Meanwhile, back at le ranch...

---

So I've been writing a lot about my travels outside of Bordeaux, but I haven't written lately about what's going on here in Bordeaux; and although I forget from time to time, the stuff that happens here is worth writing about too. It's funny to think that I could get so used to life here that I can resist running to good ol' travelblog.org to report every detail. Anywho, here's a sample of what things are like chez Lisa.

A typical Thursday: My alarm goes off at 6:45am and I groan. So far, pretty much the same as any weekday morning I spent in L.A. But as soon as I open my eyes, a very different world smacks me in the face. First of all, it's pitch dark. The sun doesn't start coming up until around 9am this time of year, so it is literally still night outside. I drag myself around our little residence, shuffling off to the bathroom in the slippers I bought at Auchan before I really understood French shoe sizes (and which are, as a result, at least a size or two too small), and then back to my room to brush my teeth and throw on some clothes. On my way back to my room I stop off in the kitchen to switch on our hot plate, which takes a good 15-20 minutes to heat a saucepan of water to boiling point. By the time I'm done in my room, the water in that saucepan is starting to send little bubbles to the top, and so I take my time cutting a hunk of baguette into tiny pieces, arranging them on a plate, then drizzling it all with extra virgin olive oil. I poach two eggs and throw them on the pile. The whole delicious breakfasty mess gets a few cranks from the pepper mill and healthy shower of sea salt, and I devour it all in about 5 minutes, once I've looked at my phone and realized that once again, I'm cutting it close on time. I throw my plate in the sink (I'll clean it when I get home, promise!), grab a jacket and my school stuff, and head out.

It's 7:35am and it still looks like midnight. As I wait for the signal to let me cross the street, high school kids zip by me on their bikes and shop owners roll back the big metal doors that cover their storefronts at night. All of this reassures me that it is in fact morning and that I do in fact need to be awake. Sigh. I cross the street and plunge into the darker, quieter neighborhood stretch that takes me to my lycee. I take a deep breathe and think, "Ok. Once today is over I only have three hours of class between me and the weekend." That thought lifts my spirits a bit. I plod down the narrow, cobbled sidewalk (thankfully cleansed of it's daily spread of smooshed dog poop), detouring into the street every 20 feet or so in order to get around a car that's been parked on the sidewalk. I turn onto Rue Mondenard and duck into the back entrance of Lycee Camille Jullian, tossing an upbeat "Bonjour!" to whoever happens to be out there smoking a cigarette in a bath of dim lamplight.

Once in the building I head to the teacher's lounge and wonder if I'll find anything in my mailbox. Most of the time I don't, but occasionally there will be a note from a teacher informing me that a class has been canceled, or listing the students I can expect that day. Far more frequently, there will be a few pieces of mail meant for the person whose mailbox is above mine (there doesn't seem to be a consensus as to whether the name plate references the box above or below it). After gathering information (or lack there of) there, I head off to my first classroom of the day. It's 7:56am. It's still dark.

My first class knocks timidly on the door at about 8:08am. I think they're late every week because their real teacher makes them come to her room first so she can take roll, but I'm not sure. They're 16 years-old, and special because they are artists; they are in a special prep program that is half studio work and half high school classes, and they all hope to be dancers or musicians. I'm sure they're really brilliant on the floor or at their instruments, but let me tell you, they suuuuuuck at English. Seriously, some of my 13-year-old middle school kids are significantly better than they are. The majority of them are friendly enough (with a few exceptions), but one thing is clear. They don't care. They don't try. The hour is spent with me trying to make an extremely remedial but still interesting activity come together in front of a small sea of blank stares. I consider it a triumph if I can get each kid to say two entire sentences that are at least vaguely grammatically acceptable. At 8:55am I exhale and tell them to have a great weekend, and they trickle out, as relieved as I am that the hour is finally over.

It's 9:09am and I'm starting to wonder if the next class is going to come. Every hour I engage in this psychological battle with myself. The devil on my shoulder says, "They're late! I bet they're not coming! You'll have a free hour!" The angel on the other shoulder says, "No, this class comes in late sometimes, I'm sure they're just late, stop counting your chickens. Besides it's fine if they do come because the hour will go by more quickly and you'll feel productive." "Yeah, sure," the devil says, "but if they don't come you can read or plan a lesson for tomorrow! And look, it's 9:10am! I really think they might not come." The two bicker for a minute or two, and then finally the angel says, "Ugh, fine, if they're not here by 9:15am, then I'll admit they're probably not coming."

It's 9:16am. 2 out of 5 times they don't come. At 9:20am I give up and settle into a chair with my book, wondering what's taking them away from my class this time. Most the time it's a strike (yes, high school students go on strike in France), but sometimes it's an exam, or a field trip, and sometimes they just don't come for no reason at all. I tell their teacher about it when I run into him a couple hours later and he says, "Really? I wonder why. I'll ask them," in a tone that is only mildly curious, mostly indifferent.

My 10:00am class passes much in the same manner, although they show up even less frequently, maybe 2 of every 7 weeks. When either of these two classes actually do happen I am momentarily disappointed, but the hour usually passes reasonably well, and I feel much better at the end when I've actually done something mildly productive with my time.

My 11:00am class never comes. Never. I have never met them. Not once. I chat with the teacher that has the room the hour before me for a few minutes and then I take out my book again when she leaves.

Noon is lunchtime. I wait for Sylvia, an English assistant from Canada, and Natalia, a Spanish assistant from Chile, in the teacher's lounge. We go off to the cafeteria chatting in our awkward second-language-French, the only language we all share, and dine together on too-good-to-be-true cafeteria cuisine (seriously, it's great: always three to four tasty courses, for only 2 Euros a pop). Sylvia has class at 1pm, so we leave just before I spend the next hour tooling around on the internet: looking at Facebook, responding to email from Annie, combing the political ticker at cnn.com (and also glancing at the other headlines), and checking for pre-spring-training updates on the A's website.

I get up just before 2pm and head off to my next class, a really bright group of high school seniors who are usually a joy to teach. I'm not being sarcastic, they're cool. Except this one kid. He's from London and speaks English fluently and so I have no idea why he is there. It would be fine if he quietly helped out his friends or did anything other than what he does do, which is either distract his classmates with chatter because he's bored, or sit there in silence, slouched down in his chair with his arms crossed, rolling his eyes at everything I say. It's all I can do to not chuck my whiteboard eraser at his head. But mostly the class responds to my questions enthusiastically and intelligently, and most days I walk away thinking about how much I love them.

My last class, at 3pm, hardly ever happens either. Thankfully their teacher is really cool and always tells me at least 3 hours in advance, so most of the time I leave my beloved seniors at 2:55, skipping all the way back up the road (this time doing my best to avoid the dog poop that has been deposited there in my absence) back to chez moi, reveling in my freedom. If the weather is good I might go for a jog in the beautiful, woodsy Parc Bordelais, a huge public park just behind the school where I live, or go for a leisurely stroll down to the city center, smiling at the blue sky above me and lip syncing animatedly to the music playing on my iPod. I pass serene, mostly empty bars, and watch the owners, often having a quiet smoke out front during the afternoon lull, checking me out as I walk by. I pass tiny grocery stores, their outdoor produce stands overflowing with fruits and veggies of every color. I glance into the windows of small clothing and furniture boutiques, pharmacies, bookshops, and even a drum kit store. My promenade is lined with 18th century architecture, some of it dulled gray with time and car exhaust and other parts newly washed and glowing warmly in the sun. The sidewalk is charmingly uneven and pitted, it's surface changing texture every few feet, and the street is narrow and patched with asphalt patches in different shades of black and gray. The cars that pass me are small, colorful, old and functional. No gleaming Mercedes slinking along these streets. No huge yellow H2s lumbering loudly, flashing polished chrome for all eyes to see. Most are small hatchbacks, flat-colored and dented in a carefree bohemian way. They're all manual transmission, and they all tailgate to an alarming degree. French city drivers are also expert parallel parkers; most streets are lined bumper-to-bumper with hundreds of little Renaults, Peugeots, and Citroens. Everyday I snicker to myself as I watch someone attempt to take an absurdly small spot, and then immediately swallow my smugness as they actually pull it off, James Bond-style, jumping the curb a bit to shimmy into the space and settle, mere centimeters from the cars immediately in front and behind.

But I digress. Once downtown I cross in front of the Grand Theatre, an intimidating and beautiful neoclassical structure, complete with columns and general grandeur; wait for the sleek, modern, sci-fi-esque tram to snake by, and then slip in through the automatic doors of my friendly neighborhood Brioche Doree. I wait for my turn at the counter and buy a cup of tea and a chausson aux pommes, a lemon tart, a chocolatine, or some other similar delectable pastry, and settle into a table upstairs for an hour of reading. Most recently I'm actually reading a book in French, which is slow-going since I have to look up a lot of the words, but is getting faster, especially now that I'm actually getting far enough in to care about the story.

At around 5:30pm I get up and head down to the bus station, which is about a 5 minute walk away. I get on the 54, 55, 56, or 57 (yay for my place being along a main and well-used road), scanning my year-long transit pass at the machine as I get on, while throwing the driver a quick "Bonsoir!". As the bus rolls along Rue Fondaudege, I notice the windows lighting up in the apartments above the shops I passed earlier as the sun sets in the deepening blue green sky. I get off at my stop and head home.

So that's Thursday, my longest workday of the week. On Monday I work at Tivoli, the school where I live, and I loathe it. The students there are mostly unruly and impossible. Additionally, some madness always occurs (my classes are canceled without warning, my room is changed without warning, a teacher forgets/was never informed by the coordinator that I'd be working for her, my classroom is locked, there's a pigeon in my room, or the room I normally have is suddenly taken by someone with higher seniority and I am now forced to work in a glorified storage closet with too few desks and no whiteboard or blackboard). Every Monday morning as I get ready to embark on my day I tell myself as I fix my scarf in the mirror, "Just power through; it'll all be over in a few hours."

On Tuesdays I work at my favorite school, the middle school. It's generally fairly organized, and my classes generally go smoothly. This is probably due at least in part to the fact that I work with only 7th graders, and they all have the same English teacher, who also happens to be my coordinator and is, fortunately, very nice. And, I only work there three hours. The kids are generally good and enthusiastic and have not yet reached that lovely age of sarcasm and general jerkiness my 8th graders at Tivoli currently find themselves enjoying.

I have Wednesdays off. More on that later.

Fridays are pretty good. I work at the high school again, but most of the time these classes run or someone at least warns me if they won't. The first class is a second year prep school class. They're ten 20 year-old girls who are working their butts off to get into really top universities in France. They're all super smart and really good at English. All of them speak better English than I speak French, and planning for their class is really easy, because they enjoy discussing the same political and social issues that fascinate me. And they're so close to my age and so intelligent and mature that I feel almost like I'm just having a conversation with my peers for an hour. And they're really nice. I love them. My second class is a first year prep class, and they're also really intelligent, though their English is not quite as amazing as the first class. I enjoy them too, when they come. The thing is, their class is volunteer, so a lot of times the decide they'd rather spend their Friday afternoon doing something else (can't say I blame them). It wouldn't really bother me except one guy always comes; his name is Damien. He's such a nice kid and really wants to put in the effort, but legally, I cannot be alone with one student. Especially a male student. So, there have been several weeks where I have to turn him away after ten minutes, when it becomes clear that no one else is going to show. I feel bad that he's missing out on the opportunity to speak with a native speaker because his classmates can't be bothered to make the effort. The last class of the day is a bunch of eager and fun sophomores that I also really like. Their English skills are not overly advanced, but I enjoy their energy. Regardless of all the optimism pouring out of this paragraph, I'm still ecstatic when the day is over and I can get on with my main goal for my time in France: having the time of my life!

Which brings me to another digression. I hope no one is under the impression that I came here to teach. If that were the case, I think I would be extremely disappointed. I came here to step out of my comfort zone, to feel challenged and alive, to prove to myself just how strong and capable I am, and to take advantage of my youth and relative lack of responsibility to do something kind of crazy. Call it an adventure, call it a test, hell; call it midlife-crisis-evasion, whatever you call it, it's all about the experience. This is why when people ask me, "So, how's teaching going?" I generally deflect the question and move on to something more interesting. So from this point forward I'll focus on the stuff that really matters (unless, of course, I happen across a particularly amusing teacher story, that is 😊.

OK! Getting off that soapbox now, I promise.

Except when the weather is horrible, my days off are great. On Sundays, for example, there's this huge outdoor market down by the river, the Marche de Chartrons. I know I've mentioned it before. It's basically an explosion of hot food, wine, produce, breads, pastries, honeys, jams, nuts, candies, spices, meat, seafood, poultry, cheese, juice, you name it. Usually there is at least one guy playing painfully charming French accordion music, which always makes me feel like I'm living in "Amelie" and therefore always makes me smile so hard my face hurts. The people there are happy and lively, laughing, eating, drinking and shopping with their friends and family. It's colorful, it's magical, and I love it. Often we'll get something to eat and sit facing the river, the water glittering in the early afternoon sun against the ancient backdrop of the Saint Michel steeple, the Saint Pierre Bridge, and all of the gorgeous 18th century skyline. Parents, kids, and groups of 20-somethings whiz by on bikes and rollerblades, puppies bounce along ahead of their owners, and elderly couples stroll slowly, serenely down the quais, stopping from time to time to admire the view. I really think it's Bordeaux at it's best.

Nights are fun too, of course. Quite frequently my roommates and I will cook a big wonderful meal together and spend hours enjoying it and and each other's company. I really got lucky in the roommate department. Meghan is from Chicago but moved here from New York and she's kinda artsy-funky and an outstanding cook. She's really into food. She loves pouring over food magazines and websites, finding just the right recipe (usually something I would dismiss as too complicated or time consuming or risky), going in search of just the right ingredients at just the right organic, independent shops, and putting it all together in a beautiful spread of flavor, texture, and color. The best part is, she usually shares. Lizzie is from Ohio but has been living in Washington D.C. She reminds me a lot of myself. She's easy-going and friendly and enjoys a good laugh. I think I could talk to her for hours on end. I have, actually. She's probably the person I relate to the most out of everyone I've met here so far, and I really hope we stay in touch. Aleksandra cracks me up. She's from Vienna and so brings a European perspective into our home (for the record, she also thinks the French are weird). She's funny and also really nice. It's really interesting talking about cultural differences with her.

I, of course, have other friends here too. Most of us are American assistants, but there are others too (Scottish, English, Welsh, Spanish, Irish, and French). We often find ourselves sipping a few drinks at a bar downtown or sharing a few bottles of wine at someone's apartment. We've gone bowling, and to the movies, and to this great board game bar, among other things. There is always much laughter. I'm so glad I've got them here; I really wasn't sure what to expect in terms of how many other assistants there would be. I was very pleasantly surprised. Once the weather starts warming up, I can't wait to head out with them; to the beach, to the wine country, to the Basque country, anywhere. They're a really fun group.

Well, I hope this very long-winded entry showed you a slice of my life here. As always, thanks for reading. I really do miss you all, in spite of everything I'm doing and experiencing here. I'm really looking forward to the next time I can be in California. France is great, but I'm still convinced the Bay Area is the greatest place in the world 😊.

Love and amour,

-Lisa

---

Photos

My room
on a sunny day

Faire la greve
striking: French national sport

Christmas lunch
at my lycee (high school)

sign in the British pub
where we watched Obama's inauguration

Comments

[AnHoOgA]

i like angel vs. devil talk. so amusing. =P when is your next planned visit to cali anyways?