Notes from the rock I'm now living under

I have been couped. 

Before I left on my latest European tour, I sent my internet and phone companies very lovely letters rife with French legalese that politely requested that end my connections on May the 10th, as I am departing abroad and would no longer be in need of their services. In a flash of efficiency that boggles the mind (seeing as I have yet to receive the social security card I was promised a full six months ago), they decided to end our relationship within 10 business days of receiving my letters.

So I returned from vacation with no phone, no internet, no way to arrange goodbyes with my French friends other than inviting them to holler at my balcony and hope I was there. You guys, I had no idea Osama was dead.

I have been surviving my coupure in the following ways: 1. Sneaking into the vicinity of the lycée at 11 p.m. so I can leech off their wifi, which allows me to check Facebook (but Gmail is blocked). I generally creep myself out by imagining Stasi members lurking in the bushes within 20 minutes or so of my arrival, so I can't accomplish much. 2. Sneaking into the Salle des Profs in between classes so I can use the staff computers, which allows me to check Gmail (but Facebook is blocked). Using a French AZERTY keyboard and the 1995-era technology are so infuriating that I can stay an average of 15 minutes before I want to scream. Again, can't really accomplish much. So please excuse my absence.

You shall communicate no more!

The other day I went to the Telephone Store to get my phone unblocked. While I was there I asked if I would be able to pay my last phone and internet bills online or over the phone. The clerk, after spending 15 minutes talking to Orange to unblock my phone, had to call a different number and wait on hold for another 10 minutes to find out that yes, it is possible to pay your bill online. But you can't do it today, they said. Their systems are down. Try again later.

Then I tried to buy 5E worth of texting credit for my phone so I could alert someone in the event that my plane got delayed (apparently this Osama stuff is getting American airports on high alert, and could complicate international flights). He gave it ago, but for some reason the phone wasn't letting him add the credit. Instead of trying something else or calling someone, he said he was sorry, he couldn't help me, have a nice day.

Homonyms

I went to the post office today to see how much it would cost to send a box of books back to the States. The Dude brought an entire library over in one of his suitcases, and despite my frequent protests, the Egghead has acquired more. The conversation went like this:

Me: Hello, sir. I am here to inform myself on the way to send livres to the United States in the most cheapest way.
Him: How much in dollars?
Me: Um... I know not... $50 could be?
Him: You see, you cannot send livres to the United States. You must send dollars or Euros.
Me: I am very much sure that one can send livres to anywhere one wishes.
Him: Well, how much?
Me: I do not understand this question. You want to know the weight? I am guessing 10 kilos.
Him: This is not possible.
Me: I have many livres!

At this point I realize that while I am talking about books, he is talking about British pounds sterling. 

Hee Hee Hee, Hon Hon Hon: Notes on Amusing the French

One of my early visits to France included a week-long home stay with a French family. During this first experience with total immersion I learned a number of things, chief among them: my humor did not translate.

Being an incredibly awkward human being, I was constantly knocking things over, spilling things, and being a general dunderhead. After each accident, my adopted family would assure me, "Ce n'est pas grave," (It's not a big deal) to which I replied with a very serious expression, "Si. C'est grave" (Yes. It is in fact a huge deal). Not understanding that I was trying to make a joke, they would repeat, "Mais non, ce n'est pas grave," (Seriously--don't worry about it) and then I would repeat, "Si c'est grave." (I'm totally worried about it). Their confusion and my deadpanning would continue until I backed slowly into my room, closed the door, and wept into my travel journal about how mizundastood I was.

So you don't have to go through the same shame cycle, I've listed some of my most and least successful jokes for you to consider before you encounter your next Frenchy.

Des Bonnes Blagues:

-When someone is cutting onions and nagging you about your love life, retort, "Occupes-toi de tes oignons!" (Literally: Occupy yourself with your onions! Colloquially: Mind your own business!) It's like hitting two birds with one stone; they chortle so much they forget to keep reminding you that he's just not that into you, and, bonus, they keep chopping the onions that will inevitably create a delicious dish.

-When you're in someone else's home for Sunday lunch, and they ask you if it's alright if they light up a cigar, reply, "Faites comme chez vous..." (Roughly: Do as you would if you were in your very own home) as magnanimously as possible, accompanied by a sweeping hand motion.

-For some reason, the phrases, "Pas mal" (not bad) and "Mais SI!" (that's not TRUE!) get laughs-a-minute when said with a deep voice and a slight sneer. Try to interject them whenever possible. When presented with a glass of water, hold it up to the light, swirl it a bit, take a deep whiff, sip and then pronounce, "Pas mal..." with the corners of your mouth turned down. When someone pronounces that Sarkozy isn't that great of a president, slap your knee, widen your eyes and yell menacingly, "Mais SI!" and then refuse to defend your answer. They'll love it.

-It takes a LOT of time and explanation, and you may not want to make the investment, but the pay-offs of teaching a French person about "that's what she said" can be huge. (That's what she said.)

Des Mauvaises Blagues...

-"Ta mère" (your mother) jokes are taken far, far, FAR more seriously on this side of the pond. When you say "ta mère," the person to whom you are speaking has a tendency to believe you are actually talking about their actual mother. So if someone says, "Beurk, cette clementine est dégeulasse," (Yuck, this clementine is disgusting) do NOT reply, "Oui, dégeulasse comme ta mère" (Yes, disgusting like your mother).  Trust me on that one. 


-For your own good, just avoid the subjects of cats (les chats) in all situations. It's far too easy to mistakenly make the masculine article feminine, and to pronounce the "t" at the end of the word. Before you know it, you're not talking about cats at all, but rather a vulgar name for female anatomy. For example: if your host is joking that the rabbit you're enjoying for lunch was actually the neighbor's pet, but she had made him so mad that he shot and cooked it, do NOT reply, "What are you going to eat next week, her cat?" Choose bird. Or fish. Or some other innocuous creature. Leave cats out of it.

Joke's on me

April Fools Day has traditionally been the time for me to announce a fake pregnancy to my mother, who always believes me for a least a little bit, no matter how many times I've done it (which is what makes it so fun!). Since that perennial parental heart attack has become trite with overuse, in the past couple of years I've graduated to playing games with her heart in a different way. Last year I uploaded a series of pictures featuring my left hand sporting the various engagement rings of my coworkers. I never actually said I was engaged; people just drew their own conclusions.*

This year, the only natural thing to do was to break off my now real engagement-- at least for 24 hours. The time zone difference between France and the States gave us a major advantage, since at the time I posted it it was still March 31 on the West Coast. I immediately received a heartfelt message from my friend Ryan, who pledged to be there for me despite the ocean between us. But as the afternoon wore on people across the pond woke up and wised up, and within a few hours I had a number of comments on my changed relationship status from friends warning others that I was a big ol' liarpants.

Har har, hon hon hon, no harm no foul. Except here in France people don't seem to be as cruel to their mothers on April 1, beyond perhaps slyly taping a fish to her back (yeah, I don't get it either... but this is the same country where a flying bell delivers Easter gifts). So when my students saw my changed relationship status on Facebook, they believed it. And then they told their teachers, and their teachers believed it. One of my students confirmed to me this morning that I am the talk of the teachers' lounge, and when I poke my head in there Monday to get my mail I should expect a lot of sympathetic looks.

Thank goodness I decided against another pregnancy...

*The Dude ended up popping the question for realsies a few weeks later, and I had to swear up and down that it was da troof.

Attention à la prononciation!

Say you're hanging out with your French conversation partner; shooting the breeze and just talkin' turtlenecks--les cous roulés-- as you're wont to do. Soon the conversation might turn to homophones of  "cou." Coût means "costs," obviously. Do you know what coup means?

"Oh, like coup de foudre?" you might guess without pronouncing the last syllable as emphatically as one should. Your partners eyes would go wide, and she might ask you to repeat. "Coup de foudre. Coup de foudre! Coup de foudre? C'est quand on voit la personne on aime pour la première fois..." You'll try to explain that it's what happens when you see the person you love for the first time, and finally she'll understand that you were talking about a bolt of lightening.

You see, if you didn't pronounce the last syllable it might sound like you were saying, "Coup de foutre," which is neither love at first sight nor a lightening bolt, and she would think you were talking about being struck by a bolt of sperm.

So it's a good thing this is just a hypothetical situation and definitely didn't happen this afternoon.

A conversation about animals, translated for your amusement

Secretary: It's cold, no?
Me: Yes, I have much cold. But all the same, it pleases me to not be at home, where there is such snow and such temperature that is frigid.
Secretary: It's better in the summer. Even in the spring.
Me: Yes, I am in accordance. It's better for the promenading of oneself by the river. Listen, do you celebrate the little animal tomorrow?
Secretary: (blank look)
Me: In the United States on the second of February we have a celebration for the little animal who kind of looks like a rat, or a beaver, and he looks at his shadow. In English it's "Groundhog."
Secretary: No, here in France we don't celebrate animals. We mostly celebrate saints.
Me: This is true? I thought this animal was known by all the world. If he sees his shadow there will pass six more weeks of winter.
Secretary: No, in France we have some legends about animals-- for example, if you hear an owl sing and you are very sick, in three days you will be dead. Also, snakes. We don't like snakes very much.
Me: I am in accordance.
Secretary: Do you have an animal?
Me: I don't, but my fiancé's family has a dog who is called Ella. She jumps and she is a redhead. She is too cute and I love her.
Secretary: Me, I like cats. My cat sleeps with me in my bed every night.
Me: Yes, that makes you more warm.
Secretary: I think animals are more loyal than men because they will never betray you!
Me: I am in accordance...?

And.... scene.

My first Pierre

Thanks to my French buddies Louis and Thomas, I've been learning a lot of useful French. For example:

Baver= to drool
Roter=to burp
Péter=to fart

Thomas invited my main meuf  Missy and me to his family's home in Nevers for the weekend. I'm always happy as a clam to be invited into the French inner sanctum, but I got really pumped when Thomas revealed that his dad's name is Pierre. He's the first Frenchy I've met with the most stereotypical of French names, so I was really eager to impress him.

We stopped off at Pierre's wine shop when we got into town and he offered to let us taste a bottle of delicious Chinon. About a glass and a half in, I remembered that it had been awhile since I'd eaten, which explained the uncontrollable giggles spilling out of me. The harder I tried to stop the more I laughed, to the point where I was beet red and wiping tears from my eyes. I was so embarrassed to be in this state of drunkeness in front of my first Pierre.

Pierre looked at me with amusement and asked, "T'es pétée?" I turned an even deeper shade of burgundy and said, "Non! J'ai pas pété!" Thomas laughed and told me in English, "It's OK. You don't have to hold it in." I was shocked. "J'en jure! J'ai pas pété!"

When Pierre went to change the music, I leaned over to Missy and whispered, "Why do they think I farted?" She busted a gut and relayed to Thomas what I had just asked.

Apparently "être pété" means "to be drunk." Oh. Sorry Pierre.

The tu/vous conundrum

Besides continuously screwing up gendered nouns and badly mangling verb conjugations, the hardest thing about the French language for me is knowing when I should use the formal "you" (vous) and when it's OK to switch to the more familiar version (tu).

Rather than offending someone by getting more fresh than was appropriate, when I first got here I vouvoie-d everyone. Old ladies. My fellow professors. My students. Dogs. Eventually I realized it was slightly ridiculous for me to be so formal with teens 10 years my junior and most breeds of canines. I kept it up with everyone else-- even if they addressed me as tu-- until they specifically told me to stop. By that point, though, it had become such a habit that some people have specifically told me to stop several times, and I still slip up.

"Qu'est-ce que vous allez--MERDE!-- tu vas faire ce weekend?" comes out of my mouth all day on Friday, often accompanied by a hang-dog expression and shame waves radiating off me.

The worst is when I feel like I know someone well enough to use tu, but I'm afraid to do so until I get the go-ahead. I talk with the secretaries at school about the weather almost every single day, which I feel has made us really close. But I'm sitll vous-ing them and will continue to do so, possibly until forever o'clock. There's an older woman with whom I've had weekly conversations in French since November who, in fact, still calls ME "vous"! I want to tell her to stop because it feels really weird for someone more than twice my age to treat me with that much respect, but what if she doesn't reciprocate?

Just tu* me now.

*That's a joke, because tu's homophone tue means "kill." But I've been told things aren't funny when I have to explain them, so it's OK if you didn't laugh.

This is the way I am sounding when I am speaking the French, of that I am sure

Of more and more time I speak to myself in my head in the voice that is that of English translated very bad. For it takes much years before one to stop the direct translation from one language in another one and starting to speak the one new extra fluent, and I am so much surrounded by people who speak like this I no more remember the way correct.

I have fear that when the man to which I am marry arriving here the next month, I have the impression he not know what is my meaning. "Why are you so perhaps?" he to demand of me.

Someone propose me to march along the river, and in my head I says, "I am in accordance." Someone propose me to eat of the croissant and in my head I am saying, "That walks." Someone propose of me to march along the river after the eating of the croissant and I am thinking, "I have very much tired for to do that." Then I bed myself.

Moreover they kiss in the elevator

One of my fellow English teachers (not at my school) gave me the awesome task of helping him grade his students' descriptions of the scene in Baz Luhrmann's "Romeo + Juliet" where the two meet each other for the first time. I give to you two of my favorites, in all their unedited glory:

The story begin in a bal who is creating of Juliet's father, or there have Romeo and herself. But Juliet's family don't know that Romeo is there with friend who is Mercutio. When Romeo and Juliet are meeting, they are fall in love but Juliet don't know Romeo is a Montaigu and Romeo don't know Juliet is a Capulet. But their love is stonger and when Romeo is discoverded he decided to leave the ball. But when Romeo is ready to go he decided to join Juliet in her house.

He wants to see Juliet discreetly but he drops a statue that bring out the monitoring of the pool luckily, he don't see Romeo and he goes. When Juliet comes out he follows and speacks of love and her name with him. When they are kissing Juliet is call by his nurse and she gets out of the pool and she says good night to Romeo.

This was hands down the best I read:

At the biginning. Capulets organise a party and Romeo and Mercutio come on. Mercutio is singing and Romeo comes in the bathroom, and though the aquarium he see Juliet, during an amor song. He is dressing in a knight warrior, and Juliet in a angel fairy. In the party there are a Devil, a Mousqueteer, a Skeleton, a Roman emperor and a Cleopatra. After that, Juliet dances with an astronaut. Then Juliet's cousin see the young Mantague and wants do him go out, but his godfather no allowd it.

Whereas Romeo tell with Juliet and try to kiss her. Moreover they kiss in the elevator. But after she learn Romeo is a Montague and Romeo go out. Then, he leaves in his friends' car but he goes back to Juliet's place and spies on her. She speak about Romeo's name and she asks he to change is name. Finally he shows itself and they fall in the swimming pool. Juliet is innocent, loving but careful whereas Romeo is loud, brave, irrational and passionate with she. They talk about love, the moon and mariage, they plan to get married soon. At the end, Juliet keeps coming back and they say goodnight a thousand time.

How to make a French person laugh

When asked why you decided to come to France, tell them, "J'ai voulu beaucoup des aventures avant de me marier."  Literal translation: "I wanted to have many adventures before getting married." What it really means: "I wanted to be very promiscuous before getting married."

Ask for une trompette (trumpet) when what you want is une trombone (paperclip).

During a conversation about Thanksgiving, tell your French friend how hard it is to be far from your amants (lovers) instead of your bien-aimés (loved ones).

Give your height in kilometers.

When politely motioning someone to go in front of you, tell them "Va t'en!" (get the frick out) instead of "Allez-y!" (go ahead).

Father Thanksgiving

Me: What's a subject you'd like to discuss when we have our classes together?
Student: Sanksgeefink!
Me: Tell me what you know about Thanksgiving.
Student: Fazzer Chreesmas come and gif everyone muhnee.
Me: Um... Are you thinking of Christmas? Father Christmas waits until Christmas to come. He doesn't come on Thanksgiving.
Student: But yes! Fazzer Chreesmas come and gif zuh muhnee and zuh geefts.
Me: I promise you, there is no Father Christmas on Thanksgiving. There's a big meal and people spend time with their families. No presents.
Student: But I saw eet on zuh Seempsons!

Toussaint Vacation Day Three: Dijon and Grenoble

I woke up before 6 a.m. I still haven't adjusted to Daylight Savings Time, which happened in France this weekend. After two hours of reading a dear friend's blog from her time here during the 07-08 school year, I decided to scrap my plans for a morning nap and get back on that blogging train.

Thursday was the big day of my medical appointment in Dijon, the one I first heard about during my orientation in the beginning of October. We needed to get examined to make sure we didn't have TB, and as a present for good health they would give us a stamp in our passports that would allow us to leave the country and re-enter. Back then they told us it was going to be on Oct. 19, the day before our second orientation in Montceau-les-Mines. Being the responsible lass I am, I immediately sent away my birth certificate for a 39€ official translation (a requirement of the visit, they said). I also gathered every conceivable document they could possibly need, including my college transcript, to bring along.

Then they emailed to say just kidding, the appointment will actually be on Oct. 28 in the middle of your vacation. Hope you didn't already make plans!

The one thing I still needed on the morning of my appointment was a passport-style photo. I got up and out the door of my hotel at an ungodly hour so I could get some snaps at the train station's photo booth. You're not supposed to smile for official French portraiture, but I did my best to smize. The result made me look like an exhausted stroke victim. But hey, at least my hair looked good.

Pretty much the best photo ever taken of me.

Kelly had never been to Dijon before, so we spent the morning before my appointment sight seeing. First we went to the Creepiest (and Best) Museum in the World and grilled a young docent about her thoughts on the ubiquitous mannequins. Did she ever change their clothes? (Answer: No.) Did she ever change their positions? (Answer: No.) Did she ever put them in different rooms? (Answer: No.) But the guy mannequin in the baby cradle scene looks hungry. Shouldn't he be in the kitchen scene instead? (Answer: No.)

On the second floor they have recreations of several storefronts, including one for candy. I tested one of the lids to see if I could catch a whiff of stale, late-1800s bonbon, and incurred the wrath of the Upstairs Docent. She spent the rest of our visit shadowing us to make sure we didn't get any other wise ideas.

After leaving the Creepiest (and Best) Museum in the World, we headed for the Notre Dame church that bears an owl statue on one of its corners. If you rub the owl with your left hand you're supposed to get any wish you desire. Except, apparently, for a shower of gold doubloons to come raining from the sky into your pocket. Trust me. I tried.

Kelly is mini and can barely reach the owl!

We had lunch at a pretty swanky place, where Kelly ordered the local specialty oeufs en meurette, eggs poached in a heavenly white wine sauce. I ordered spaghetti bolognese because I'm a cheap jerk. I could have really used that gold, Monsieur La Chouette.

True to form, I had a burning desire to get to my medical appointment an hour early. I had only originals of many of the documents I had brought with me, and had tried in vain all morning to find a photocopier to make duplicates. Dijon suffers from a serious lack of FedExes and Kinkos. FYI. I tried the machine at the post office, but it was broken (of course). The lady there directed me to the nearby department store Galleries Lafayette, which was "Exceptionellement fermé" all day so they could do inventory. Of course! Of course they were. So I guess I thought if I went early enough to my appointment the kindly front desk lady would allow me to copy whatever I wanted, and for free. Except this is France, and the offices were closed until 1:35 for lunch, at which point the crowd of about 40 people (all with 1:30 appointments) swarmed the door.

I managed to be second in line, and after presenting my summons from the Office of Immigration and Integration, I sat in the waiting room for about 10 minutes. The doctor there asked me if I had any health concerns, anything I thought she should know about. I kept my bubonic plague, malaria, and diphtheria a secret, but told her everything else. Then she asked me for my weight and height. The metric system still stumps me (thanks a lot, America!), but thankfully I have a conversion system on my new genius phone. "Would you like my weight in kilos?" I asked. "Yes, that would be preferable," she deadpanned. I gave her the number. "And my height in...kilometers?" I asked. "Uh... no. One uses kilometers for highways," she said, stifling a guffaw at the immeasurable stupidity of Americans.

In the next room I was told to strip to the waist and then enter the x-ray machine, which had two bulls eyes on the wall to indicate where I was to aim my bosoms. "Plus proche! (Closer!)" the brusque X-Ray Doyenne demanded, as she flattened me against the cold plastic partition. I got to keep the x-ray as a door prize, and it would appear from the faint outline of my flesh that I'm alarmingly lopsided. Also, they only document they needed from me was my Attestation of Logement, which says I officially have a roof over my head.

That horrific experience over, I was free to do what I came to Dijon to do: taste mustard.

I quite liked the chèvre mustard. Myam myam.

Outside, of course, they were rioting. Pourquoi? Pourquoi pas! The streets were filled with smoke, and every now and then they would light something in the street that made a terrific noise. Dijon go BOOM! A month ago, this would have really freaked me out. Now it's just annoying. Yes, yes, I know the government is trampling all over your rights but could you just please go back to work? Please? Who knows? You might really like it. I know I would.

What are they manifesting? Probably destiny.

Thanks to this selfsame strike, our train to Grenoble had been canceled, and we got to the train station about 30 minutes before the one train we could take was set to leave. We waited patiently in line to buy tickets as the time ticked away, and finally got to an agent 10 minutes before go time. She told me she couldn't sell me a reservation for my train pass because they were all sold out. With the stress of our imminent departure making her frantic, she somehow gave me a 1€50 first class ticket to Lyon, and a 19€ adult 2nd class ticket to Grenoble. As was typical for this trip, no one even checked my ticket on the train, so I kicked myself for shelling out.

Finally, finally, after much durm und strang, we weary travelers two arrived in the promised land of Grenoble, the land woefully lacking in Patrimony according to our dear Arlesian friend. We trudged through the city center to our hosts' apartment. We were enthusiastically greeted by Line (pronounced /leen/) and her husband Gus (pronounced /goose/) as delicious dinner-type odors wafted about our famished heads. Kelly had contacted them through www.couchsurfing.com, and they came very highly recommended. They ushered us into the salon for some wine and port before giving us the best surprise of the trip: the aforementioned delicious odors were from dinner! Dinner we could eat too!

We ate herbes de Provence-y roasted chicken, onions, and tomatoes, with salad and squash au gratin. Cheese course! Fruit for dessert! Heaven. After dinner, Gus poured us shots of Chartreuse, a spirit that gave the color its name. It's made with a secret recipe that is closely guarded by a nearby sect of monks. It's 54% alcohol.

With that, they sent us to bed in our own private apartment (!) on the other side the building, with a bed made of clouds. We were so, so happy.

Coming up: Grenoble, Grenoble, Grenoble! My new favorite city.

Lycée Camille Claudel, Home to the Purple and Blue Cows

I finally started teaching yesterday after several weeks of introducing myself and observing. My first class was with the "Euro" seniors-- a designation for advanced students like AP or IB-- and I prepared a lesson for them about the use of attack ads in American elections. I showed them McCain's "celebrity" ad on Obama, and used an Obama ad where he compared McCain to Bush. I asked them to think about how they used images and music to manipulate the viewers. I did the same with Tarryl Clark/Michele Bachmann ads, and asked them which they found most convincing and why.

It was pretty successful, forcing the students to think critically. I was brimming with confidence going into my next class, with seniors who have specialized in English. I brought them a video the Duluth tourist office made about the city, thinking the kids would be excited to see where I come from. I'm in a really tiny room with nowhere to put my laptop, so I had to awkwardly hold it aloft so they could see. If you've never seen "Fresh Duluth," it's about 30 minutes worth of Lake Superior porn, cut with interviews with locals. Many of them zoned out, so I kept pausing it to say, "Pauline, what just happened?" "Euh... eye don' kno'." "Is that because you weren't paying attention?" "....yis." It was somewhat of a disaster.

Today I had two groups of sophomores, and I prepared a lesson for them about school spirit. The kids here go to school from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m., and they don't have any extra-curriculars. No sports teams. No music ensembles. No assemblies. No mascot. No school colors. I brought in my Duluth East High School yearbook and tried to explain these foreign concepts.

Next I taught them some cheers from my high school. They really got into the clapping and stomping as they chanted:

"Oo rocks zuh 'ouse?
Zuh grey'ounds rock zuh 'ouse
And when zuh grey'ounds rock zuh 'ouse
Zey rock eet all zuh way down."

Another favorite:

"One! We ar' zuh grey'ounds!
Two! A leetle beet loudahr!
Sree! Ay steel can't 'ear yoo!
Foh! Moh! Moh! Moh!"

As an activity I had them choose a mascot and school colors for their own high school, Lycée Camille Claudel. The mascot had to share an attribute with the students. I told them we were the greyhounds because greyhounds are fast and always win the race, just like East High School athletes. I used escargots as an example, since it's a specialty of the region. But it's not a particularly fierce or fast animal, so they probably wouldn't want to choose it, I said.

"Les gazelles!" someone suggested. That was eventually shot down because they didn't think their classmates were elegant enough to qualify. "Les grenouilles (frogs)!" said another. Not too much enthusiasm for that one either.

"Les vaches!" said a girl who had been really into the cheers. "Cows?" I asked. "Why would you want to be the cows?" "Becooz, euh, zuh coos, zey talk a lot. And zuh studahnts, zey talk mooch az well. So we are zuh coos." Everyone nodded in agreement. And your colors? I asked. Blue and violet was the consensus. Why? "Becooz zey ah' well wiz each ozzer."

I asked the students to use their 10-day Toussaint vacation to create their own cheer for Camille Claudel. I can't wait to see what zey cohm oop wiz.

Digoin Digest

I arrived yesterday in Digoin, the city of 8,500 souls where I will live and work for the next seven months. One of train conductors struck up a conversation with me on my way here from Paris, and when I told him where I was headed he wrinkled his nose and said, "Mais... pourqoui?!? C'est tout petit!" He seemed genuinely concerned that I was going to have a terrible time and hate France, so he gave me his number and said to call him if I was ever in Chalon.

My contact from the school was waiting for me at the station when I departed the train-- it wasn't hard for her to find me since I was the only person who got off. My new conductor friend had inflated my confidence by telling me that I spoke very good French, but all of that evaporated when I started talking with the teacher. I kept answering questions incorrectly (Ex: Her: Was it a long journey? Me: I arrived in France on Saturday.) and stuttering my French conjugations, so she must have thought I was a prize idiot.

She took me to a grocery store so I could buy some provisions: baguette, chevre, Nutella (bien sur) and then took me back to my new home. She opened the door with a flourish and said, "Bienvenue a ton grand appartement!" Gulp. My first thought was: jail cell. It seems much smaller than the single dorm room I had in college, though maybe with the bathroom included it's the same size. The walls are painted a depressing shade of blue, and they seemed to have crammed as much depressing gray furniture in it as possible. A bed, desk, wardrobe and shelves are all squeezed in alongside a mini fridge, cabinet, hot plate and toaster oven. I'm going to wait to take a picture of it until it looks less cell-like.

Rather than wallowing, I took off to try to explore the village in the waning sunlight. I spied a library and a gym filled with beefy French dudes, as well as a lot of closed storefronts. I got a bit lost on the way back and ended up having a very creepy experience by a fog-filled cemetery. An ancient episode of Gossip Girl I happened to have on my computer lulled me to sleep in my Internet-free lodging.

This morning I went out to explore the city and get some much-needed items, such as a towel and a knife with more cutting power than the butter knives in my room. I plastered a huge smile on my face and forced myself to say a cheerful, "Bonjour!" to everyone I passed. Most responded likewise. Some detoured to the other side of the street. I made a detour at the river, which looks like this:

After my stop at a supermarché, I returned home for a shower. I waited for ages for the water to heat up to no avail, so I went to my school's office for help. While I waited in the head secretary's office for a janitor, I made the acquaintance of several teachers coming in and out. One asked me how in the heck I had ended up in Digoin. "Did you fall out of the plane?" he asked me in French.

My plumbing fixed, I met up my contact teacher. She invited me to sit in on her English classes. I thought I was just there to observe, but instead she had me stand at the front of the class and field questions about myself. I made an apparently fatal error when answering the question about what music I like with "Carla Bruni." They all laughed. I redeemed myself by saying I also liked Louise Attaque. Their other questions included, "'Ave you been to Las Vay-gass?" "What ahr your 'obbies?" "Do you love Barack Obama?" "What you think about zee snails?" "What words of French do you know?" "What age do you 'ave?" "Pleeze speak mooch more slowly."

I was told my job would consist of helping small groups of these students prepare for their oral examination at the end of the year, where they must discuss "A Midsummer Night's Dream" and another surprise text.

Since I was surviving on the pain au chocolat and few gulps of orange juice I'd had that morning, by 18:00 I decided to come into town for a proper meal. I'm sitting at Entre Mer et Montagne, which thankfully has wifi, and waiting for it to be 20:00 so I can get dinner. The building I'm in is on the left side of the street in the picture below.

Thus begins the most awkward (and hopefully most rewarding) period of my life...

Three of my meals thus far have had a Nutella course

I'm trying to stay up as late as I can to limit my jet lag to one day, so I thought I'd update my favorite ninnymuggins on my adventures thus far.

After my travails trying to make my flight in San Francisco this summer, I was determined to make it to the airport with plenty of time to spare yesterday (my goodness; was it only yesterday? feels like many moons ago). Thankfully The Dude was able to wrangle a gate pass, so I didn't have to spend that extra 2.5 hours staring moodily into the distance and missing him. Instead, my fellow passengers were treated to a gross display of human emotion as I boarded the plane and we were forced to part. What can I say. Four months is a long time without your beloved.

I wedged my way into my window seat next to a fleshy Englishman intent on invading my personal space. He promptly dozed off, leaning ever-closer to my shoulder, when he would awake with a snort and correct his posture. This continued for all six hours of our flight into Reykjavik, as I made several failed attempts to find a comfortable position that would allow me to doze. We made it into Keflavik Airport at 6:30 a.m. Icelandic time, 1:30 a.m. Minneapolis time.

(At this point jet lag claimed me. It is now Sunday morning for moi, the middle of the night for toi.)

I stumbled around the airport bleary of eye and definitely not bushy of tail. I got a croissant that was 250 krona. I thought it was kind of a lot of money for a croissant but I handed over my card anyway.

My next flight was much more comfortable and pleasant. I enjoyed looking at the quaint English hamlets from above and imagining that they populated by Middle Ages peasants as illustrated in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

The plan was to meet my high school buddy Nick (henceforth known as St. Nick) at the RER station at Terminal One of Charles de Gaulle Airport. Which was great, except it doesn't exist. I took the airport shuttle to the next terminal, where I approached an official-looking man in a red vest to ask, with a huge smile plastered on my face, "Euh... excusez-moi, monsieur, mais ou est la station RER?" (I worked really hard on pronouncing that AIR-euh-AIR in my sleep-deprived state.) His response was something like, "Garble garble nonsense ferme garble garble bus nonsense. Tu comprends?"

I tried again. "La station AIR-euh-AIR. C'est ou?" Big, big smile. That tipped him off that I was a dumb American, and he told me, "The train ees close. You mus' take zee bus to next station. Go by there. OK?" No, I told him. Not OK. I was supposed to meet my friend by the train station and now I don't know where to go and I think I need to call him and I need a phone is there a phone I can use? At this point a Helpful European decided to take me on as his cause and he led me to a pay phone. He told me I could use my credit card to make a call. I thanked him profusely for all his help. Which was great, except my credit card wouldn't work. I awkwardly wielded my two suitcases into a shop with bizarrely small doors and bought a phone card. I awkwardly wielded my two suitcases out, went back to the phones and, as I called St. Nick's wife Mrs. Clause, I saw a tall lanky dude loping toward me. St. Nick! Merry Christmas!

Thank Rudolph for St. Nick, for I have no idea how I would have lugged my two gigantic suitcases up and down the dozens of flights of stairs on the way back to his abode. Elevators, Paris! Get on it! Mrs. Clause was waiting for us in their adorable French apartment with the yellow cupboards and blue and yellow dishes and view of Parisian rooftops. She made us delicious baguette sandwiches and, more importantly, proffered a giant vat of Nutella for dessert.

Once I could make my legs move again, we headed out for the Centre Pompidou, home to the world's best modern art. I'd gone there maybe five times before but never made it inside. The first gallery we went into had a gigantic painting of two faces. That's odd, I thought. That one's mouth looks like... and that one's eyes look like... oh. And there was a fiber sculpture in the room that looked like a weird canoe, except... oh. And there was a video of blood coming out of... oh.

Moving on...

I saw more nakedness in that museum than I have in my whole life. There were videos of butts clenching and unclenching. There were videos of naked ladies hula hooping with barbed wire on the beach. There was a massive sculpture of bloody gloves.

Once I get my teacher's card that gets me into national museums for free I'm totally going back.

The rest of the evening was a blur of skinny, booty, scarfy, chic, skinny, OMD eat a crepe Frenchies; me trying to make OMD (oh mon dieu) happen; Nutella; and crashing.