Une vie héroïque

The other night, I went out to see Gainsbourg : Vie héroïque, a film about the life of celebrated French chanteur (shant-oor: singer) Serge Gainsbourg, who during the mid-1900s shocked an otherwise un-shockable country with his sexual escapades, provactive lyrics and love of les drogues (leh dro-gh: drugs).  What I learned about Gainsbourg from the film?  He loved cigarettes (the French brand Gitanes apparently), famous beautiful women...and that's about it.  Oh, and he wrote some music. What I learned about France?  The more you break the rules, the more French people respect you.

I can only help but think that a majority of my American friends would have walked out of the Gainsbourg film shaking their heads and thinking "what a tragic story".  My Grenoblois (Gre-nobl-wa: people from Grenoble) aquaintances walked out of the film and immediatley started sucking down cigarettes, because if smoking three packs of Gitanes (gee-tan) a day will help make them at all as annoyingly famous and in-your-face as Gainsbourg, then so be it.

Les américains (lez amer-ee-kan: Americans) more often than not celebrate people who tend to overcome obstacles while working with the rules, not against them: Barack Obama, Superman, and the many faces of Tom Hanks rank in America's heart as lovable heros who are confident, honest family men who never forget to file their taxes.  In other words, they're safe.

In France, safe doesn't get you anything but a civil service job and a corner appartement overlooking an air shaft.  Being cunning, sexy, and provocative on the other hand might just get you a bronze statue in Notre Dame (no-tra dom: Our Lady) square.

I've come to find that the French really just find breaking the law as another form of fun and cheap excitement.  For instance, when the smoking ban went into effect in restaurants, "no smoking indoors" was taken as a suggestion meaning "as soon as your cigarette is hanging out the window, it's fine". Skipping out of work to go on strike is a weekly ritual, tax evasion a national right, cutting in line necessary for day-to-day survival at the la Poste (lah post: the post office) and being straight-laced an unforgivable treason.  Pollyanna wouldn't be considered wholesome Saturday morning cartoon material here, but rather an epic tragédie (traj-ed-ee: tragedy) of wasted proportions. 

And if you think anything has changed in recent times, think again.  The current French president got divorced and then went on to marry an ex-Italian supermodel and pop singer (while in office), former French president François Mitterand was buried while his femme (fam: wife) and mistresses stood side-by-side in tears, and eternally single, free-willed and free-spirited Coco Chanel is still worshiped as a saint for daring to allow women to wear clothes that were comfortable.

It isn't that French people don't know about the provactive lives of their héros (er-oh: heros), it's just that they'd rather adore a provactive asshole despite his inperfections than someone who pretends to be perfect.  After all, if someone seems perfect they're probably hiding something and shouldn't be trusted.  But when you're willing to admit you're screwed up, what could you possibly have left to hide?

La Salle de Classe

I can't forget the whole reason I'm in France to begin with: la salle de classe (lah sahl duh class: the classroom).  I'm an English Teaching Assistant, which means that my funds for living in France start with--and end with--a room full of tables, chairs, and French teenagers speaking broken English and my ability to help them better understand.


The thing is, every time I enter the classroom I get a little sweaty and my mouth starts to dry from nerves.  Every new hour and with each new student comes a new learning experience not only for mes élèves (mez eh-lev: my students), but also for moi (muhwa: myself).  Not being able to speak fluent French with students in the classroom has proven to be more of a pain than I ever realized, often leaving me wondering if I even have the slightest impact on ces petits enfants (sayz puh-teet on-fant: these kids).


Of course, it doesn't help my enthusiasm when I show up to the high school only to learn that I won't be teaching that day, or more often, show up to le collège (luh koll-ehj: the junior high) only to be handed the lesson I'm supposed to give seconds before I walk into class.  Supposedly all this experience is great training for thinking on the run, but personally I'd take a little organization over pulling lessons out of thin air any day.  In the meantime, my confidence dies a little every time I struggle over my head teacher's hastily written lesson plan, keeping my fingers crossed that my students won't discover that no, I don't in fact have any idea what I'm doing and just play along instead: I feel like dancing the jig anytime a student voluntarily participates, and I understand finalement (feen-al-mehn: finally) just how much planning lessons feels like I'm back in 10th grade, mindlessly pouring over homework until the wee hours of the morning while wishing I could be watching The Simpsons and zoning out instead.


Just when I'm about to give up, there's that spark of communication between me and the students: I've said something new, and they've understood.  And they're thankful for it.  So thankful, in fact, that ils se plaignent (eel zeh plehn: they complain) when the bell rings because they actually wanted to finish the lesson.  I shed a tear of happiness, all is right with the world, and for a mere moment the salle de classe seems a little less threatening after all.

Deux-mille dix: la revue

"Joyeuse nouvelle année et bonne santé!" (joy-eus new-vell an-ay eh bone sahn-tay: Happy New Year and good health!)...this seems to be the mantra around France for the entire month of January.  Practically no one in France wished me a merry Christmas, but even strangers have gone out of their way here to wish me good health, even though I'm pretty sure deep-down they couldn't care less if I tripped over and fell right in front of their faces (in fact, I've done that numerous times since the snow started in Grenoble).  The French are simply more excited about new beginnings than they are about waiting for a fat red man to climb in through the window (Santa Claus doesn't come down the chimney in France because, of course, some apartments don't have chimneys and that wouldn't be fair, would it?).

Well, just barely a week into my own deux-mille dix (doo meel dees: 2010) and already I've witnessed beautiful beginnings and heartbreaking ends.    I spent the entire two weeks of les vacances de Noël (lez vay-kans duh no-elle: Christmas vacation) with one of my favorite families in the world, saw my sister for the first time in months, got another surprise visit from my boyfriend, welcomed my beautiful niece, Sedona, into the world on New Year's Day, and said goodbye to two of the most loving (and loved) dogs in the entire world: Oenghus and Mab. 

According to the Chinese, 2010 is the year of the Tiger, which is a year of bravery, courage, and vivacous honesty.  Well, to be honest then, judging by this roller coaster leading into 2010 I'm a little worried about what that might mean for me personally.  But Tigers supposedly always land on their feet. I'm hoping I will too.  In the meantime, I'm anxious to discover all the trouble I might get myself into this year...

Mab and Oenghus

Nearly thirteen years ago, I held two tiny dachshund puppies in my hands and fell immediately in love.  Even to this day, that love has never dwindled.  We've done everything together, Mab, Oenghus, and me.  But especially Mab and Oenghus.  They developed in the womb together and since that time they've never been apart from each other for more than a week.  They go on walks together.  Sleep together.  Hump each other.  They do everything in a duo but fight.  They never seem to get on each other's nerves, unlike any other siblings I know--myself included.

It fact Mab and Oenghus, the now full-grown and graying miniature dachshunds even had to go and become paraplegic together.  After a long puppy-hood of romps in the mountains and sex on the beach, Mab and Oenghus' spines went out on them within three years of each other.  They haven't walked since, but have scooted along with limp hind legs happily in-tow.

The fact that their ability to walk and be typical rambunctious dogs has been taken from them but their luster for life hasn't changed has always inspired me.  Oenghus and Mab, legs or no legs, have lived on enjoying every bit of life they can, proving to me that life doesn't stop being worth living just because things aren't the way they're "supposed" to be.  There'll still be beautiful sunny days, people who love you, and leftover Thanksgiving scraps to look forward to even if it takes a little longer to scoot there than it used to.  Being reminded of this everyday by Mab and Oenghus has continually been a blessing in my life.

Tomorrow, Thursday, January 7th, 2010 is the last day Mab and Oenghus will grace this world with their presence.  Fitting with the rest of their lives, they will be put to sleep together at our home in the loving care of their three canine siblings, feline sister, Mom, Dad, Dylan, Erin, Andrew, and Sedona.  I would give anything to be there and remind them of how much they mean to me, how much I love them, and that even though they won't be basking in the sunny spot of our front yard anymore, not a second of any day for the rest of my life will go by without my thinking of them, missing them, loving them, and being thankful for the beautiful part of my life that was spent with them.

Unfortunately, I'm 6,000 miles away from where I should be right now.  I can't say "Goodbye, until we meet again" the way I want to.  So, instead, I would like everyone here to know, on the last day that Mab and Oenghus are with us, how much these two little dogs have made an impact on my life.  They will be missed by everyone who knew them.

Mab and Oenghus:  Thank you for letting me be a part of your amazing lives.  I love you.  Always.

Leith (in English)

After spending a week cut-off from all civil forms of communication while trapped in the snow with a bunch of French sixth-graders, I returned this week to the land where my love of travel and life abroad all began: England. 

For the holidays, I'm spending a full two weeks with an absolutely lovely family who's become closer than family to me over the past few years.  With my sister in tow, we're all planning on spending the next few cold, snowy, holiday cheer-filled days exploring the beautiful English Dales and stuffing our mouths with chips and wine until I have to waddle back over the French border come January.

Granted, I love France and am even growing used to French culture, but there's something about spending time with something a bit more familiar and comfortable over the holidays...  Of course, given that my own family and boyfriend are 6,000 expensive miles across the map, my surrogate English family is a comforting memory of when I first fell in love with living life on the other side of the Atlantic. 

As an added bonus, for the first time in three months I can greet people on the street in English, crack jokes and actually be understood, and just sit back and relax by the Christmas tree as the snow drifts by the window.   But nothing could possibly top the feeling of watching the made-for-t.v. movie on the telly about England's Fattest Man and his alcoholic nurse, con-artist manager and pregnant runaway friend who force-feeds him healthy food to make him lose weight (and thereby his only means of making money).  No one does heartwarming Christmas programming like the English. 

Man, it's good to be home away from home.

Parlez-vous anglais?

Part of the job description of being an English assistant in France, it seems, is being laughed at when I speak French (because of my accent), laughed at when I speak English (because of my accent), and laughed at when I talk about Ameircan Christmas traditions (still can't figure out why this is deserving of laughter, but whatever).  So, cette semaine (set suh-mene: this week), I decided to give my students a taste of their own médicament (meh-dee-ka-mehn: medicine): chants de Noël (shant duh no-ell: Christmas carols) sung together in chorus and original Christmas stories using brand-new English vocab.  The result?  My ultimate form of revenge: a chance to laugh at them for once.  On the inside, of course.

Here is one of my favorite Christmas stories, written by a group of three 17 year-old boys:

"Once upon a time, Santa Claus was distributing gifts for children with his reindeers.  He stopted in a pub and he can't leave because he was too drunked.  Elves helpt him to continue and he managed to finish the distibuting."

Doesn't that story just make you all warm and fuzzy inside?  After all the stress I've experienced these past few weeks between moving, Christmas shopping, and preparing for this week's week-long séminaire anglais (sem-een-ar ahn-glay: English Retreat) with a group of 50 sixth-graders in the mountains, something about this story has just inspired in me the true meaning of Christmas: Santa in a bar getting drunk with his elves.  If Santa did exist, I'm pretty sure that this is a more realistic version of how Christmas would réussir (ray-oo-seer: pan out).  Needless to say, these students definitely got an A+ for effort.

Grenoble

You can't say I didn't try.  I gave it two months and a lot of hope, but last week I finally decided I'd had enough of small town living.  I'm a city girl at heart, and after spending an amazing weekend with Andrew exploring Lyon and Grenoble, I decided to move into a quaint and quirky French apartment near the Stade des Alpes in the center of Grenoble, and along with it a big cut in my spending money.  Mais tant pis, c'est la vie en la belle France (may tahn-t pee, say lah vee on leh bell Frahn-s: But too bad, that's life in beautiful France).

The truth was, I was afraid that if I didn't move soon no one would ever want to talk to me again.  Life in La Côte Saint André brought out a whole new breed of pessimist in me that I didn't even know existed. So, I'm really thinking of my relocation as a mental health investment.  Don't get me wrong: La Côte is just as full of friendly people and pretty rolling hills as it ever was.  But I've spent my entire life in small towns.  I needed a change of pace.  I'm one of those people who gets a secret thrill out of over-crowded shops, busy traffic, and strangers walking down the street who never wave or say hi.  Unfortunately, this sort of high-quality lifestyle is usually reserved for high-population areas, and definitely doesn't exist in small-town France.



This sort of urban gruffness does exist in Grenoble, however.  In fact, Grenoble is one of those rare cities that makes up for in character what it lacks in size.  The entire city is surrounded by desolate mountain ranges that, at this time of year, are covered in neige (neh-j: snow).  Luckily this makes for amazing views out your window no matter how crappy the rest of your apartment might be.  The ancient stone cathedrals, Drac and Isère rivers, and la Bastille (lah bahst-eel) guarding over the city are all within (reasonable) walking distance, and no matter which street corner you're standing on, you're never far away from a glass of wine or cup of coffee in a toasty warm café (kaf-eh) offering reprieve from the frigid cold.


My own personal favorite part of being a new resident of Grenoble?  In a matter of the three days I've been living here, I've managed to get all my Christmas shopping done at Victor Hugo Square's fabulous marché de Noël (marsh-ay duh no-ell: Christmas market), which is basically a crowded smorgasbord of Alsace-inspired wooden looking vendor's booths selling random knickknacks and, more importantly, mulled wine.


Of course, as any true dorky francophile would, I also christened my new place with a bottle of cheap champagne I bought at the local Casino supermarket down the street.  And you know what I realized as I toasted to my own smart thinking at becoming a Grenoblois (gr-uh-nob-lwa: inhabitant of Grenoble)?  Drinking a glass of champagne in my apartment while listening to drunken teenagers stumble down the street and grumpy French drivers crash into each other never tasted so good.  Vive la France (veev lah Frahn-s: long live France)!