and she'll sign it and give to François who will give it to me and then Marie and I will go back to the agency and I will finally have a legal address. Well over a month after arriving. It doesn't matter much - I'm living there already, after all, and the front desk people know I live there, and I can get mail etc. But there were a few things I had to do that required addresses (most notably, opening a bank account) and I'm tired of my official mail showing up at school where I don't see it for days.<br /><br /><br />The second complaint is semi-related.<br />Last Saturday, having moved the night before, I decided to go shopping for a few things that I needed around the apartment. As background, something you may or may not know about me is that I really, really dislike large stores. I'm more or less okay in anything up to the size of a Target, especially if I have a list and can get in, grab what I want and get back out. Anything larger than that, like Fred Meyer, super Target/super Walmart [is that what they're called? the ones with grocery stores included], Carrefour etc begins to pose a problem I can't really explain. It's not claustrophobia, and it's not really a result of there being so many people around. It's that there's too much stuff, and finding things takes ages, and you can actually sort of get lost if you don't know your way around, and it starts to get a little overwhelming. Generally speaking this doesn't really cause me trouble - I can avoid going to those places most of the time, and when I do go it almost never takes more than 15 or 20 minutes to get what I want and leave. I grumble about it, but it's no big deal. With all that in mind, I decided to grit my teeth and go to Ikea.<br /><br />Which was pretty much the worst idea I have ever had. It turns out that in Europe, Ikea's floor plan is essentially a maze. You go in the front door, and from there on there's only one path through the store, which winds through every single room. So (especially on a Saturday) you're in a crush of people, moving alternately too fast and too slow, trying to make sure you don't miss any of the things you need and trying to get past the useless crap, and where you go is almost completely out of your control. Off the top of my head, I can't remember ever having had a more thoroughly miserable shopping experience. I was fine for about twenty minutes. And then I wanted to be done. And then I needed to be done. And after two and a half hours, I was finally out of that godforsaken store. I was miserable enough that I only wound up buying about three things, partly because I (mistakenly) thought I would get out of there sooner if I got less stuff, and partly because there's no way to go back for things you've forgotten that are kept in the first part of the maze.<br /><br />I have no real explanation for why it got to me as much as it did - why it went beyond frustrating to a genuine loss of composure - but I do know that I'm never setting foot back in that soul-sucking place ever ever again. Why that seems like a smart marketing strategy is utterly beyond me.<br /><br />One long trans-atlantic phone call later I was fine (thank you, Google Voice), but I still don't know what I'm going to do about the rest of the things I need.Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-81391947774139775132009-10-16T12:16:00.000-07:002009-10-16T12:31:26.283-07:00It's been a really hectic few weeks, but good. First, school stuff:<br /><br />I'm on a two-week rotating schedule, which I am calling Week 1 and Week 2, because while my schools both call them weeks A and B, they are (of course) on opposite weeks. I'm pretty sure all the schools in the area begin on the same day, so I have no idea why that should be, but there it is. I don't work on Fridays, but each of the 8 days that make up my cycle is completely different. There are 4 classes that I see twice during that period (so, once per week) and there's one class that I see once, but for two hours. The rest of the hours are all different classes, and there's one block that is split over three different beginners classes, meaning I see each of those groups once every six weeks. (But of course it's not really every six weeks, because every six weeks I have two weeks of vacation.) In all, I have 21 different groups. I haven't counted the kids in each class, but most of them have pretty close to 30 kids, so I'm working with at least 500 different students. As soon as I realized that, I immediately gave up on learning any names. I'm also working with at least nine different teachers, most of whom seem to be very friendly, but none of whom really understands at all what my job entails. So it's been interesting.<br /><br />I've been trying to keep detailed notes about how classes have been going and what i've been doing in each of them, because I have no earthly hope of just remembering. So far it's mostly gone well. For most of the first week the kids just asked me questions about myself, mostly the same questions as before over and over and over. My two least favorite (yet common) questions are "what do you like" and "what are you like." How am I supposed to answer that? I've also gotten "Are you greedy" at least twice, and other questions that are clearly just excuses to show off new vocab, like "Is someone in your family expecting a baby?" It leaves me with the impression that they don't think of English as just the mode Americans/Brits/etc use to express themselves, but rather the entry into a different world, in which nothing needs to actually make sense. They're not asking me questions that a normal person would ask another person to learn about them; they're just stringing together whatever they can out of the vocab they know. Sort of like magnetic poetry. I'm being unfair; I also get lots of perfectly reasonable questions. But honestly, they would never ask anyone these things in French. It sort of makes me understand a little better the explanation given as to why I meet with some of the 6ème classes (who don't really understand anything I say yet): "We just want them to realize that English-speaking people exist in the real world." Fair enough.<br /><br />The whole "ask the assistant a lot of questions" thing plays out really amusingly with one of the teachers, because her strategy with the younger kids is to have them repeat things a lot, on the theory that the more you say something out loud the better you understand things. If you sort of understand something when you hear it but you don't actually get how the construction works, that becomes clear when you try to say it. So the kids get these slips of paper each class with spaces to mark their points up to 20, with 2 points for asking a question without making any grammar mistakes or for being the first person to correctly repeat something complicated or difficult that I said, and one point for repeating something correctly after the first person already did so. So in other words, every single answer I give is repeated 10 or so times as she calls on different kids. Sometimes it's fine, and sometimes it takes on an oddly mantra-like quality. "What is your name?" "My name is Rosalie." "Her name is Rosalie. Her name is Rosalie. Her name is Rosalie. Her name is Rosalie. Her name is Rosalie. Her name is Rosalie." "Do you like France?" "Yes, I like France." "Yes, Rosalie likes France." "Yes, Rosalie likes France." "Yes, Rosalie likes France." "Yes, Rosalie likes France." "Yes, Rosalie likes France." "Yes, Rosalie likes France." "Yes, Rosalie likes France." "Yes, Rosalie likes France." "What is your favorite color?" "My favorite color is green." "Her favorite color is green." "Her favorite color is green." "Her favorite color is green." "Her favorite color is green." "Her favorite color is green." "Her favorite color is green." "Her favorite color is green." "Her favorite color is green." "Her favorite color is green." "Her favorite color is green." "Her favorite color is green." "Her favorite color is green." I can't help laughing at it sometimes.<br /><br />The upside of having so many classes is that, most of the time, I can pretty much do the same lesson (modified slightly for level) for two weeks. I'm not really that creative, and since I don't work more than four hours a day at most it doesn't really get boring, so I definitely prefer it that way. For this past week (and at least part of next week) I used a powerpoint that I put together about me, my family, DC, UVA, the work I did for Obama, and my road trips to and from Alaska. They all seemed to really enjoy it, especially the "typically American" things like my parents' house, my graduation cap and gown, and anything to do with Obama, who is kind of a rockstar here. (Any mention of his name is immediately followed by at least one adorably French-accented yell of "yes we can!") It was also pretty easy to tailor to different levels - for the younger kids it's a good excuse to practice numbers ("I have thirteen uncles, seven aunts and fifty-six cousins;" and "my grandfather is ninety-seven years old"), and with the older kids we got into a discussion about how universities are different in the US and Europe.<br /><br />I'm not really sure what my next lesson plan is going to be - the only request I've had from any of the teachers is to "talk about the Pledge of Allegiance," and so far I haven't thought of much beyond "it's really pretty creepy" and "little kids don't understand what they're saying" and "I agree that it's weird it mentions God, yes we do sort of claim to be secular like France." But hopefully I'll think of something else interesting to say. Something, ideally, that does not involve them needing to understand the words "pledge," "allegiance," "indivisible" or the construction "for which." I'm sure it will be fine.<br /><br />Anyway, so far most of the kids have been a lot of fun. The little ones don't speak much English at all (I mostly respond in English to their French, or the teacher translates for me) but they seem eager to learn, and the older ones are a little more jaded but much better able to communicate, so it's fairly easy to keep them entertained because we can have actual conversations. There are really only two classes I'm alarmed about. One is a 4ème (age equivalent to 8th grade) "non-Euro," so non-advanced. The teacher is actually one of my favorites so far - she made a big point of reaching out to me by email before we met, and warned me that the class was a little rough, and assured me repeatedly that I would never be sent out on my own with any who were badly behaved and that if they were bad, I could send them back and I would never have to see them again. I kind of thought she was overdoing it with the warnings - I'm not all that easily intimidated - but honestly she was actually pretty understated. The kids are completely insane. She spent at least 80% of the hour on basic behavior control, and if anything she erred on the side of ignoring things she could have responded to. There are 30 kids, and they spent the hour standing up, throwing things at each other, moving tables, kicking each others' chairs, pulling chairs away if another kid stood up so that he'd fall when he tried to sit, stealing pens/pencil cases/notebooks/anything not nailed down from each other, making short hooting sounds every time the teacher's back was turned, and just generally being completely out of control. Even the kids who wanted to participate in the lesson were awful, with several of them whining if she didn't call on them every single time they raised their hand or shouting "moi! moi! moi!" ("me! me! me!") when they wanted to be called on. Fortunately for me, none of this is my problem - my job was to answer the questions they asked me, and not to speak when the kids were too loud for my answers to be heard, and to let the teacher deal with all behavior issues. So I left the class a bit shocked, but not in bad spirits. The teacher and I decided that at the beginning I'm only going to take four or five of these kids at a time (I'm allowed to take up to half the class), and I think that should be pretty manageable. But Jesus.<br /><br />As a side note, the way that class spoke to me has made me really wonder about the relative courtesy implied in different French question constructions. When I first showed up outside the classroom, one of the kids said "vous êtes qui?" ("who are you?" or, literally, "you are who?"). That inverted form of question is pretty common, and I've noticed it most often with "where" questions like "tu viens d'où?" ("you're from where?") and "t'habites où?" ("you live where?"). I really need to actually ask someone who speaks good French about this, because as an English speaker, I am having a hard time shaking the sense that there is some sort of rudeness or almost snideness about this form. In other words, I tend to hear it as "and you're from where, exactly?" Which is probably not fair. It's probably fine. But still, "vous êtes qui?" set my teeth a bit on edge. It sounds not so much like "who are you?" as "who are <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span>?"<br /><br />The other class I'm worried about is the equivalent 3ème, which is the kids who were in the above class last year. I was supposed to see them on Wednesday, but the teacher emailed me to ask if I could skip that class this week and come to her next class instead. She showed up to that class a minute or two late - because her previous class, the one I'm supposed to have but haven't met, had made her cry. (In fairness, as she herself pointed out, she's pregnant and therefore not particularly difficult to make cry at the moment. But still!) So that'll be interesting. Though if they're really that bad, there's a chance she can decide that I just won't see them at all, and I'll meet with the later class as a permanent schedule change. Which classes I see are completely up to the teacher, which means I don't deal with most of the rough stuff. But yeah, still really not sure what to expect from that.<br /><br />Anyway, the above notwithstanding, things are generally going very well at school. All of the staff and teachers have been really friendly and helpful, and the kids really do seem to have fun talking to me and get excited about the chance to speak real English to a real American, and even when things don't go perfectly, I never work for more than four hours at a time.<br /><br />Have to run now, but a post about non-school things is soon to come. For now, two pictures:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXwD1ju9SPcr6l-yU2S4bQy4gRyb264dobSKZfBKdLSY7DBQrsrTcgZWw9C6RIzU-l9EdQQdAcZ98AuDH6M34Z0dRSDZ7djiY1ETjqrFgKzJPlwjhNMmmiONGUV1eZAzmNZ6MmmtBhqCVY/s1600-h/DSCN0061.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXwD1ju9SPcr6l-yU2S4bQy4gRyb264dobSKZfBKdLSY7DBQrsrTcgZWw9C6RIzU-l9EdQQdAcZ98AuDH6M34Z0dRSDZ7djiY1ETjqrFgKzJPlwjhNMmmiONGUV1eZAzmNZ6MmmtBhqCVY/s320/DSCN0061.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393278876444928242" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Really, English textbook? Really?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgczynS3wxc_U_ikm11bH0mHpOFiJAiz29I9UrXRExwhpgdFfj_hC5BEB6xuE7CknUGAoM-x6jqhzCwTaPgcSVxHPnMbRKGI-xeIY6BtanVQ3hLjQ4gSMM1WkyJn1zE0sVMQU_URDmJRC0J/s1600-h/DSCN0075.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgczynS3wxc_U_ikm11bH0mHpOFiJAiz29I9UrXRExwhpgdFfj_hC5BEB6xuE7CknUGAoM-x6jqhzCwTaPgcSVxHPnMbRKGI-xeIY6BtanVQ3hLjQ4gSMM1WkyJn1zE0sVMQU_URDmJRC0J/s320/DSCN0075.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393279429981626034" border="0" /></a>Well-meaning teacher could not understand why I saw this and just started laughing. "Let's all draw Rosalie's family tree" might not be the best easy activity for my little 6ème kids.<br /></div>Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-28591382232435396312009-10-15T11:18:00.000-07:002009-10-15T11:20:17.067-07:00Ack, I am terrible. I'm on my way out the door right now, but tomorrow is my day off, so I will definitely post.<br /><br />In brief: school is going almost all really well with a couple spots of scary; I am in my new apartment but not officially; the Bargels are unreasonably kind to me; it's cold now; I continue to be very happy.<br /><br />More soon, promise.Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-51129622380275564092009-10-05T13:46:00.000-07:002009-10-05T14:30:30.024-07:00Today was the first day at my 2nd school, and if anything it was more chaotic than before. I finally got my class schedule yesterday, and it's different alternating weeks. The teacher I've been emailing with asked me to come in at 9a, before my classes, to meet the principal. So I dutifully turned up at 9a, to the confusion (and pity) of the very kind secretary, who informed me that he wouldn't be in for some time. In the meanwhile I got my keys (which, if I understood correctly, are for the only part of the school I don't have classes in?) and got a lunch card made for the cafeteria. Eventually the principal, who wasn't expecting me, came and said "Oh hi, you're the new English assistant? Great!" and left. That was it.<br /><br />At 10a I went to the room indicated on my schedule, only to be met by a baffled art teacher who told me I was in the wrong place and took me to the nearest available English teacher. Evidently this is Week B, meaning I'd missed my 9a class while waiting for the absent principal (though no one seemed to mind this?) and had nothing further to do until 11a. Most weeks I'll have a 3h gap between the 11a-noon class and a 3-4p class, but that teacher wasn't ready for me, so I could go home early.<br /><br />Thinking that now I'd be able to go to the rental agency, I decided to make use of the hour of waiting by making photocopies of some of the documents they require. With that in mind, I went and asked the secretary to show me what to do. She sent me to the other secretary for the access code, who told her officemate to get it for me, and off I went. Two minutes later, when I came back to ask why it didn't seem to work, she gave me a funny look and said it wasn't for the copy machine right in front of her office; it was for the teachers' copy machine, upstairs. That machine accepted the code, but I couldn't seem to convince it to actually copy anything for me. After two minutes of poking about randomly, it spit out - and I am not making this up - a page of the sheet music for "Summertime," from Porgy and Bess. By then I was starting to attract stares from the other teachers, so I pretended that this was exactly what I'd been after all along, and fled.<br /><br />Class, when it finally happened, did not go as well as I could have hoped. They were (I'm seeing in retrospect) 3rd-Euro, so the oldest and also most advanced class I'll have - not to mention the only one at either school that I'll see every week instead of every other. The format of the class was exactly the same as at the other school, with me up front answering questions, but with a key difference: the teacher wasn't there. She split the class into two groups of 15 and sent me into another room with half the kids, and after half an hour we switched. It wasn't awful, but it really, really wasn't good. I have had not a single minute of any kind of teacher's training, and I have no strategies for getting 14-year-olds to do what they've been told to do in the absence of a "real" teacher. Most of them didn't really bother asking questions; they just talked to each other (in French) so loudly that I couldn't hear anyone who actually was trying to talk to me. They didn't seem to dislike me, and didn't ignore me altogether - most of them did ask at least one question, and laughed at funny answers - but they just would not stop talking to the kids around them, for a cumulative effect of not even being able to hear me borderline-shouting asking them to keep it down.<br /><br />Which sucks. Because, from what I can tell, I'm not going to get any training. I don't particularly want to resort to threats, but even if I did, I have no idea how their discipline system works so I wouldn't know what to say. And I have no real sense of what level of nonsense is acceptable in French classrooms, anyway. It's frustrating mostly because the times I'm with them are supposed to be cool and fun, a chance for them to do something other than copy things down from the blackboard and do textbook exercises, so I really don't want to have to be strict. And as a kid I never had much respect for strict teachers anyway; bullies are bullies regardless of the age differential. But I'm really not sure what direction to take this in.<br /><br />After the class was over, the teacher asked me what I thought. I said that their questions were good (which was largely true) but that they were really loud. Since we were in different halves of the same divided trailer, I had assumed she'd heard the noise and how loudly I kept having to talk to be heard at all, but apparently not . . . she looked really surprised and said asked which group, and got a very determined look on her face when I said both. So maybe she'll take care of that for me, at least to some extent - I'm not really sure. She didn't offer any strategies, but she was running out the door. So we'll see, I guess.<br /><br />Eventually I managed to get some non-musical copies made, and headed out to the leasing agency to try and negotiate some sort of compromise between their requirements and what I can actually provide. They want French bank account info, 3 previous pay stubs, and a solvent French person to act as my guarantor. I have none of these. I have American bank info, but you can't open a French bank account without proof of address, and I don't have an address, <span style="font-style: italic;">which is why I need an apartment. </span>Without a bank account I can't get paid once (let alone three times), and anyway I don't get my first check for weeks if not months. The closest thing I have is a completly unofficial scrap of paper that says "you'll take home about 780€" down at the bottom. And in place of a guarantor I have LocaPass, a French governmental program whose specific purpose is to act as a guarantor to foreigners, young people and others without anyone French to do it for them. If I default, the government reimburses the rental agency for my unpaid rent. Acceptance of LocaPass in lieu of a guarantor is required by law.<br /><br />I still have no idea whether my first and second substitutions are acceptable (or if they're not, what would be) because, in point of fact, the LocaPass-acceptance law is considered quaint and adorable by virtually all rental agencies, and is thus flagrantly violated. I'm not really sure why - it seems like a promise from the government to pay would be worth more than a promise from some random person, but I think it might have to do with the fact that the government makes you process a bunch of paperwork to file the claim. Anyway, back to the drawing board for the moment. I've got at least until Thursday (when hopefully-soon-to-be-roommate gets back into town) to come up with something. The Bargels are out of the running because they're already doing it for all three of their children. Tomorrow I'm going to ask for advice at my main school, and if that's no good I'm going to stop by UVA's study-abroad office at Université Lyon 2 and see what they suggest to the study abroad kids (who also have to find their own housing). The woman who works there apparently spends a lot of her time sorting out housing issues, so if nothing else maybe she can bully the rental agency into, you know, following the law. If that doesn't work, maybe future-roommate's parents can be convinced to guarantee me as well as her, and if that falls through I guess I'll start looking for another apartment. But hopefully it won't come to that. This all seems really silly because, regardless of what goes on the form, my parents are obviously the ones who would actually pay if something went wrong and I couldn't, so I don't need anyone to actually take on the responsibility of agreeing to pay my rent. I just need a name for a paper. . . but it's a scary paper that apparently says that if I stop paying rent without warning, the guarantor can be liable for three entire years' worth of rent (regardless of the fact that my lease isn't going to run past May). So I can understand people not wanting to be on the hook for something in the neighborhood of 13,000€. But still.<br /><br />Anyway, hopefully that will all get sorted out soon. Tomorrow is back to School 1, so I'm hoping it will go as well as it did on Thursday.<br /><br />And now, sleep.Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-52170783639115400042009-10-04T04:20:00.000-07:002009-10-04T05:08:56.195-07:00Friday night was excellent. Someone had suggested on the Lyon language assistants facebook group that we meet up, but I don't think anyone was expecting the turnout that we actually got - over 60 of us eventually, I think, representing at least three different languages. We ended up going to a cafe/bar next to the Cathedral St Jean, where they actually managed to accommodate us all (though we had to sit outside, which got chilly).<br /><br />A couple days ago Hannah introduced me to the Spanish assistant at her school, whose name is Ana (which leads to some amusement, because French people don't pronounce the letter H, so 'Annah and Ana are pronounced exactly the same). Hanging out with her is fun, partly because she's really sweet and partly because, since she doesn't speak any English, when she's around we speak French. So our little table of five or so wound up pretty much the only group out of all 60 that wasn't speaking either English or German. Very cool. I'm getting way better at speaking, now, which is really encouraging. I still only really use it when I don't have any choice, but speaking at all in those situations is a big step up.<br /><br />It was also the first time I met any of Hannah's fellow German assistants, so I had fun talking to them a little in German as well. I don't have any trouble switching gears when it comes to understanding things people say in my various languages, but switching gears to actually talk is somewhat problematic. Fun, though, and there was a lot of laughing and general good times. Eventually we decided to go pick up some wine and head down to the river (we always do seem to end up there, but it's so pretty). A couple of French kids had turned up by then (friends of friends of someone, I think), so they decided to show us the best/cheapest place to go in the city . . . which turned out to be the same place I'd gone with Hannah and Jack last week. I had fun chatting a bit with a French guy named James, who is a liar for telling me my French is good, but that's okay. Funny moment when he introduced himself, because James is in no way a French name, and can only sort of be pronounced in anything like a French way. So one of the other assistants said something like "James? And you're French?" He replied (in French) "Okay fine, so I was born in England. But I didn't want to tell you because now you'll think I speak English and I don't! I moved when I was three! Please don't speak English to me!!"<br /><br />I had to leave early to catch the last métro. Have I mentioned that the transit system here stops running at midnight? And that there are no extended weekend hours? As far as I can tell, once it gets later than that people just bike home. There's a bike-share program in the city called Velo'v, so that when you have a transit card (which I'll get soon) you can check out one of the city bikes and ride it free for the first hour, and for pretty cheap after that. Lyon's tiny, so there's no way it takes an hour to get from anywhere to anywhere else, so it's a pretty good deal. The downsides are that you have to ride in the street (scary!) or risk a fine; that half the time the rack is empty at your starting point and full at your destination (so you have to ride around til you find a rack with a space); and that, in France, bike helmets are apparently exclusively for kids. I have yet to see a teenager/adolescent wear one at all. But overall it's a pretty good deal. And anyway, once I move into my new place I'll be much more central, and I've even heard rumors of a night bus in that area. We'll see.<br /><br />The theme of this past week has been overwhelming gratitude that I am not, in any way either mental or physical, in the same place as I was this time last year. The weather here is warm and beautiful, the people are friendly, I'm relaxed and have a job that makes people happy, there are no moose and no bears, I don't have to make any telephone calls, I get to sleep pretty much all I want, no one yells at me, my goals aren't physically impossible, it's nowhere near snowing, and I'm not in a constant state of exhaustion and only borderline functionality. I'm not in Alaska, in other words, and I never have to go to Alaska again. And that's a beautiful thing.<br /><br /><br />Now, pictures!<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZSEqhIVbyUtD7O0Vf7cKb8jHkcu1IVgddsIMSKuTkuFLE8f-mGZjjLPwfmOVX2vNscAgoo8MSwjSFm-e1ghPvlc3kjP5NI24lvsn6gfsd2q5OPgwIXWND5N-rSd6DysT9AsHc9IoFZbGs/s1600-h/7927_144984443619_517528619_2549364_5974412_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZSEqhIVbyUtD7O0Vf7cKb8jHkcu1IVgddsIMSKuTkuFLE8f-mGZjjLPwfmOVX2vNscAgoo8MSwjSFm-e1ghPvlc3kjP5NI24lvsn6gfsd2q5OPgwIXWND5N-rSd6DysT9AsHc9IoFZbGs/s320/7927_144984443619_517528619_2549364_5974412_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388703142653030002" border="0" /></a>Ana and me. :)<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGv2lzw-bm6cak262JQaC7bh72STddKAT_A1QChYNaaKbS3qp1CH6OKboDj0yO00ptMcWS2O5lNZJT8WNkrzD-_Hm6tZ-lJX3qtjD-1TY_-2pT1bo5bWciiSs-YuzjYTuqdCDVXQ-nOsl/s1600-h/7927_141896298619_517528619_2524208_6916189_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGv2lzw-bm6cak262JQaC7bh72STddKAT_A1QChYNaaKbS3qp1CH6OKboDj0yO00ptMcWS2O5lNZJT8WNkrzD-_Hm6tZ-lJX3qtjD-1TY_-2pT1bo5bWciiSs-YuzjYTuqdCDVXQ-nOsl/s320/7927_141896298619_517528619_2524208_6916189_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388707219029426674" border="0" /></a>Me, Hannah, and delicious kebab.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAMr0GCM2GO2FEWkV4dHIXonkodE2MrJpCUXqMzY9H7ir0-ikVbHqVNDB-OuO8KngXAhqWfrCSF5FZ1aQFHg1P8OSrz7riVT-PbdNRrLW-2AeqwX2WDQBHNZa_N5yfDmSivl9e4GdXpnf-/s1600-h/DSCN0021+lyon.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAMr0GCM2GO2FEWkV4dHIXonkodE2MrJpCUXqMzY9H7ir0-ikVbHqVNDB-OuO8KngXAhqWfrCSF5FZ1aQFHg1P8OSrz7riVT-PbdNRrLW-2AeqwX2WDQBHNZa_N5yfDmSivl9e4GdXpnf-/s320/DSCN0021+lyon.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388707709821264786" border="0" /></a>This is, hands down, the worst beer I have ever tasted. Undrinkably bad. Photographed as a reminder to myself and others never to buy it again.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge6PzKKYzIYIhrf99woN502XvJMKtXzraaC6m-Bna8dhfAP-t-adJpTC8e0aJVnrAUFyWynUtGlI3E4QjgXur2K10o_hVFXnxfMkdhULJkTQPyNo_wvmNqZ6LpFJIWQE0QxN-5oHPofPII/s1600-h/DSCN0022+lyon.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge6PzKKYzIYIhrf99woN502XvJMKtXzraaC6m-Bna8dhfAP-t-adJpTC8e0aJVnrAUFyWynUtGlI3E4QjgXur2K10o_hVFXnxfMkdhULJkTQPyNo_wvmNqZ6LpFJIWQE0QxN-5oHPofPII/s320/DSCN0022+lyon.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388708278019379826" border="0" /></a>Enormous mound of shoes! I have no idea why.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQxDQngpQtW5l2ObFswx7S6t1pfH94rOUMjNsZhkmLLZAtv11XNWWzkfPz06yxR7Wh8rhJZWGaO8hVZXG_nKpItpTdhgDn-RAihTM_Kgf0mbqMmJhsma9YJRLBwuaPGMXsgtIkTNtMoHh/s1600-h/DSCN0023+lyon.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQxDQngpQtW5l2ObFswx7S6t1pfH94rOUMjNsZhkmLLZAtv11XNWWzkfPz06yxR7Wh8rhJZWGaO8hVZXG_nKpItpTdhgDn-RAihTM_Kgf0mbqMmJhsma9YJRLBwuaPGMXsgtIkTNtMoHh/s320/DSCN0023+lyon.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388708622813717026" border="0" /></a>You might have thought it was. Don't be fooled.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDnD5BKZeSpHccf7-ymk2vGLMshZZOM_5Wwu0GfLKBQKxjVIblYCMq8Tsm13wqxKRdCRx5wkjwNNJ8-xJ27s-_-NM4kHyUxF09A2WJK1bNCEvRf0kwKmiPK4rDjdIHUZ4rg37PKvLb4rin/s1600-h/DSCN0030+lyon.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDnD5BKZeSpHccf7-ymk2vGLMshZZOM_5Wwu0GfLKBQKxjVIblYCMq8Tsm13wqxKRdCRx5wkjwNNJ8-xJ27s-_-NM4kHyUxF09A2WJK1bNCEvRf0kwKmiPK4rDjdIHUZ4rg37PKvLb4rin/s320/DSCN0030+lyon.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388710281889458194" border="0" /></a>I have no idea what this is or used to be. It's hidden away in a park up near the <strike>basilica</strike> Elephant.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnIPlNH7bRSzbvqj7BmrHDU4neNWlsrLSX1n8huv16VfqHL6rxpDvzhYayoIDlTSHLL9F3QSsl9yRYRy3r3YqXZOKiaHRRr7KmlpPbFWqkvG-n8Ug_iMbNcSzi8Q3F5SDU32e-7Wc4UelU/s1600-h/DSCN0032+lyon.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnIPlNH7bRSzbvqj7BmrHDU4neNWlsrLSX1n8huv16VfqHL6rxpDvzhYayoIDlTSHLL9F3QSsl9yRYRy3r3YqXZOKiaHRRr7KmlpPbFWqkvG-n8Ug_iMbNcSzi8Q3F5SDU32e-7Wc4UelU/s320/DSCN0032+lyon.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388710712224755330" border="0" /></a>Grapes (I think) at the Roman ruins.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLF-Q6gFVRAaNz7t-HgF-MIBJ9mTo1Rc1V099-z5mu6H70BZQLWNxVc3648g4As0MeVkekjKlUlOo0zysvAjh-ojS7Cs9D2LAy5CN9-ia8TpNlqIkjttTRWM8AiTa_y0KHbPXTCsED9bHE/s1600-h/DSCN0056+lyon.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLF-Q6gFVRAaNz7t-HgF-MIBJ9mTo1Rc1V099-z5mu6H70BZQLWNxVc3648g4As0MeVkekjKlUlOo0zysvAjh-ojS7Cs9D2LAy5CN9-ia8TpNlqIkjttTRWM8AiTa_y0KHbPXTCsED9bHE/s320/DSCN0056+lyon.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388714358618293394" border="0" /></a>Adam, this one is for you.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_UmkZbtWjzzWd4Ca-rfyCKthgZIXYk9GzBF4L35six0GwgX1D-9HOdhb-pRj9zR5S8i_8JlT1v1-0gSysNnfBSXKDFbCnGpc3hRv4q4LLt_7MEXeTtfgm5Dw-uyJ9OcmSDir_cJ_YTKhR/s1600-h/DSCN0038+lyon.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_UmkZbtWjzzWd4Ca-rfyCKthgZIXYk9GzBF4L35six0GwgX1D-9HOdhb-pRj9zR5S8i_8JlT1v1-0gSysNnfBSXKDFbCnGpc3hRv4q4LLt_7MEXeTtfgm5Dw-uyJ9OcmSDir_cJ_YTKhR/s320/DSCN0038+lyon.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388712768508788322" border="0" /></a>Cool fountain. I don't know what kind of ivy it is that comes in variegated colors like that, but I've always liked it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz3hqIlNVn44U_6cAIHW5l2n_4WBBP7BF4fFmfe0EgraWsA7XzcQjYt7fqVvA4BY701-Tgg6cVMvWEZMc6OoHgxlBzPE7fLVjw-Yq1t9rd3rbDSd_UIbV3nnR_F4dYK8YJ5Lvu0sRDXG7H/s1600-h/DSCN0041+lyon.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz3hqIlNVn44U_6cAIHW5l2n_4WBBP7BF4fFmfe0EgraWsA7XzcQjYt7fqVvA4BY701-Tgg6cVMvWEZMc6OoHgxlBzPE7fLVjw-Yq1t9rd3rbDSd_UIbV3nnR_F4dYK8YJ5Lvu0sRDXG7H/s320/DSCN0041+lyon.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388713534184180162" border="0" /></a>Green space in Vieux Lyon, on a steep slope.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3NTDkuTsu1-YQFO76D7JKtbBxlvW5JiRqua-LattaeojksQxGQQFbFO1IfcO2kV5Yvk6S20wP_gytdt_s_IC7h1DIN6PauB7SIz6R2m3vBO6WHiPwQDCcyzOqsRHnAAJmWCeES3AiIz0z/s1600-h/DSCN0043+lyon.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3NTDkuTsu1-YQFO76D7JKtbBxlvW5JiRqua-LattaeojksQxGQQFbFO1IfcO2kV5Yvk6S20wP_gytdt_s_IC7h1DIN6PauB7SIz6R2m3vBO6WHiPwQDCcyzOqsRHnAAJmWCeES3AiIz0z/s320/DSCN0043+lyon.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388713721967621330" border="0" /></a>I don't know how this happened. It's weird to see concrete broken in that way. It looks like styrofoam.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUUHWeXezWISZFGpAntuWJvzK4DXMwqPA7P1ODIJjWc0-ESP3pjlUC8Xlw1duqwIzEuM2cAUmHpTwg8HY78LSCmfzaxxgkbsjGI27kdKK1iYW23V6rGAQ1R0j_x6rJ0-_aYEUluAQTtDn/s1600-h/DSCN0047+lyon.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUUHWeXezWISZFGpAntuWJvzK4DXMwqPA7P1ODIJjWc0-ESP3pjlUC8Xlw1duqwIzEuM2cAUmHpTwg8HY78LSCmfzaxxgkbsjGI27kdKK1iYW23V6rGAQ1R0j_x6rJ0-_aYEUluAQTtDn/s320/DSCN0047+lyon.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388714174895089186" border="0" /></a>I really like this shot. The bigger version works a lot better, so click for that.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">That's it for now.<br /></div></div>Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-7689214722750169932009-10-03T09:00:00.000-07:002009-10-03T09:01:04.076-07:00The highlight of last weekend was going out for drinks with François and his native-speaker-fluent trilingual friend Carlos, who I've been hearing about for a while. We went to a little place a few blocks from Bellecour, where we were eventually met by their friends Marta (Spanish) and Roberto (Panamanian) and Carlos' roommate Ian (Canadian). It turns out I'm much better at understanding French when it's spoken with a Spanish accent, unsurprisingly - the extra enunciation helps a lot, not to mention the fact that non-native speakers talk much more slowly. Anyway, it was a solidly good night full of French and Spanish and English and a lot of laughing.<br /><br />On Sunday François' sister Sophie and her boyfriend were in town for the day (after taking Anaïs to Nice watch American wrestling??), so we went to the Bargels' for the afternoon. It was really good to see her again after two years. I didn't talk to her boyfriend (Matthew?) much, but she seemed so happy I have to assume he's pretty great. She's planning to visit for a few days sometime this month, so I should get to see her more soon. Excellent.<br /><br />Most of the week was taken up with apartment-hunting, and (that being largely an online affair) was somewhat boring. I did manage to make it up to the area around Fourvière (skipped the cathedral itself - I went in '07 and wasn't really in the mood for churches) and to the amphitheatre, so that was nice. The amphitheatre was built by the Romans and, while largely a ruins, is still used today for outdoor rock concerts and the like. Pretty cool.<br /><br />One night (I forget which) François' friend Julie came over for dinner, which was really fun. I met her when I was here before, and this time was a reprise: lots of smiling and fun conversation, with her side conducted entirely in French and mine in English. I made fried potatoes with zucchini and peppers (easy, a staple) and they both repeated how good it was enough times that I almost started to wonder if they were teasing me. Sure, it was tasty, but not exactly exciting or special. . . Anyway, she's a primary school teacher now, so we talked about that for a bit and she helped me figure out my vacation schedule. Of the 212 days that I'm employed here (Oct 1-April 30), I am evidently expected to turn up for work a whopping 90 times. That's it. Partly that's due to my teachers having kindly scheduled me for four-day weeks, but largely it's due to the pattern of 6 weeks of classes, 2 weeks of vacation, 6 weeks of classes, 2 weeks of vacation, repeat. Crazy. (This isn't unique to schools, incidentally - if I were working Fridays, I would be working about the same proportion of days as everyone else. From what I've read, French people work an average of about 192 7-hour days per year, which makes 13 or 14 weeks off.)<br /><br /><br />Thursday was my first day of school, which I think went really well. There was something of a botch when one of the teachers had given me what she thought was a copy of my schedule but which turned out really to be a list of all the English classes being held, so I wound up starting the day with the wrong class and generally throwing things off. But no one seemed to mind too much, and anyway the original schedule has since been scrapped in favor of something I'm not sure about yet, so it's not as if there was much of a routine set up for me to get into.<br /><br />There are four English teachers, three of whom are French and one of whom is from LA. The kids range in age from about 10 to 15, and are split into "Euro" and regular classes. Euro is, as far as I can tell, roughly analogous to GT - the kids are supposed to be learning more advanced material, and as part of that they start taking English at a younger age and (I think) start learning their third language sooner as well. (Note: Grades in France run backwards, such that you start middle school in 6th and finish in 3rd, with your third and final year of high school being 1st. Don't ask me.) In terms of English proficiency, the kids I've met so far range from absolute beginners who are learning to count to ten, to able to ask and answer questions in English if they aren't too complicated. But the kids I've met so far who were able to speak the best were (if I understood correctly) Euro-6th, and I'll also have Euro-3rd at some future point, so presumably I haven't met the kids who are best at English yet.<br /><br />So basically Thursday was three or so hours split across five classes, being asked questions (in English or French depending on level) and largely repeating the same information:<br /><br />My name is Rosalie. I am 23 years old. I am from Washington. Yes, that really really means I am American [this information was greeted with the widest of eyes]. I also speak German, Spanish, and [gesturing] a liiiiittle bit of French [laughter]. No, I am not married. No, I do not have any children (in that order, both times). I have no brothers and one sister. Her name is Sarah. She lives in Philadelphia. She is 27. My parents live in Virginia. No, I do not have any pets. No, I do not know any stars. Yes, Barack Obama lives in Washington. No, I have not met. My hobbies are cooking, listening to music and traveling. I have been to Peru, Alaska, across the United States, and Europe. My favorite color is green. Yes, I like France. Yes, I live in Lyon now. Yes, I like French food. Yes, I like to watch "football." No, I do not play any sports. I do not have a favorite music group. My favorite movie is The Incredibles [not really, but it was the first thing I could think of - F and I watched it in French the other night]. Yes, I like Harry Potter. Yes, I like Bob Marley. Yes, I like the Beatles. Yes, I have visited Paris. I think Lyon is prettier, but Washington has my family and friends, so I don't know which one is my favorite. Yes, I have been to New York. Yes, I have seen the Statue of Liberty.<br /><br />And this just to the Euro-6th, who understood enough to be told that I had worked "for Obama" [simpler to explain] in Alaska:<br />My job was to call a lot of people and say, "Please vote for Barack Obama." Then I knocked on doors [pantomime] and said," "Please vote for Barack Obama." No, most people in Alaska did not vote for him. Why? Um, it's complicated. Yes, Alaska is very cold.<br /><br />I had a lot of fun with it, actually, especially given that I didn't have to plan for it at all - I mostly just fielded questions they threw at me, and when they ran out, asked them where I should go in Lyon. Apparently there is a Miniatures Museum that is very, very exciting. Also, the zoo. Also, the soccer stadium. Also, the mall.<br /><br />Funny moment was when one of the girls asked if I had kids, not long after I had said I was 23. Several other kids laughed at her, so she turns around and says (in French) "What?! 23 isn't young!" Yes it is, you take that back right now! [I pretended not to have heard.]<br /><br />It still isn't clear what I'll be doing once things get more settled. I think it will vary class to class. At least one teacher wants me to run some mini oral exams with them, which worries me slightly because it sounds like I would be grading them, which I'm wary of. I can also give presentations on whatever I want (DC, holidays, my hobbies, whatever) and show pictures and stuff, pretty much anything to get them talking. I'm not sure what I'll do with the kids at the most basic level, but I'm sure the teachers will have some ideas about that.<br /><br />I spent a while this morning going through my photos for some that would be good to show, and I've got a good few, but I'm definitely open to suggestion on things that 10 to 15 year olds would like learning/talking about.<br /><br /><br />Yesterday's big excitement was finally finding an apartment! I'm really excited. Bullet points:<br />- Roommate, Marie, seems really friendly. She's French and an art student, non-smoking, no pets, speaks reasonably good English which she's excited to practice and therefore understands that I also want to practice French. I'm going to see if we can work out some sort of alternating-language-days situation. She also doesn't care if I have friends come to stay - actually, her reaction was "I would love to meet your friends! Tell me if you want me to stay somewhere else when they visit." No, I am not going to kick you out of your own apartment, but thanks for the offer?<br />- The building is not even a full block away from the metro. Seven minutes from the downtown spot where I usually meet up with friends, and 30 minutes or so to school, which is no problem.<br />- It's on the 14th floor, with a beautiful view.<br />- It's tiiiiiny, but so what? It's not like I have much stuff. The layout is a little strange - there's one bedroom, and one bedroom-by-night, living-room-by-day. I prefer the privacy, but she prefers the larger room, so that works out perfectly. I'll have to go through her room to get to the "kitchen" (mini-fridge and 2 burners, no oven) but not to get to the bathroom or front door, so that sounds fine.<br />- It's furnished. Yessss.<br />- There's a balcony!<br />- I'll actually be on the lease rather than subletting, which means that I can apply for a low-income housing subsidy which should cover somewhere between 20-40% of the rent. I'm not making much, so that will help hugely.<br />- There's a grocery store and a lot of little cafes really nearby, including at least 2 kebab shops (huge plus). It's a student area and seems pretty vibrant and (as far as I could tell during the day, anyway) safe. (I haven't heard anything bad about the area during the past 24h of telling people, either, so I think that's a solid assessment.)<br />- Hannah lives right nearby! I didn't find that out til after, but it makes me happy.<br /><br />So yeah, that sounds like a win all around, especially since rent (before the subsidy) should come to less than 400€ even after expenses. I'm really pleased - not to mention relieved to have finally found something. :)<br /><br />Next post: Awesome Friday night, and some pictures.Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-41102275457392144902009-09-29T13:04:00.000-07:002009-09-29T13:07:46.217-07:00Yesterday and the weekend were good. More on that soon. For now, three things:<br /><br />1) I either have a cold whose only symptom is a completely unreasonable amount of sneezing (no fever, headache, sore throat etc) or a rather severe and Claritin-resistant allergy to Lyon.<br />2) I did not get the aforementioned apartment, and have no immediately promising leads.<br />3) The above notwithstanding, I'm still in a solidly good mood.<br /><br />And now, early bedtime.Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-62465732270341583832009-09-27T15:20:00.000-07:002009-09-27T16:04:59.205-07:00On Thursday I went to visit my schools. I hadn't been able to get in touch with anyone before - the email address I got for one of the schools was apparently defunct, and I wasn't given anything for the second. I had phone numbers, but I'm totally at sea here when I can't avail myself of gestures and facial expressions, so I was pretty sure it would cause more confusion than enlightenment.<br /><br />Getting there was kind of an adventure. Thursday was day 1 of a somewhat open-ended transit strike here, but I decided to brave it and set out anyway. It's not a full strike - apparently not everyone is part of the union, so about half the buses run and a few of the métro lines, but everything is less frequent and hugely crowded. Everything, that is, except the métro line I take: it runs exactly the same as always, for the simple reason that it has no drivers at all. That one line, and none of the others, is completely automated and doesn't even have transit employees on board as a backup plan. After DC's summer disaster this leaves me somewhat nervous, but the métro here is in much, much better repair, so it's probably fine. I guess. I don't have much choice anyway, so I'm not thinking about it too much.<br /><br />To get to my schools from here I take a métro and a bus, and the bus was totally insane. To have fit any more people, some of them would have had to be crowd-surfing. On the plus side, they had just given up and turned off the ticket-taking machines, so I've been riding free for the past four days. I have no idea how long things will go on like that - apparently they're threatening to strike for 99 days, and although the strikers probably can't afford to stay completely home during that whole time, I've been told that their phase 2 consists of working half days, and staying home during rush hours for maximum inconvenience. Weirdly, no one I've talked to seems to have any idea what the strikers are demanding - if I understand correctly, the discussions happen behind closed doors, so all the public really knows is whether there are strikes or not. And of course, during the strike the schedule of what runs and when changes every single day, so you just have to check the transit site and cross your fingers that your bus isn't canceled for the day.<br /><br />Eventually I made it to my main school, and wandered around until I found someone to introduce myself to. She took me to the main secretary, who is really sweet and has a great smile and spoke to me slowly and gave me some papers to fill out while she went to look for one of the English teachers. I can't remember her last name - I have it written down somewhere - but I think her first name is Patricia. Conversation moved pretty fluidly in and out of French and English, but I followed most of it pretty well. She seemed really happy to meet me and she showed me all around the school and showed me some of the powerpoint things previous assistants have done. My first day is Thursday, so earlier in the week she'll work with the kids so they have questions to ask me on the first day, about where I'm from and my hobbies etc. So that should be pretty easy and non-stressful. It sounds like there are four English teachers, so I guess I'll meet the rest sometime this week or next. I was hoping that the school had another assistant or two assigned for the other languages, but apparently I'm the only one. Still, it seems like it should work pretty well, especially if the rest of the teachers are anywhere near as nice as they ones I met.<br /><br />Afterward I walked over to my 2nd school, which is about half an hour's walk away (there are buses, but it didn't seem worth it to fight my way onto one). This was a less successful visit - one English teacher was rushing out the door, and it seemed from the schedule that the one I really needed to meet had a free period, but when I went by to say hi she had a class. I left my email address with the secretary (who was just as friendly as the other and gave me a big packet of information with my name on it, so she did know who I was) but I haven't heard anything yet. Since it's not my main school, I have no idea how I'm supposed to find out when to go there - the only official instructions I've had are to turn up at my main school at 9a on October 1st, so maybe they'll have my 2nd school's schedule ready for me then, too. I can hope.<br /><br />I had originally planned to meet up with a couple other assistants from the UK in the afternoon, but was foiled by the strike. My bus out to the schools left right when I expected, but that was apparently just a ploy to lull me into a false sense of security. The bus back to the city center is supposed to run every 8 minutes, but I knew things were off-kilter, so it wasn't really until 45 minutes in - when I saw the third bus pass by in the opposite direction - that I really started to get concerned. Surely they wouldn't run a bus in one direction only and just strand people, right? Right??<br /><br />Well, right. It did come eventually. I managed to get the last open seat, and two stops past where I got on it was, once again, so full that they just started passing by people waiting to get on. That has to be infuriating, to wait 45 min for a bus that doesn't even stop for you. Hopefully this will end before too long. In the meantime, I seem to be less frustrated about the whole thing than most people - partly because I'm lucky enough not to have anywhere urgent to be just yet, but also because I don't mind long walks to get places. I'm getting to know the city better than I otherwise would, which I appreciate right now. I'm hoping to more or less know my way around by the time it gets cold and I'm in less of a mood to explore.<br /><br />By the time I made it back downtown I was pretty hungry, so I decided to grab a "sandwich kebab" (also known in Germany as Döner). As far as I can tell, the US is the only place where "kebab" is short for "shish kebab," small pieces of meat and/or veggies on a stick. Everywhere else, kebab is meat shaved off of a huge upright cone of meat with a metal pole through the middle, which turns slowly in front of a heating element, like so (picture is not mine):<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhDZZBaPMKqz4qAGAowHaCA5k03NDgikunP4WddyV8WA7Y0A0vWVOCKkuLDRcu72hRIWC12OC4MIZqFzeb1loPtO32drINKmjFSSiHrXNKPj6aJm4uL5CIgQIXkARH_pbG6fBhKivKP30/s1600-h/329px-Doner_kebap_Istanbul_20071026.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhDZZBaPMKqz4qAGAowHaCA5k03NDgikunP4WddyV8WA7Y0A0vWVOCKkuLDRcu72hRIWC12OC4MIZqFzeb1loPtO32drINKmjFSSiHrXNKPj6aJm4uL5CIgQIXkARH_pbG6fBhKivKP30/s320/329px-Doner_kebap_Istanbul_20071026.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386284565227003202" border="0" /></a>You eat it in a sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes and sauce. It's kind of like a gyro, but for some reason that entirely escapes me, it's so much better. I've never had anything like it in the States and it's definitely on my list of top 10 things that are awesome about living in Europe. Side benefits are the fact that it's cheaper than any other food, kebab shops are on every corner, and they're open longer than other restaurants. All of which might help explain why I've been eating them all the time, as in sometimes more than once a day. (That having been said, I've been having mine "sans sauce" for the simple reason that I have no idea what any of the sauces are. Now that I've finally learned the French word for "spicy" and can thus ensure that I get something that isn't, I'll probably start trying them. The names are mostly in Turkish or Arabic, except one: "sauce blanche," or "white sauce." Descriptive, that.)<br /><br /><br />Friday was more apartment-hunting, and I might actually have found something. I'm going to visit it tomorrow, so I'm trying not to get my hopes up too much, but it really would be perfect if it worked out. More on that later, hopefully. In the afternoon I walked over to check out its neighborhood, which is pretty nice and also right in front of a park. You have to climb a pretty steep hill, but then there are really good views. I took some pictures. (Click on them to see bigger versions.)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXipUf5xLi6gDYM2Gs5nOOqWsjaN4ETrKIItz0Y0gh96uPF5FID-TuhkvFgX1AoT7rKIt2h7b5cXpREIzfuPf0_Y1xokl_pj1aLD2AqrVd9SEGuVS8u8yD6QEYvIfIExsEXdWXJcyjcES/s1600-h/DSCN0003.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXipUf5xLi6gDYM2Gs5nOOqWsjaN4ETrKIItz0Y0gh96uPF5FID-TuhkvFgX1AoT7rKIt2h7b5cXpREIzfuPf0_Y1xokl_pj1aLD2AqrVd9SEGuVS8u8yD6QEYvIfIExsEXdWXJcyjcES/s320/DSCN0003.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386281561615544850" border="0" /></a>My new camera doesn't tell me when I've taken a blurry picture, which is a shame. Even so, I love this shot. A courtyard a few blocks away from the park.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM3eWHscochTpPA8qErbiyu1fP_mQYrLcP9NX1wvhKeC6oqI-ZwOcBbcZ96hP2bAkpUBDT7nqLHGgVIZoL_w9kMhOLB1ZXFKT-L5SOtfuW_0GrSr3OJxFkg8tut4DKzk7GkaRYoMKEEM3d/s1600-h/DSCN0006.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM3eWHscochTpPA8qErbiyu1fP_mQYrLcP9NX1wvhKeC6oqI-ZwOcBbcZ96hP2bAkpUBDT7nqLHGgVIZoL_w9kMhOLB1ZXFKT-L5SOtfuW_0GrSr3OJxFkg8tut4DKzk7GkaRYoMKEEM3d/s320/DSCN0006.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386282026725046610" border="0" /></a>View of the city from the top of the park.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJk8MZYaI8HgzNICJfjV1aOfgVShhtMVh0FDiq-y758F9QdnoY_lq5yf_ZYQ_XElg9ISxC3dXR559R-IePyPLorq64V_3-tbMHst0SMCoCVE0EitXH0EU3tsdaTH-5kS9SwmySHQ-rGZje/s1600-h/DSCN0009.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJk8MZYaI8HgzNICJfjV1aOfgVShhtMVh0FDiq-y758F9QdnoY_lq5yf_ZYQ_XElg9ISxC3dXR559R-IePyPLorq64V_3-tbMHst0SMCoCVE0EitXH0EU3tsdaTH-5kS9SwmySHQ-rGZje/s320/DSCN0009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386282236401879874" border="0" /></a>View in a different direction. I kind of like that it's just hewn out of rock.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnH7GgtulQBjNBvMZr0k8dIVsrTkuQW3WGhwOHtz3IqMwxI7GmOZILfGR8YswCPvmkfeO9Jbw0WoMgrwgq8H_ki7CdnXN1ONdu9pOnkYYs_H_SGECLhPgVXzpftDLBlmCIfK3MVtDC16C6/s1600-h/DSCN0010.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnH7GgtulQBjNBvMZr0k8dIVsrTkuQW3WGhwOHtz3IqMwxI7GmOZILfGR8YswCPvmkfeO9Jbw0WoMgrwgq8H_ki7CdnXN1ONdu9pOnkYYs_H_SGECLhPgVXzpftDLBlmCIfK3MVtDC16C6/s320/DSCN0010.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386282545464568706" border="0" /></a> Apparently it has been illegal to throw projectiles onto the lower properties since March 2, 1874.<br /></div><br />Afterward I walked over to the opera building to meet up with Hannah and Jack. After wandering around for a bit (that area of town has a truly epic number of kebab shops per capita), we wound up heading back to the same place as before on the banks of the Rhône.<br /><br />But this time, I saw the elephant! In case you didn't get it before, here is a terrible explanatory drawing:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDLPLDcrZ5XDLM5uA0LJdw50kbr9LCdoyqrujxK4lDLYPkDvvSoxM5nscOwPsHoP4ZsibOyVxm9KmaOq7-49V_Ad_gozw2xyC3wkQ6TnL4oYl9GjW3-o-2OiFTtL0F0jezaLipZT2OaCUn/s1600-h/Fourviere1+rotate.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDLPLDcrZ5XDLM5uA0LJdw50kbr9LCdoyqrujxK4lDLYPkDvvSoxM5nscOwPsHoP4ZsibOyVxm9KmaOq7-49V_Ad_gozw2xyC3wkQ6TnL4oYl9GjW3-o-2OiFTtL0F0jezaLipZT2OaCUn/s320/Fourviere1+rotate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386283186645262882" border="0" /></a><br />(Drinking and discussing elephants led to an attempted explanation of "seeing pink elephants," so pink seemed appropriate.) By the end of the evening Hannah was able to see it too, but Jack is still in a benighted state of elephant-denial. He'll come round eventually.<br /><br />It's late, so that's it for now. Hopefully by the next time I write, I'll have a place to call home. :)Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-87593388519377170712009-09-27T10:59:00.001-07:002009-09-27T14:01:02.515-07:00So, more catch-up:<br /><br />Tuesday I mostly spent with Hannah, the German assistant. We met up with some of the other assistants in Croix-Rousse, where there's a big outdoor market. One side of the street is food, and the other side is . . everything, more or less. It's really long. I'm planning to head back there at some point and take my time there - most of it is junk, but among other things they have pretty cheap kitchen stuff, so depending on my living situation that could come in really handy.<br /><br />After wandering the market and getting lunch, everyone else had places they needed to be, so Hannah and I wandered around the Croix-Rousse area a little longer and then headed back to the 9th to François' place. Neither of us had really had a chance to cook at all since getting here (she's been staying at a hotel until her new room frees up), so we headed to the supermarket and made pasta with veggies. Since he just moved, François doesn't really have much in the way of kitchen stuff, which makes me laugh because when he was at UVA he liked to talk a lot about how Americans don't cook and it's so much better in France. And now I come to France ready to cook, and he has nothing for spices except salt, pepper and parsley. Even so, it was tasty, and the three of us got along well and had a multi-lingual dinner.<br /><br />There was a really funny moment when we were cleaning up afterward, and François was trying to put away the pot we had used, which he keeps on the top shelf (where I can't reach things at all). He was barely able to reach it, so Hannah said "let me - I'm taller than you" (which is true, but not by more than an inch or so). The look he gave her was priceless: almost offended, but laughing . . . but still, a little offended . . but laughing. So she goes "oh, sorry, I forgot - boys are always taller than girls." :D<br /><br /><br />After she headed home, François and I headed out to meet up with some of his friends from "cop school." There are a bunch of small boats that are permanently docked on the shore of the Rhône, and several of them are bars or restaurants or cafes. The view around there is really beautiful.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYPl_G1XlYz9vaaYMTP2k55Jc8gv9kJ7CB4o6oQYVWRPlKoffdEDCYgIRikOlWuU-RJVfF1Sml7136d6f7P-CfglTJZEdpz_cWePBkkFfKzkmXxYPOuKd_cxRoVGizBnOgDuDdLtbFeFe/s1600-h/DSCN0019+hotel+dieu.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYPl_G1XlYz9vaaYMTP2k55Jc8gv9kJ7CB4o6oQYVWRPlKoffdEDCYgIRikOlWuU-RJVfF1Sml7136d6f7P-CfglTJZEdpz_cWePBkkFfKzkmXxYPOuKd_cxRoVGizBnOgDuDdLtbFeFe/s320/DSCN0019+hotel+dieu.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385742654879663490" border="0" /></a><br />I had fun, but I think bars must be the origin of the myth that foreigners will understand you if only you shout loud enough - it was so loud there, I kept thinking that I might know what was being said if only I could hear at all. But everyone was really sweet, and I ended up talking to a girl named (I think) Mathilde, who did a year abroad in Boston during high school. We wound up talking about prom, hehe. There was also a girl named Yasmine who was really excellent at speaking slowly and using simple words to get things across to me. I really appreciated that - it's a skill of mine, when I'm speaking English to non-native speakers, but I've found that it's fairly rare, generally speaking. Most people will slow down at first, but soon they forget and speed back up again, or get bored or whatever. But she told me a really funny story about how one of the other guys they go to school with had been practicing CPR that morning, and did chest compressions so hard that he actually broke the mannequin. Hopefully I won't need CPR while I'm here . . .<br /><br />Wednesday night there was a dinner party thrown by two other assistants, which was really nice of them. It was nice to get to know people a little more and to chat in English, though I know I really should stop seeking that out soon. It ended fairly early because the hosts had somewhere to be early in the morning, so four of us headed out to find somewhere to spend the evening (and drink the leftover bottle of wine our hosts had pressed on us). Me, Hannah, and then Michael (or Mickaël as he spells it when he's here, because he refuses to be "Michel") from Australia, and Bérénice from Lyon (she was a French assistant in Scotland a few years ago, and remembers that it was difficult at first, so she hangs out with the language assistants when they come here to make things a little smoother).<br /><br />The riverbank in the same general area where I'd been with François and his friends the night before is a popular evening hangout, so we sat on the steps to drink our wine and chat in three languages. Michael speaks good German (and I think Bérénice does too, though I can't remember for sure) so once he realized that the rest of us did too, sticking to one language became a completely lost cause. The base language was English, but random words in every sentence kept coming out in other languages. It was really funny, and fun. I don't have all that many multilingual friends back home.<br /><br />Hannah's blog is in German, but you can see some pictures <a href="http://hannahalyon.wordpress.com/2009/09/24/eine-woche-frankreich/">here</a>. The first one is Bérénice, then Hannah and Michael ("Kamin" means fireplace - in her blog she mentions the fact that she and Michael kept almost falling into the fire pit behind them), then all four of us, then a shot of us walking on the riverside.<br /><br />A theme of the night was "seeing the elephant," and not in the <a href="http://wesclark.com/jw/elephant.html">metaphorical sense</a> I've just learned about from Stryer. In the picture above, in the distance to the left of the dome, you can kind of see the cathedral Fourvière. It's tiny above, but In person you can see it really clearly. Here's a picture (which I didn't take) of it during the day:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyphenhyphena7a-GTj467A1x9D4tz9_Sz32qeTkKyhRM4wEegI0EkFzqp6IH3qYET6_-NT3Cebo4NugZj4Z53lBNgUakPie5mwrNYVi_9YHGa53nATN210NVHBXalwNkSBBriRv0YhNnqBoHS1CfuU/s1600-h/Fourviere1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyphenhyphena7a-GTj467A1x9D4tz9_Sz32qeTkKyhRM4wEegI0EkFzqp6IH3qYET6_-NT3Cebo4NugZj4Z53lBNgUakPie5mwrNYVi_9YHGa53nATN210NVHBXalwNkSBBriRv0YhNnqBoHS1CfuU/s320/Fourviere1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385862276530909122" border="0" /></a>So Michael started telling us that when he went on a tour of it, the first thing the guide said wasn't some historical fact or anything about the craftsmanship, but rather: "Everyone says it looks like an upside-down elephant." Bérénice (being from Lyon) agreed, but Hannah and I couldn't see it, and spent the rest of the evening trying to no avail to see the elephant.<br /><br />Side note: On the way back to the metro (or métro if you want to be French about it), we stopped into a McDonalds to use the bathroom. Did you know that in the rest of the world, they don't pump out that awful nauseating smell?! It smelled like a normal place! It's the little things.<br /><br />This is too long, so the rest is going into another entry.Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-55122372136824026722009-09-24T16:32:00.000-07:002009-09-24T16:33:48.235-07:00In a minute I'll start catching up on the past few days, but first, a note on the much-decried "French rudeness:"<br /><br />It's a lie. Here in Lyon, at least. People have been, without exception, almost unrealistically nice - and this in the face of my utter mangling of their language. They'll repeat themselves for me with a smile, or even sprinkle in some English when they have it - so in other words, it's time for me to get rid of my asinine fear of transactions that will force me to speak, because even when I sound absurd it always seems that we both end up laughing together and miming or rephrasing so that I get the thing or the information that I need. No one seems to think I'm unintelligent for not being great at French, which is the total opposite of what everyone in the US seems to expect. Seriously, people here have been so unfailingly polite and friendly that it's almost unnerving. I literally have had no bad experience yet. I'm sure that can't last, but even so, it's impressive. Moral of the story: if you speak little or no French and still want to visit the country, skip Paris and come to Lyon. :)<br /><br />My French is progressing, sort of. Or my understanding of French, at least. Interactions fall into one of several categories:<br />- Talking with other assistants. English, minimal German (more on this later), or very very small amounts of French (generally for terms that have no English equivalent or terms to do with our jobs that we haven't really seen translated (like "arrêté," or "contract"). Not learning anything there.<br />- Talking one-on-one with François. Probably 90% in English and 10% French (him speaking) and 99.9% English (me speaking). His English is so, so much better than my French that we just fall into it, not least because I tend to answer in English no matter what (just for now, I swear). I should ask him to speak French with me, but I know how frustrating it has to be to talk super slowly and repeat yourself every three sentences, so I haven't yet. Plus it's hard to convince myself to work that hard when I don't have to. :P<br />- "Talking" with François along with his friends. 95% French and 5% English (them); 5% French, 5% English and 90% listening without talking (me). I have no idea what impression they must have of me so far, and I worry that I must seem either bored or completely at sea. I'm neither; I'm happy to listen and work out the puzzle of what's going on, but right now things are still coming out more Spanish than French and I get kind of shy saying things to a whole group.<br />- Talking to strangers. Virtually all French (them); virtually all "French" (me). I seem, generally speaking, to get my point across - or close enough, anyway. This could be because I steer clear of anything complicated and use the foolproof trick of paying for things with large notes (20€ on a bottle of water, for example) to mask the fact that numbers scare me. This is really the only situation in which I speak any French, for the moment, aside from talking to Anaïs or Mr. Bargel (which I haven't done in a few days now). Anaïs is going to Nice for the weekend to watch American wrestling (yes, really - she's super excited, too) but maybe I'll see if we can get lunch when she gets back.<br /><br /><br />Okay, catching up. Days have been really full, so apologies if this is long. I'll try not to be too boring.<br /><br />Sunday I met up with 6 or 7 of the other language assistants who were already in town and went to the zoo (which is pretty small, but free), then to a cafe. A good time, but nothing too noteworthy; mostly trading a lot of "what's your name, where are you from, where/what did you study," but it was nice. Afterward four of us got a drink (mostly because you can't get dinner as early as 6:30p) and then dinner at an Indian place in Vieux ("Old") Lyon. Jack is from the UK and did a year abroad in Mexico, Erin is from Boston, and Hannah is from Berlin (she's teaching German).<br /><br />I spent basically all of Monday on the internet, trying to find a colocation (apartment with roommates). That would definitely be the best option for me if I can swing it. I can barely afford a place even with roommates on what I'm making - we'll take home something like 780€ after taxes, and people looking for roommates are mostly advertising places between 300 and 450€. I don't even know what a studio would cost, but I'm wary of going much higher than that range, especially since I'm still hoping to travel. On top of that, if it's your name on the lease, you have to have a French guarantor - even Hannah can't use her parents, even though they're in the EU. I could ask the Bargels, probably, but I'd like to avoid that if I can.<br /><br />Anyway, François still didn't have internet at that point, and since the spotty network had disappeared from his apartment entirely I wound up going down the street to a cafe called "Food and Coffee." The two guys who work there are very sweet, if somewhat baffled by my "French." They didn't seem to care at all that I stayed for hours after ordering nothing but an espresso. (Which I did with mixed success. "Espresso" I can more or less pronounce; "double espresso" remains beyond me. It either comes out too much like the English version of the word, or too much like "doble" (Spanish), or else I guess just as nonsense. Oh well, I didn't really need the extra coffee anyway.) So now I've sent messages to a pretty good number of people who have advertised on the roommate-seeking website here (appartager.fr, which is a cross between "appartement" and "partager," "to share"). So far I've only heard back about one, which I'm going to see tomorrow, but I don't think I'm likely to take it - the guy speaks English and sounded nice and not at all creepy on the phone, but (unbeknownst to me until after I agreed to come see the place) he's in his 40s and lives with his teenaged son, which seems like it could get kind of messy. It's also kind of far from where I'm working, so not really ideal. But it's affordable, and I don't really have anything to lose from looking at the place, so I probably will go (and yes, I'm going to take someone with me).<br /><br />Okay, that's it for now. There's a transit strike on right now (more on that next time), so François is getting a ride to work - and has invited the guy to 7:30a breakfast. I sleep on the couch, which means tomorrow is an early morning, which makes it past my bedtime. 'Night all.Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-66524671177752187472009-09-21T00:45:00.001-07:002009-09-21T00:45:41.642-07:00Internet has been spotty lately - François just moved and his isn't hooked up, so we've been borrowing wireless, but it only works sometimes. "Borrowing" actually isn't a euphemism - as far as I understand it, when you pay for internet at home, it automatically comes with wireless for your home. It's an open network in the sense that you don't put in a password just to connect to it, but once you're connected, the only site you can visit is the internet company's homepage. But if you're a customer of theirs, you put in your username and pword and then you have free wireless access. So it's cool because anyplace where someone or some business uses the same company, you get free access. François' parents use a company called Neuf, and so do some other people in his building, so we can get on with his parents' info. It's a weak network, though, and it seems to be completely random when we can get it and when we can't.<br /><br />("Free wireless," as a concept, has not caught on here. I'm constantly seeing a network called "FreeWifi," which is a cruel joke, because "Free" is just another internet company with the same deal as above. Some coffee shops have it, but you have to ask for the password, and my French is not yet that advanced. Maybe when I get to the point of being able to order a coffee without being answered in English…)<br /><br />Anyway! The last few days.<br /><br />Friday was a slow day. François had class until around 4, so I slept in and repacked my bags so that the things I need immediately are mostly consolidated into one bag rather than spread across 3. (Is there any system for finding things when you're living out a suitcase that doesn't involve rummaging for five minutes every time you need something? If there is, I haven't heard of it.) I managed to miss the 2 or 3h window when cafes actually serve lunch, but I managed to order a coffee with a minimum of misunderstanding, and walked around the neighborhood a little. François doesn't really live downtown - his place is in the 9th "arrondisement" or district, if you're curious - but it's still pretty walkable, with a lot of little cafes and businesses and a big new movie theater. It's also right on the Saône (one of Lyon's two rivers, more or less rhymes with "zone") and there's kind of a tiny little park, really just a tree-lined walkway with benches. Very pretty.<br /><br />After François got home we walked around a little more - I hadn't wanted to go very far on my own, since I wasn't excited about the idea of asking for directions if I got lost - and then his mom picked us up to go to their place for Anaïs' party. (Since I realize I didn't say this before, it's pronounced AH-nah-EES. Cool name.) I wound up deciding to spend most of the night upstairs, since I'm not really that good at speaking. The way my French is right now, I'm happy to listen to people talk to each other/in a group, because I'm starting to piece things together and I can pick out phrases here and there. But I think it's kind of awkward for other people when I listen without talking at all, so I didn't want to do too much of that. The only time I really managed to communicate was when this huge . . something, it looked like a bee but it was so much bigger I can't believe it was one, flew into the kitchen. We were outside since Anaïs was grilling, and anyway window screens aren't that common in France. They kept trying to chase it back out the door, but it wouldn't go, so I finally pointed out that it was probably attracted to the kitchen light, and it would be easier if they turned it off for a minute. Not that I actually said anything that complicated or correct; I think I said something much closer to "Je crois qu'il aime les luz" and pointed. "Luz," because I am awesome, is not only Spanish but also singular, and therefore neither made sense to anyone nor agreed with "les". Oh well. Hand gestures are key, which incidentally is why I'm afraid to use the phone. That's a later problem.<br /><br />So Friday night I went to sleep somewhat frustrated with my inability to understand or communicate, and Saturday morning I woke up able to more or less understand things. I have no idea why. I'm still far from understanding every word or even the meaning of every sentence, but I can pretty much follow the flow of conversations now, which is a huge difference from Wednesday. The exception to this, for some unknown but really annoying reason, is that I still virtually always fail to understand questions directed at me. So I'll be following along without too much problem, until the point when it occurs to someone to ask some comprehension-checking question, at which point I say "ah…comment?" ("ah . . . how was that again?") and everyone assumes I haven't understood a word. Hopefully that won't last long.<br /><br />Anaïs and their mom were out for the afternoon, so F and I ate with Mr. Bargel. Last time I visited I got almost no sense of him - my French was almost nonexistent, and I never anyway I saw him without Mrs. Bargel, so she and François and his sister Sophie did almost all the talking. This time I've talked to him much more, and I'm really glad - he's really kind, and extremely patient with my French, and he's so encouraging when I speak it that I don't really feel self-conscious. He's also probably the best at speaking slowly without forgetting and speeding up again, which I've found to be a rare skill.<br /><br />In the afternoon F took me to the mall (I've established that Carrefour is not the name of the entire thing, just the huge department store) so I could get a cell phone. All the things I need to do to get established here seem to be interlocking and circular - you can't get a phone or a bank account without an address; you can't find an apartment without a phone; you can't get paid without a bank account; you can't pay for some things without a french bank card; etc. That list goes on, too - I need to hear back from my schools so I can get a form so I can apply for a medical appointment so I can validate my visa, all of which requires an address and a bank account and a phone. The phone seemed like the easiest point of entry, and we were able to just give the guy the Bargels' address. (That won't work for the bank; they'll require a letter from my landlord stating that I live at an address, and then proof that the landlord lives there, and then proof that the landlord is French). Once again, I was really grateful to have François' help. I really don't know if I would have gotten it done without him (or maybe Anaïs) to help me; I barely understood any of the questions the guy asked. There was also some confusion because European credit cards have PINs just like debit cards, and although the machine understood and printed out a receipt for me to sign, the guy had never had to ask a customer to sign a receipt before and was completely confused. (Which was slightly compounded by François' explanation that the signature has to match the signature on the back of the card, since instead of signing, I wrote "ask for ID" on mine.) He was really nice, though - so far, no one at all has been snide about my miserable French - and smiled and said the French equivalent of "Hey, I've learned something new" when we finally got the credit card thing straightened out.<br /><br />So now I have a French cell phone, the number to which I'll give you on request. If you have Google voice, you can text my new phone from there, and I have free texts, so that's pretty cool. (For some reason I don't seem to be able to text American numbers unless I'm replying to a received text - I have no idea why that should be true, but there it is.)<br /><br />At night François had a housewarming party at his new place, which was kind of fun. Honestly, though, I had more fun getting ready - three of his friends came over to help cook, which was much more on a manageable scale for me. One of them, Ludo, I had met when I visited a couple years ago. I remember meeting him clearly, because he looked so confused when I shook hands instead of giving the two kisses that François told him "Ah, c'est parce qu'elle est américaine" ("ah, it's because she's American") to explain my strange behavior. Of course I knew that French people kiss hello, but it hadn't occurred to me at all that not doing so would come across as rude or, at the least, strange. This time I remembered, so things got off on a much less awkward foot. He doesn't speak any English, unlike most of François and Anaïs' friends who went to college and so had to learn at least some, but he makes up for it by being quite good with pantomime and facial expressions. For some reason I'm also much less shy about trying to speak foreign languages when I know the other person couldn't much more easily slip into English, so we were able to chat a bit. A very little bit. A very little bit in which I continually had to ask him to repeat himself "plus lentement, s'il te plaît." Still, it's something, right? I suspect that being able to actually communicate with Ludo will be the true test of my French.<br /><br />Eventually there were ten of us, and for the most part I slipped back into my role of relatively silent observer, but with much more of a sense of what was going on than I had the night before with Anaïs' friends. Three of the people there were from Salvador and another was also fluent in Spanish, so there was a bit of that on the side, which was a break that I very much appreciated.<br /><br />Things were somewhat awkward because François invited another kid who he met at UVA, an international student from Singapore whom I had never met and who speaks virtually no French at all. He's here to take French classes, but I felt kind of bad for him last night because all the conversation was in French and I don't think he understood more than a very few things that were directed at him, very slowly and with English sprinkled in. There was a funny moment at the beginning of the night when Ludo was offering to pour people (small) glasses of apple liqueur, and this kid (whose name I never did catch) decided for some reason that he wanted some apple liqueur in his beer. With his French and Ludo's English both essentially nonexistent, there was an extended moment of "yes! pour some of it in here!" gestures from the kid and "no, there's no way on earth that's what you really want; what are you trying to tell me?" expressions from Ludo before he finally poured it, extremely tentatively and waiting every second to be stopped and told what was actually wanted. Made me laugh. I still have no idea why the UVA kid decided to ask for that, but he did seem to enjoy it, so maybe I'm missing out.<br /><br />It's funny, the way my comprehension ebbs and flows right now. If I lose track of a conversation it can take a good while for me to pick back up on what's going on, but as long as I'm following the thread I seem to do okay. But it's also incredibly clear how sharply my mental processes drop off when I'm tired - I hit a wall last night toward the end of the dinner, and suddenly I couldn't follow anything that was being said at all. Which is quite a good incentive to get a lot of sleep, so I think I'll do that now and put off writing about today. This is quite long enough as it is.<br /><br />I've really been very happy here so far, even with the frustrations. This is a good place.<br /><br />More soon.Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-705092703591874786.post-19249988183888752812009-09-18T08:19:00.000-07:002009-09-18T08:21:30.709-07:00[Written last night, when I was sans internet.]<br /><br />It turns out I was completely wrong about Anaïs - her English has improved hugely since the last time I saw her, and yesterday she was kind enough to humor me and speak it almost exclusively. She fumbles around for words sometimes, but she's easy to understand, and she very much puts my French to shame. After meeting me at the train station she took me to her parents' house, where I stayed when I visited Lyon before. It turned out that François had to be somewhere until later than I really wanted to stay awake, so I spent a very pleasant evening with Anaïs and her parents. They're some of my favorite people, really kind and welcoming, not to mention patient with my very halting French. Mrs. Bargel was an English major in college, so we can converse easily, which I very much appreciated in my jet-lagged state.<br /><br />After dinner we watched the second half a two-part movie about, as far as I could tell, a woman named Diane who was a Catholic in love with a Protestant but married to a man who was plotting to kill Henry III, who was (as far as I can tell) in league with the Protestants and angry with the Pope. The Pope was allied, secretly and via some red-haired lady, with the king's brother François who kept trying to kill him and then crying and saying he was sorry when the king found out, and therefore being repeatedly imprisoned and then either escaping or being let out. There was also something about a plot that killed Diane's mother when Diane was still a child, which turned out to be suicide but which was still (for some reason) either her husband's or François' fault, or both. (It should be noted that I lost most of the first half's references to Diane by other characters, since I didn't realize that the French pronunciation sounds like "Jen." And also that I didn't see the actual first half of the movie at all.) Diane and her lover are attacked by a mystery knight who turns out to be her husband, who they kill. Everyone goes to the funeral, but he's not dead! He comes back all covered in blood and takes Diane away. Eventually the king goes to church, dressed only in a white robe and followed by an army of self-flagellants dressed in what I can only describe as KKK robes and hoods for reasons that utterly escaped me, where he is attacked by François' men. But not by François, because he is too busy shooing servants out of the throne room with motions that make him look like a crazy vulture, so that he may sit on the throne and cackle in private. But Diane's lover and some other guy ride to the rescue and save the king. Then they ride to save Diane, which works in the sense that they kill all her husband's men and then her husband, but fails in the sense that they both die too - the lover by first the husband's knife to the gut and then a bolt from François' crossbow. (Why was he there?It's a mystery.) The movie ends after a short series of vignettes in which the red-haired lady shatters everything in her cell and then cries, François is poisoned by Diane pretending to be a servant, and some other things happen that didn't make sense and I can't remember.<br /><br />If that description seems long, rest assured that the movie seemed much, much longer.<br /><br />This morning I slept til nearly noon, and thus refreshed, decided that I would give the whole French-speaking thing a go. I suppose I did better than yesterday (when I just didn't speak it), but not by very much. But Anaïs is patient and also doesn't mind when I revert to English, while also not liking English enough that she doesn't immediately go back to French, which is probably the best combination for me right now. We played with her rabbit Pitchou (that spelling is guesswork) and then had lunch with Mrs. Bargel, which was nice. Hot lunch is taken seriously here - it's either unhealthy or uncivilized or both to grab a sandwich or something, so there's always an actual meal. Both lunch and dinner seem to be followed by a choice of a cheese plate or yogurt and then tea (a selection), coffee or hot chocolate. Yogurt, incidentally, is a word that I can't seem to understand even when I am listening for it and know what is going to be said. "Yaourt" is pronounced, as near as i can tell, somewhere between "ya" and "yo."<br /><br />Anaïs is having a dinner party tomorrow night, so we went shopping at Carrefour. You may remember it as the French department store that the Chinese were boycotting during the Olympics dustup with Sarkozy. I'm not completely sure whether it's a department store within a mall, or whether it is the mall. Basically it's a line of stores (jewelry store, cell phone store, Claire's, etc) inside a building, in front of what I can only describe as a French Fred Meyer's. For those of you who haven't been to the Pacific Northwest, Fred Meyer's is sort of like a Target, but bigger, and it also includes a full grocery store. They're huge and I don't like them because I always get lost, and any given thing is likely to be in one of several places. Today we spent a long time looking for a power adaptor for my laptop, and wandered around in both the computer section and the general electronics section (which had French-to-American ones, but not American-to-French) before we found them with the luggage after giving up and looking for picnic things. Anyway, my dislike of Fred Meyer is well known to my west-coast friends and had been joked about as one of the things I would miss very much when I went to France, and now the first thing I do in France is find a French equivalent. Go figure.<br /><br />I finally made it over to François' after he got out of class around 7p. He's starting a two-year training program to become a police commissioner, which is less of a high position in the French system than in ours, but it's still really difficult to get - the school has about a 4% acceptance rate. He's more comfortable with English than his sister and less happy to slow down for me, which meant we spoke French for about three minutes, but I think that will change soon. We ate dinner and talked about American health care reform, the various meanings of "conservative" in France and the US, where I should start looking for an apartment and a few other things before he had to go back to school for a meeting, which apparently turned out to be a surprise party thrown by their teachers. I was pretty ready for some down time, so I read for a while, repacked my bags to be useful and now wrote this. And now it's time for bed.<br /><br />I'm curious to know who's reading this. Leave a comment if you are - and also if this is tl;dr. I won't mind. :)Rosaliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01074537767447506366noreply@blogger.com8