Clermont

Day 1

            I woke up at seven twelve this morning and was so excited to be up before my alarm clock. The best surprise ever waited for me downstairs at the lobby: my suitcase had been delivered two days early and without a delivery fine! I was in raptures. After breakfast, I got myself organized and headed out to conquer the world.

            I went to the IUP, my school, to check in and see when my classes started. I hadn’t heard from the administration in about a month, so I was quite anxious and excited. The office was closed until Monday, and I wasn’t worried until I read last week’s schedule. When I saw “English Class,” the only class to not have a teacher’s name assigned to it, I knew that I had missed my first day of school. Unless the IUP keeps all of their English staff unnamed out of hatred for the Great Isle, I can only imagine that that blank little rectangle was assigned to me, and to my absence. I pray that they will forgive me, or that by chance, the class listed was their normal English class and not the conversation one. God only knows at this point, and until Monday, He’ll be the only one.

            Well, the bank was closed, and I can’t get a cell phone until I have a French bank, so it looks like Monday is going to be the day that I conquer the world. Bank nine AM and tail between my legs at the IUP right after that. Oh dear…

Day 7

            I have now been in France for a little over two weeks, and I am much closer to being settled in my new town of Clermont-Ferrand. I sign the papers for my apartment Monday and move in. Monday is also the big day when I get my French credit card and checkbook. Of course, there’s no money in my bank account, but hopefully there will be by next month. J Oh to be adult!!

            Thankfully, I did not miss my first class, and I’m anxious to start teaching. My syllabus is drafted and awaiting the first day where I will be assessing my students’ level of English. The IUP, the college of management where I work, has not yet scheduled my class. I’m crossing my fingers for next week.

            In the meantime, I’m eating well, and hope to avoid boredom as best as I am able.

Day 10

            Walking into my first teachers meeting was an exhilarating experience. I had crossed the line—I am now “on the other side” in the world of education. The men and women around me were no longer my superiors (in experience, of course, they still were) but my colleagues. They tutoyer everyone and the informal address is just like wow. Exciting.

            I was late for the meeting and literally ran from the bus stop to get there. It was 10:11 in the morning, and I was half glad that I was having trouble finding the meeting room because I was going to use that as my excuse for being so late. I asked Carine, one of the administrators, where it was, and she took me back to an empty meeting room I had already inspected and walked past minutes earlier. She ushered me in.

            “Are you sure it’s here?” I asked.

            “They’re always here,” she responded.

            Peeking in, I saw a peppery blonde head buried in a stack of newspapers and plastic-covered magazines that hadn’t been there when I passed the first time. She was presumably another teacher, and the two of us were the first to get there. She introduced me to the others as they trickled in one by one, and then sat with me as they walked out again to get a coffee, use the bathroom, smoke a cigarette on the patio right outside the meeting room. At about 10:40, the director walked in, his belly pressing against the buttons on the front of his white dinner shirt and held open the door for a petite brunette whom I later learned was the director of my department. Monsieur le Director carried a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in one hand, and a crisp, white cigarette in the other. He put it in his mouth and lit it. We all understood the territorial demeanor: this was his school and every rule could be negotiated in his favor. Including smoking bans. Everyone timidly dug out their packs of ciggies and lit up, hoping to ride on the waves of this permissive attitude.

            I wouldn’t say that my first teachers’ meeting was like many others. I listened attentively to the director’s gravely voice as he explained to us a lot of technical mumbo-jumbo about LV1s and LV2s and Masters Un and Masters Deux, which I kind of understood. At the end of the meeting, finally addressing the only question I needed answering (when do I teach!?), the director said that there were more students than expected and du coup he had to start all over with scheduling. I finally found out what that meant for me after the meeting, and left the building with less information than I came with. My class was not to start this week, and at the very earliest, could be hoped for by the end of the month.

            “Ils ne font pas comme ca aux Etats-Unis?” the director had laughingly asked me. No, we don’t quite do things the same way in the states, I answered, and laughed.  

Arrival in Clermont

          Agathe, my host sister, accompanied me from Rouen to Paris with my luggage. She graciously carried one of my bags along with hers up and down several escalators and down two particularly long staircases. It was incredible that we made it at all. When we arrived in Paris, Agathe had a surprise for me. Our good friend, Vincent, was at the end of the train tracks with a goofy grin on his face. It was so good to see him! We traipsed through the St. Lazare train station and the particularly touristy surroundings and talked for two hours under a red coca-cola umbrella at an outdoor café. It rained and soaked all of our things, but we were so happy to get to see each other, it really didn’t matter. J        

            I spent the night at Agathe’s dormroom, and the next morning we headed out again. Agathe had some business to do at her school before we left, and we made our way through the streets dodging warily to avoid pigeon poop that splattered around us like little wet bombs. Agathe quickly got her affairs straightened out, and as we were getting ready to leave, she kindly asked one of her friends (who had just gotten there) to drive us to the train station. He agreed, and I about cried, I was so thankful. Without him, I would have had to shove and pull over 100 lbs of luggage through tiny metro doors, onto a packed train car, and through pedestrian traffic to get to the train station. As it was, I was an hour early, just enough time to get lost once in the train station, and then hop on the train. My neighbor, a kindly, well-meaning gentlemen, pulled out Star Wars Episode VI as we pulled out of the station. I smiled, and felt right at home. The rest of the ride, I listened to music, and, oh dear, stressed about my train ticket that didn’t look quite like it should. Thankfully, my car wasn’t checked for correct tickets, and I was able to relax with my American rock mix peppered in with the swishing of light-sabers from the gentlemen’s laptop across the aisle.

            The train ride to Clermont becomes especially beautiful once you enter the massive circle of volcanoes that stretches across the landscape on either side of the train. Clermont-Ferrand is the last stop of the train. Right before the mountain chain appears on your left, the train slows as it settles between two steep hills that are covered in even rows of corn. I looked deliciously at them, and could see that the stalks were ready to be picked. It was so cool to see the smiles on people’s faces as they looked out on the beautiful agrarian scene, and I could tell they were happy to be coming home. What a great initiation to Clermont.

            I had the chance to have arranged a meeting with a possible roommate that same evening that I arrived on the train in Clermont, and he kindly offered to come find me at the station and help me with my things. I couldn’t have asked for a warmer welcome in Clermont, and we arrived at my student hotel/hostel with little to no trouble and in good form. I was tired, but very happy, having to carry my suitcases only a short while that day when I could have very well had to do it from Rouen all the way to Clermont.

            I searched out food and found a cafeteria that sold a vegetable plate for 4 euros and 55 centimes. I was starving, having only eaten an apple pastry that morning and a sandwich at lunch. I attacked the mashed potatoes and spinach first because I didn’t have to chew those, and stuffed green beans and vegetable medley into my mouth at an alarming rate. I felt, and probably looked, like the homeless person that I was. I comforted myself that I was in better shape than my neighbor at the table who had two bottles of wine in front of him and no apparent intention of sharing them. I was in a daze for five minutes as my stomach digested, and then realized how tired I was.

            So here I am, in my little hostel room, exhausted and excited to go out tomorrow for more. My roommates are three noisy flies that took advantage of my brief opening of the window to pilot inside and take up wall space. Whatever, I just hope they stop that annoying buzzing soon… ;) Signing off.  

Rouen

I am very glad that I spent a week in Rouen before I went to Clermont-Ferrand. I am ready to embark from here to Paris, and then tomorrow from Paris to Clermont, and I am well rested, showered, and a little more comfortable with my French than I was a week ago. Plus, this week was rich with little French delicacies and a lot of friendliness on the part of my French host families and friends.

I tried for most of the week to not look like a tourist. The key, I’ve found, is to look directly down at the ground and to walk very, very quickly, even if I was in fact out for a tour of Rouen and not in any sort of rush. You can always tell a tourist because they amble, which is very understandable, and they gawk, mouths open, as they look up, up, up to the wood-framed row houses, and at the gargoyles and the crackling stone on the old, grisly church. The problem is that I am a tourist; something I’m having a hard time coming to grips with. I was able to support myself as such because I only took hard, quick glances at my favorite Rouen masterpieces—the giant clock, the fountain at city hall, the towering spire of the cathedral—quick enough that I hoped a Rouen native might think that I was simply another townsperson remembering how beautiful my beloved city was. A benefit of the walk-fast-look-busy approach is that I could admire the cobblestones and avoid dog poop. I think my tactic worked, I mean that I think I looked like a French woman as I marched swiftly, racing against an imaginary clock, because a tourist took my picture as I whirred past. How disappointed he would be if he knew I was an American!

I had two encounters with the French personality that I found very amusing during my spirited ambling around town. First, was Sunday. Sundays are still sacred here, despite the predominant laicism in the country as a whole (or so I’m told by my French Civilization class). I went for a stroll in the late afternoon and was actually able to do my gawking and ambling because no one else was out. The streets were barren except for the occasional scraping of a plate or the whisper of Sunday chatter spilling from the open windows. The windows were framed by default with red geraniums. Why red geraniums, I wonder, when it could have been any other flower? Second, my favorite “Frenchism” of the day, was the parked delivery van that was marked only “Votre urgence est le notre” or something like that. It means “Your need for speedy delivery is our middle name.” For the French on a Sunday, however, neither speed nor your delivery is really very important at all. 

Most of the week I spent worrying, needlessly of course, about my apartment in Clermont-Ferrand. I have yet to find a place, and I am somewhat limited in my abilities to look while I’m not in town. I’m doing my best to be patient, but I’m failing miserably. I’m sure I’ll be provided for, and I have to remember it’s not always in my best interest to be omniscient (much to my dismay.)

But I did manage to stop thinking about the apartment crunch from time to time. Once I was interrupted from my stressing by the clic-clac of high heels across the street, moving in time with my custom-fit walking shoes. How could she be going faster than me in those pumps? I wondered to myself and kept abreast so that I wouldn’t be beat around the corner by a pair of heels. No use; her impossibly long strides won the race with a sort of effortlessness only the French woman can master. I looked beside me to catch a glimpse of her, hoping she was at least sweating mildly: she wasn’t. She was smoking a cigarette.

After her clic-clacs faded away to the north, I headed down la rue Cauchoise hoping to distract myself. I popped a piece of green, minty French gum into my mouth and thought about Alice and Wonderland for a long time and whether those “eat me” cakes tasted like pistachios or fruit cake. I decided fruit cake, because in Wonderland, the only cake that made sense was something that doesn’t make sense, and that is fruitcake. Though for some reason,  that weird gelato flavor, what is it.. stromboni? Strumoni? spumoni? the one with the funny pistachio flavor,  might be a perfect compliment.  I'll bake fruitcakes with pistachios until I find the perfect, most disjointed flavor combination possible. Then I’ll cut them into little petit-fours, make a white fondant icing (even though I generally snub the use of fondant) and write “eat me” in grey curly-cue frosting. I think the only “drink me” drink conceivable for that would be absinthe. And no, I will not be trying that during my stay in France. ;)

I digress. I eventually succeeded in distracting myself for four days, and in between Rotarian dinners and spending time with the Ridels, I was able to not stress too much about the apartment. The Rotary invited me to their Monday night club meeting where Mr. Martin (host dad #2) incessantly teased me about Clermont-Ferrand and the ferocious winters there. He hoped I had brought gloves, mittens, and boots because I may have to climb glaciers to get to school in winter. According to him, too, there are penguins in Clermont. It was all in good fun of course, and I love how I actually understand jokes now. I’m passed the “laugh because he’s laughing” and unto the “laugh because I’m so happy I understood the joke!” stage. I have been receiving a fair amount of teasing, so I’m glad I have enough French to recognize it. Apparently, Clermont is a little more… country than Rouen, but I don’t mind. My goodness, this is still France! And frankly, I think I’m going to enjoy some simple living. I’ve heard the region is full of magnificent hikes, skiing spots, and scenery.

Tuesday, the Martins invited us to a great big dinner that I thoroughly enjoyed. Scalloped potatoes, red meat, a bottle of vintage wine, and artisan baguettes---I was in heaven. And that doesn’t include the appetizers, the cocktail, cheese plate and desserts that came before and after the main course. Pear tart and fresh blackberry-apple crumble… ooo la la.

Wednesday, I dined with les Pernins, a lovely French couple from the Rotary that has helped me immensely in getting contacts in Clermont. We admired the view from their balcony, and I got a final panoramic view of Rouen before we headed out the next day (today) for Paris.  Dinner chez eux was homegrown tomates with balsamic vinaigrette and parsley, baguette (always), hors d’oeuvres, cocktails, vintage wine, a cheese plate, mushroom-mustard pork, and apple-flavored sorbet for dessert. We finished elegantly with an espresso. :)

So walking served two purposes this week: burning calories and creating a distraction from being needlessly worried. I am on the train now, with my lovely host sister, Agathe, and this weekend is going to be wonderful. I have another Rotary dinner (and by then, I’ll have my running shoes from my other suitcase to work it off!) and an appointment to visit two different apartments. I’ll make it in the end. 

Arrival

Day 1

I knew I had arrived at the right departure gate at the Dallas-Fort Worth International airport when I heard the familiar long vowels and soft consonants of the French language, and was even more certain when a worn-out Papa called threateningly to his 3-year old Laura with the unmistakable throaty “R” I had missed hearing since I last left France.  I might as well be in Paris already. J

I was convinced it was the correct flight, too, DFW all the way to Paris Charles De Gaulle, because I overheard an American know-it-all type schooling a first time CDG-PAR flyer on how the French prefer comment dit-on to begin a question rather than qu’est-ce. He seemed so confident in this that I expected the next French person I met to snub my “Qu’est-ce que c’est bon dans ce restaurant?” like a bad taste in their mouth, turning their heads from me to smack disdainfully their lips and tongue to rid themselves of my poor grammar. This American gentlemen, however, put a little too much emphasis on his “t” in comment dit-on for my liking, which meant he was B.S.ing. I immediately felt better about myself.

I boarded my plane among a group of plump, pleased, and placid faces, and I was worried sick about my arrival in France. I had packed for the better part of two days prior to this, and, not wanting to over pack nor under pack, I left the house with two 60+ lbs bags, a plump carry on roller bag and a 20lb backpack. That was doing my best! I still had one and a half times my weight in bags to carry and a maze of public transport to navigate once I got to Paris.

I had debated for a while in my head while preparing for this trip about which of two very large and heavy books I should bring. As I boarded the plane, I felt confidant in my last minute switch for my Better Homes and Garden 2010 15^th edition cookbook instead of the complete works of Will Shakespeare. It had been an agonizing choice. I wish I could say I had picked William Shakespeare, but I faltered and succumbed to my earthly need for a good baking soda biscuit recipe and the indispensable emergency substitutions list on the back cover of that beloved gingham cookbook.

So now I sit 32,000 feet above sea level, and I’m hungry. I'm becoming legitimately stressed about the situation, but, oh good, a stewardess in a red, white, and blue apron with hearts on it just came out to speak with a passenger, bringing my fears that dinner was a long way off to rest. It was a great comfort, that red, white and blue apron. If only they served Mexican food…

Day 2

Many things don’t surprise me about France this time—like the metro-sexually dressed guys, the small Peuzot and Citroen cars, the dirty train stations. But two things have surprised me so far, two things I didn’t necessarily notice the first time I was in France. 

   1) I saw three overweight French girls which is three times as many as I saw all of last year. 

   2) French couples really are affectionate in public! Perhaps I had not noticed it the past year I came because I arrived as the year was cooling down, and lounging outside in frigid North Sea winds wasn’t really an option. But that couple on the curb, sunning themselves in pristine August weather, are certainly making up for lost time. The teenage girl—mid-smooch—passed off her half-smoked cigarette to her friend (sitting conveniently close to the happy couple) so she could better make out with her boyfriend. 

One thing that I had forgotten about was how well everybody here is dressed! I’m looking longingly for some ugly ones to raise my self esteem! I need to buy some dresses, skirts, blouses, and heels!!

Writing makes good use of my time while I wait for Claire to pick me up from the Rouen train station. I can’t wait to see the Ridels (first host family from my exchange)! Now I have a little downtime on an otherwise seamless day. Travel from the airport went well! I managed to ship one of my bags from the airport all the way to Clermont. It'll arrive next Saturday at the hotel where I've reserved a room. This made taking the bus into Paris from the airport and the train all the way to Rouen much more manageable! Thank God for nice Frenchmen, too! One gentlemen looked at my pathetic arm muscles and that giant suitcase with such pity. I was so grateful when he hoisted it out of the train for me. :)

P.P.S. Maybe everyone’s kissing because I’m at a train station, a place of goodbyes…

Day 3

This is the first time I’ve had caffeine in three days. Remarkable considering the 6-hour time difference and extensive travel! Travel stresses me out, and I made it through on tension! Anxiety keeps me alert, apparently. And frankly, besides it’s being a little watery, I just made a fine cup of coffee, if you call a tiny mini-tasse a “cup of coffee.” ;)

I saw the cathedral this morning! It’s been under a giant cleaning scaffold since I was here last, but 80% of the façade is all clean and white! It’s beautiful. It was so good to see Rouen again. I’m really enjoying Claire and Domitille. (Philippe I saw briefly, and both Constance and Agathe are out of town.) Well I’m off to town. Claire keeps insisting on the Impressionistic Expo at the museum. J I think I’ll go to please her. AND it sounds like fun.

P.S. It was cool. All of Monet’s Cathedrals in one place—in the city where he painted them!

later that day…

Nope. They’re really affectionate anywhere. In public but not commercial areas, like this park. Eww. There. That’s my rule of thumb for French PDA.