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.

In defense of peanut butter

When you give a Frenchman something containing peanut butter, the reaction is almost always:

"You Americans! You Americans with your peanut butter! You LOVE your peanut butter!" (accompanied by a chuckle and a shaking of the head and a refusal of what you offered)

or, more commonly:

"I can't believe you just gave me something with peanut butter OMD I need to spit this out immediately before I get fat and DIE."

When you try to explain that peanut butter has lots of protein and can actually be pretty healthy, so long as it doesn't have too much sugar in it-- whoops, there they go racing to the kitchen to clean their mouths out with chocolate. 

In France, chocolate in all its forms is considered the main part of a balanced breakfast, preferably when coupled with butterific carbs. Chocolate bars inside a croissant (pain au chocolat). Chocolate-hazelnut spread on baguette (Nutella). A chocolate square imprinted with the image of a little schoolboy stuck to a buttery biscuit (les Petits Ecoliers). Chocolate shavings mixed in with your cereal (Fitness). Hot chocolate. Chocolate sprinkles. Chocolate brioche sandwich with Nutella and Petits Ecoliers and chocolate sprinkles, and hot chocolate to dip it in. N'importe de quoi. 

But peanut butter? (Insert image of hands flying away from one's butt and belly and cheeks ballooning to their largest size to indicate massive weight gain.)  

Non merci!

Ring a ding ding

I thought, after nearly six months here, I had this place figured out. I had tamed France. I was no longer getting flustered with simple daily interactions and social protocol. I had even lost my fear of making phone calls.

But ever since the Dude got here, my other-ness is made even more conspicuous due to all the American I now speak with my new-found companion whilst running errands. And now France is rejecting us. Specifically, French grocery stores are rejecting us.

This is tragic, for grocery shopping is my favorite pastime out here in Cow Country. Last week, on the Dude's first full day in Digoin, I wanted to share with him the joy that is browsing the aisles and gazing in wonder at all the bizarre and magnificent wares on display: all that pink toilet paper, the canned livers of various beasts, the entire aisle devoted solely to yogurt...

It was all going really well (the Dude was sufficiently impressed by all the quality 3E wine that's available) until we were about to check out. As the Dude passed through the security sensors they screamed in protest. He dutifully opened his bags, took off his jacket and turned out his pockets to show he was no thief. But the sensors rang relentlessly.

Our checkout lady called security, and a man arrived to question the Dude. Evidently unsatisfied, the guard led him away from me to the LeClerc Back Room, and I was left wondering if I'd ever see my intended again. A few minutes later he returned, confused and mortified. You would be too if you were led to the LeClerc Back Room and asked to drop trou.

Since then we've avoided LeClerc and instead frequented our other supermarché option, Intermarché. (Our à pied lifestyle means that we can only buy as much as we can carry, thus necessitating frequent trips to the grocer's.) The Dude never had a problem there until Tuesday night, when the security sensor went wild as he tried to pass. He again opened his bag, turned out his pockets and insisted as best he could in his adopted language that everything on his person was rightfully his. The checkout lady passed everything he gave her through the sensor, asking him to try again after each go and making the alarm ring incessantly.

A supervisor abandoned her register to investigate, and discovered it was Dude's wallet that was the offending item. She stood between the sensor arms as she meticulously went through his money and various other personal items. The siren seemed to be getting louder as it rang and rang and rang, and everyone stared and stared and stared.

"AMERICANS HERE! WE GOT SOME REAL, LIVE, THEIFY AMERICANS HERE! NO NEED TO WATCH LES EXPERTS TONIGHT, FOLKS. WE'VE GOT THE REAL DEAL! KEEP STARING! THEY MIGHT BUST OUT ONE OF THOSE GUNS THAT EVERY AMERICAN OWNS!"

Now Dude was pissed. So when we needed to get beer and another package of cheese for the raclette birthday party I threw him last night, we went to the friendly neighborhood Spar, which has no sensors with which to mock us. I realized I had forgotten to get dessert earlier, so I sent him home with the beer while I trotted back to Intermarché. I realized about 5 meters outside the store that I had still had the cheese with me, and the cashier at the friendly neighborhood Spar had neglected to give me a receipt.

I entered, and looked around in a panic for someone I could talk to about my pre-purchased fromage. There were no employees around but butchers and cashiers, all of whom were attending registers six-deep with rush-hour customers. I figured that it made no sense to stand in line just to tell them about my cheese, and then to go get what I needed and stand in line again. So after much internal turmoil I picked up a gâteau and headed over there.

As I approached him, I got extremely nervous, and thus turned beet red and started to sweat. "I have buyed this already at the store who is called Spar," I said. "Do you have a receipt?" he asked. "That is with my boyfriend, which has already returned to the house." I realized that this is exactly what a thief would say, and I got even redder and sweatier. "Why didn't you speak with someone when you entered the store?" he queried. "I didn't see no one and everyone like you had the appearance of being very occupied," I stammered. "I very excuse myself."

He eyed me suspiciously but in the end decided to let me get away with it.

The only clear solution to this problem is to make our next trip to market in the nude.

Your Daily WTF (Welcome to France) Moment

It had been a while since I'd done laundry, and in that while I'd been hanging out with a lot of smokers. Well, mostly the same smokers, but the same smokers who've been around me many-a-time smoking many-a-death-stick and giving me the black lung. (Cough cough STOP SMOKING TOM! Cough.) Needless to say, my clothes were a bit PePé le Pew.

Doing my laundry is kind of an ordeal. First of all, it requires quite a bit of change. The washing machines cost 4E, 6E or 8E depending on machine's capacity, and it's 1E for every 10 minutes in the dryer. Second of all, the laundromat is a good 15-20 minute hike from my cell, which is a long way to go when you're one stumble away from all your unmentionables being scattered to the wind. Third of all, when I get up the gumption to finally go, I often run into this crazy lady who babbles to me in incomprehensible French the whole time and follows me when I move my clothes from the washer to the dryer. The whole place is about the size of my cell, so it's awkward to have someone tailing me in such close quarters. Plus it's cold in there. Really, really cold.

By yesterday my sock situation had grown dire, so I bucked up and trudged down there. I actually spent a pleasant, solitary 25-minute wash cycle listening to a podcast about French collaborators during World War II and perusing a travel guide for Florence while the afternoon sun actually warmed those frigid tile walls a bit. I put the clothes in the dryer and paid for 20 minutes, and then settled back into my chair for some more podcasting and perusing and sun bathing.

But at the end of those 20 minutes my clothes were still damp and cold. Attributing it to the amount of jeans and towels I had in there, I shrugged and paid for another 10 minutes. When they were STILL damp and cold after that extra time, I bit the bullet and called the number posted on the wall. I have a fear of making telephone calls in French because it's approximately 43 times harder to understand and be understood than when you're talking in person.

A woman answered with a gruff, "Oui??" I took a deep breath and explained my problem. "My clothes have been in the machine of the dryness since long time, but they still cold and wet." Did I push the start button, she asked? "Yes I push every correct button and it moving during 30 minutes but there is not the air that is hot. My clothes are not dry. Please, to help me." She sighed and told me she'd get there in 10 minutes.

Twenty-five minutes later she arrived, cigarette in hand. She took a look at me and harrumphed. I pointed to the offending dryer, and she ambled over to it. She switched the cigarette to her mouth as she opened the machine, and exhaled her smoke all over my freshly cleaned clothes.

Le sigh. WTF.

Beautiful day in the Diggy-hood... almost

 Today was one of those days where I was all, "La la la I love France." I had the day off from my arduous 12-hour-per-week-job-that-sometimes-is-only-nine-or-10-hours, and by mid-morning it was gloriously sunny and warm.

The morning frost was drip-drip-dripping off this tree by the canal as Mr. Sun reached out to give it a hug. Bonjour, Monsieur Soleil! Ça fait longtemps depuis je t'ai vu!

The weird knobbly branches on this ubiquitous species of tree looked so much less creepy against the blue, blue sky than they do when they're ensconced in fog. Bonjour les branches! Je vous préfère comme ça!

How sunny and warm was it? It was so sunny and warm, mes amies, that someone left their shutters partially open! Bonjour les volets ouverts! Maintenant je connais tous vos secrets!

After lunch I decided to read Tartuffe by the Loire, because the act itself struck me as extremely French and, as previously noted, I was in a "La la la I love France" kind of mood. The sun on my face was just the best, and I was feeling so warm and comfortable and happy and French that I even dozed off a little bit.

Not too long after I had awoken,  a small green truck drove by and its driver tooted his horn in greeting. In my post-doze haze I reasoned that only someone I knew would have done that, so I waved. I heard the truck turn around, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a rotund, middle-aged man get out and approach me.

He asked me if I was studying. I tried my age-old trick of being like, "Um... quoi? Je no speaka the Frenchy!" but he wasn't buying it. After asking me a few more questions about how I ended up in Digoin, he asked if I was married. I said yes, hoping that perhaps M. Soleil would help me blind this jerk with my bling. "Dommage," he said. "Mais on peut avoir une affaire en secret tout le même." I politely declined his offer of having a secret affair with a "non merci" (damn you, Minnesota nice!) and got up and left.

Au revoir Monsieur le Draguer! Mangez un sac de l'enfer!

Bonne nuit, Francey Pantsers!

I hope this gives you as much gut-busting, creeptastic joy as it gave me. 


*Sent to me by my Main Mec, Baptiste

Toussaint Vacation Day One: Arles

Remember how I'm only working here seven months, but I still get two months' worth of vacation in that time? I got my first chunk of vacay last week, which was well-deserved after my first two arduous days of actually teaching the students by myself.

That means I probably shouldn't complain about the fact that I opened my French bank account more than a month ago, and I still can't use my check card because I don't have the PIN code, which has probably arrived at the school but it's a national holiday and I might not be able to get my mail until school reopens on Wednesday, which might not even make a difference because I haven't been paid yet even though I was supposed to be on Oct. 26, and thus I've had to use my American debit card and I imagine it's going to be a nightmare to transfer funds back to that account so I don't overdraft after my next student loan payment. So I won't complain about that one bit.

Ahem. I plan to do a post for each city, and then aggregate them into an overview post on Truth Pirates so you can read only the parts that interest you (although it's bound to be entertaining so you should probably just read all of it). Allez-y!

My travel buddy was Kelly, who is doing the same thing I'm doing but in Paris. She and her husband are kind enough to host me in their love nest whenever I pop up to Paris, which has been alarmingly often. Kelly is really f'ing funny, super good at saying "merci" and sounding French, and teaches me a lot of useful things, like that WTF can mean "Welcome to France." She has also been instrumental in ensuring that I don't die by showing me a number of dishes than can easily be prepared in teeny tiny French kitchens.

Kelly getting blown away by Arles

The strike, as always, made traveling difficult. The French don't like to tell you what platform your train will be on until 5-10 minutes before the train is scheduled to depart. This results in huge masses of people crowded around the departures board, getting cricks in their necks from gazing up. As soon as a platform number appears, a great horde will detach from the larger mass and run there as fast as they can to ensure good luggage storage and a seat. Yes, in these dire times of strike, your ticket purchase does not necessarily guarantee you a seat on the train. Ours was stuffed to the brim, with people packed into the aisles for about an hour before things thinned out enough for them to sit down.

We were going to Arles to stay with my friend Cécile, who I had met in Portland last summer while she interned at a dance studio and worked on a paper about American cultural institutions. She was coming back from Paris the same night we were due to arrive, but had arranged for one of her friends to meet us and give us the keys. I got a flurry of texts from said friend, some of which didn't make a whole lot of sense in English ("Ok so marjo waiting you to the place du forum. She gives you the keys. You can eat to the restaurant and wait Cécile."), and some of which made absolutely no sense in French ("Marjo va o ciné moi je sortiré du sport dc jvé pa lé amené juska ché toi et veul alé o resto els oront lé clé dc el tatendron envil.").  In the end, our train from Lyon was more than an hour late, so we just waited for Cécile herself at the train station.

Roman ruins in Arles

The wind was just HOWLING when we got in, and did nothing to warm up my Frenchy friend's frigid studio apartment. She made us some bowls of ramen and then Kelly and I huddled together for warmth in Cécile's bed as we tried to get enough feeling in our toes to go to sleep. I had been feeling poorly since a rain-soaked tour of the Versailles grounds a few days earlier, and awoke completely encrusted in sick. My head was pounding and I couldn't breathe out of my nose, which was probably for the better for it prevented my two favorite allergens-- cat and cigarette-- from gaining access to my face.

We scooted out the door by 9 so Cécile could go to class and went to a café for a typical French breakfast: crossaint, baguette with butter and jam, and a hot drink of your choice. Then we mosied around the Roman ruins while trying not to get blown over by the wind. We made a stop at an antique shop, where Kelly happened upon this gem in a newspaper from 1916:

Who better to relieve constipation? Mini WWI-era soldiers!

Next stop was the Musée Réattu, home to some fine art by Réattu himself, a few Picasso drawings, a few carpets and dresses from hometown hero Christian Lacroix, and a whole lot of contemporary art I was not too fond of.  Not represented at the museum was Van Gogh, whose scenes of Arles are some of his most famous. My favorites were the photos of museum workers unpacking the Louvre's masterpieces once the war was over. I also really like this guy, who managed to embody exactly how I felt that day:

Ay wad do suff'd up

After all our forced marching in the wind, it was time for a pause that refreshes. We settled at a tapas restaurant and ask if we could see the menus. As it was 3:00, it was clearly no time for food, stupid Americans! We could have drinks, crepes, or waffles, and that was IT.  I ordered a crepe with speculoos, a gingersnap cookie cream I'd read about on one of my favorite blogs. I think I liked it... I'm pretty sure I liked it... I know I definitely enjoyed the texture... but I was incapable of tasting anything that day. Now that my sinuses have cleared I've become obsessed with finding speculoos so I can properly give it a whirl, and it has of course chosen to elude me. Welcome to France.

We made dinner for Cécile that night (which both she and Kelly assured me tasted good since I wouldn't have known a truffle from dog poo at that point), and then she took us out to a bar to meet some of her friends. Understanding French is hard. Understanding French over loud music when the speaker is turned away from you is harder. Understanding French over loud music when the speaker is turned away from you and you can't hear anyway because your head feels like it's wrapped in styrofoam is impossible. And that was my evening, in a nutshell.

This café was supposedly inspiration for one of Van Gogh's famous paintings. Cécile says it's a fake, but I'll always believe, Vinny!

The one part of the conversation I was privy to was about Kelly's and my future destination: Grenoble. One of Cécile's friends insisted we wouldn't like it because it didn't have any patrimony. Patrimony was clearly a big deal to the Arlesians, who had not only Roman ruins gracing their fair city, but they had the head of a statue that may or may not have been a likeness of Julius Cesar sitting in one of their museums.

We went to sleep prepared this time with long underwear and all the Minnesota heritage we could muster. Next up: Day Two: Arles and Dijon.

The Honeymoon is Over

Two Fridays ago I was moseying around Digoin, enjoying the sunshine before I headed off to Paris to meet up with my friends Ted and Danielle for the weekend. I took the route by the sun-dappled Loire River, and smiled to myself at the sight of six old French dames squished together on a bench, laughing like school girls. Everyone I passed said "Bonjour!" to me, and José, the friendly bartender at the Café de Paris, stuck his head out to wish me a good trip.

"I love the f out of this place," I thought to myself. "It's going to be so impossible to leave in but a few months."

I had a lovely time in Paris, and made it back just in time for the entire country to go on strike to protest the proposed change of retirement age from 60 to 62. The olds are upset that the government is merde-ing on their sacred benefits, which generations have fought for and for which they pay dearly  with their taxes. The youngs are none-too-pleased that the olds will be stationed in their jobs for two additional years, making it that much harder for them to find jobs in a country plagued with chronic unemployment.

I'm all for the Frenchies being involved in their governmental proceedings and fearlessly yelling, "Aw, hell no!" when they feel those supposedly representing them are no longer doing their jobs. But effectively bringing train travel to a standstill and thus forcing me to cancel all sorts of touristing? Not cool.

I took the bus to Lyon on Friday and was planning to spend the entire weekend there with my bridesbitch Lo. Instead of taking our 5:30 p.m. Sunday train back to Digoin, however, we were forced to cut our trip a day short to take an 8:20 a.m. bus to Paray le Monial, the town next to Digoin. Once we got there, there was supposed to be another bus to take us back to my palatial abode. But it was one big lie, France! Instead we inquired of a kindly looking gentleman if he knew of a taxi number, and he offered to take us to Digoin himself.

Lo and I popped into the Café de Paris to say hi to José, and then headed to a pizza place, one of a handful establishments in the entire metropolis open on Sundays. It was there, upon receiving a personal pizza as large as a car wheel (and you're not allowed to share pizzas there; it's well-marked on the menu... didn't you see?) and feeling the burning desire to take a snap of it, that I realized my camera was no longer in my purse. When we got home I tore through all my possessions and found it neither hither nor thither. The last place I know I had it was on the bus, and I have since both called and emailed the bus line and they insist it is nowhere.

I know a camera is just a thing, and things are replaceable, and I should really stop mourning this loss so hard. But I had some wicked awesome shots from Lyon of Lo and me playing Be the Statue and Be the Painting, as well as some excellent new candidates for Facebook profile pictures. So it felt like a beloved pet had just died.

After I had somewhat reconciled myself to this monumental loss, I came to the realization that I had absolutely nothing to do to amuse my dear friend for the remainder of her stay. We tried going to the grocery store at the edge of town, but we got there after it was closed and thus our 40-minute forced march in the biting wind was in vain. In the end we watched Jersey Shore with my frustratingly faltering internet connection, and then the one DVD I brought out here.

Everything in town remained closed on Monday, so we trudged back to the supermarket for amusement and the makings of dinner. Next we went to Digoin's one museum: la Musée de la Céramique. It was room upon room upon room of pottery. Old pottery. New pottery. Pitchers. Plates. Bowls. Bed warmers. Bed pans. I tried to translate our guide's impassioned speeches about the benefits of different types of glazes for Lo's benefit, but eventually my translations consisted of: "I don't know how to translate that," "I have no idea what she just said," "Glaze," "Chamberpot."

I had somewhat of an emotional breakdown last night because apparently my camera contained part of my soul I can never get back and Digoin is so cold and gray now and the strike is really making my life miserable and how am I going to go to Paris and Arles and Grenoble and Lyon next week during my vacation and nobody said Bonjour to me outside and this is a ghost town on Sundays and Mondays and OMD is this beyond-boring ceramic museum seriously the only thing I can take my visitors to?

There's an emotional cycle of culture shock you experience when you go abroad. First you're in the Honeymoon Period: everything's great and nothing could possibly be better than what you're doing. Then the reality that you're a billion miles away from your loved ones and everything familiar starts to sink in, and everything sucks. Then you stabilize and get used to things. Then, right before you leave, you love everything so much that you get depressed about going back home, where you will inevitably go through reverse culture shock.

I felt better this morning, when we encountered the high school students' protest on our way to get some pain au chocolat for breakfast. Among the protesters were several of the students I've had in class, and they said, "C'est l'assistante d'anglais! 'Ello Nina!" as they marched by. (They like me! They really really like me!) And I came home this afternoon to find a box from my parents that contained my Association sweatpants and my oversized North Branch Cinema sweatshirt, which have contributed to the immeasurable increase in comfort I'm currently experiencing. Then I was able to find a bus to go to my orientation in Montceau-les-Mines tomorrow, which I've been fretting about having to skip since the trains aren't running. And then a teeny tiny sun ray lit up a corner of my room for about three whole minutes!

I'm hoping my Stage 2 (Everything is Difficult) is swift and Stage 3 (Hey! I'm Figuring This Out) is right around the corner.

Chez moi

Some of you wanted to see my domicile. Well, voila my cell in all its glory. The door to the bathroom is on the left, my kitchen implements are on the right, and my bed is straight on till morning. Please note the omnipresent blue hue to the walls, which somehow manages to be as depressing as it is bright.

This would be my bathroom, home to the 2-ft-by-2-ft shower where I successfully contorted myself in order to shave my legs using four minutes' worth of hot water. I have since crowned myself the Leg Shaving Queen of France and celebrated with baguette and Nutella.

Welcome to my gigantic kitchen, where I can be often be found spreading goat cheese within a baguette or heating up water for pasta. I'm open to suggestions of what else I can create in this space. That white appliance is a large toaster oven with two hot places on top, and next to it is my dorm-sized mini-fridge.

This is my desk, where all the magique happens. It's also the most decorated corner of my cell. I would love it if you sent me things that I could tack on the walls to make them a bit less blue.

This picture gives you a better idea of the real wall color. That long gray drink of water is my wardrobe. I've yet to make the acquaintance of a French closet, but that just means there are way more Narnia possibilities here.

Everyone at my school keeps asking if I'm "bien-installé" (settled in), and after the purchase of a last few provisions today I feel like I finally am. I was kibbitzing with one of the secretaries this morning, who I told about my upcoming visitor, Loral. She said she would talk to the proviseur (headmaster) to see if I can move to another apartment that has two beds to better facilitate guests. She said she couldn't make any promises, but since there's just such an apartment that's currently empty she would try. So this may not be chez moi for long.

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...