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.