Jamaican Odyssey

A few nights ago I had the pleasure of chaperoning an outing with my students. Some of them spend the week on campus, because they live far away. Since we assistants have nothing to do during the evenings, we happily agreed to accompany the group to a nearby city for a presentation/concert on the history of Reggae. I don't necessarily feel old enough to qualify as a chaperone, but our main job was to make sure everyone made it on the bus and no one smoked any pot. Kelly accompanied a different field trip during which a few students had the nerve to smoke a joint in broad daylight, without the ambiance of Reggae music. Fortunately, I didn't have do anything but exhude the formidable presence of an adult.

I personally like Reggae a lot, and the presentation was amusing and informative. Imagine six dorky French guys acting out the history of Jamaican music, dressing as musicians and producers -- including hats with fake dreadlocks -- and speaking with various accents. They were all excellent musicians and played true to the style. My only complaint was that they did more explaining than music making. They couldn't oblige the crowd with an encore, because the venue and their scolastic sponsors required they finish before such-and-such time.

All the students were hyper on the ride back, and the oldest students took their fill of hard cider after the show. Staying true to my position as an old lady chaperone, I lost myself in nostalgia and memories from my time in Sénégal. My favorite nights in Africa were the Reggae soirées that started at midnight and went until the first Islamic call to prayer, around 6 am.

I didn't listen to much Reggae before I traveled, but I developed a taste for it in Sénégal, and the music and place will probably stay linked in my memory. I think those nights were special to me, because it was the first time in my life I was 100 percent our of my element and 100 percent OK with it. I made friends there who taught me about the music, Sénégal, and the solidarity between Jamaica and Africa. I would love to go back to drink their delicious coffee and dance all night...

I dreamt about Sénégal and going to Jamaica someday, while the kids screeched and sang in the back of the bus. I'm amazed at the cultural mélange I sometimes sort through in my head. Here I am in bus full of French students pumped up on Jamaican music, and my head is swimming with thoughts of Africa and the Caribbean. I didn't expect much from the "Jamaican Odyssey," but it definitely took me out of the tiny bubble of Confolens, France.

Anomaly - That's Me!

Within my travel experience I have become accustomed to standing out. I make an effort to assimilate, speak some of the language, learn the layout of the streets, but there is only so much one can do befor some ingrained habit (or accent, or physical trait) betrays one's foreignness. In Senegal and Haiti, it was normal for people to call out "toubab" or "blanc" after anyone with white skin. It wasn't offensive to hollar on the street, but it did force me to accept curious stares.

I would be flattering myself to say I attract special attention here in France, but I am often the odd one out. The French have seen enough of the world, and enough foreigners in their corner of it, to be generally uninterested by accents. Indifference doesn't equal acceptance, and I'm coming to terms with what it is like to be the only American in a small, isolated French town. Honestly, I am the ONLY American in this city.

The other night I went out for a quiet beer, by myself, at the only bar open on Mondays. I went to celebrate St. Patrick's day, and discovered quickly that I was the only one toasting that Saint. The bartender told me that they don't celebrate it because there are no Irish people in that region, but they all drink beer everyday and didn't need an excuse that night. Fine by me. It's not that anyone knew why I was there anyway, but my mere feminine presence was an anomaly. I was the only woman in the bar and the only 20-something. I got a few curious stares from the old men and teenage boys, but they left me alone, true to French indifference. After two beers, which I'm ashamed to say made me surprisingly tipsy, I swerved back home, happy I'd done right by my Irish roots.

International Soirée

You know you've been to a good party if your feet are sore from dancing. What kind of party is it if it's your shoes that suffered, and are covered in dried sticky booze and cracker pieces? I suppose it's just one that requires more cleanup. A few nights ago I scrubbed my feet to get rid of the the black stains from my shoes. Last night I spent about thirty minutes scrubbing the bottoms of those shoes that had seen the worst of the dance floor.

It might be a stretch to call the kitchen a dance hall, but the evening's festivities definitely constituted a party. Seven language assistants from four different countries threw a party in their collective kitchen, in an apartment building like a fat tiled obelisk attached to a high school of similarly bizarre architecture. They invited other assistants, teachers, au pairs, and acquaintances.

The girls made an interesting (rum?) punch, and stocked a bar/counter with various types of alcohol and juice, french cheese and crackers, and big cans of cheap beer. A Spanish assistant furnished the music, and the mix was all over the place. It was funny to see non-English speakers "singing" to The Beatles, Queen, Outkast, and other popular British/American music, but I know I did the same thing when I heard La Bamba, and other international hits.

The main language spoken was French, but the diversity of accents and physical statures was remarkable. I'm going to risk stereotyping, but a lot of the Germans were tall, the Spanish girls were short and dark haired, and the Americans were medium height with a spectrum of hair/skin types. There were a large number of French people there and assistants from all over Latin America. Almost everyone was drinking and spilling from their tiny cups, and by the end of the night we were sticking to floor. That didn't keep anyone from dancing.

The next morning, the clean-up required two intense moppings and the efforts of all the hosts to clean the rest of the mess up. Apparently someone threw toilet paper out of the top floors of the obelisk, essentially TP-ing La Tour ("the tower"). While the girls scrubbed the floor and picked up toilet paper and cups, most of their non-local guests remained passed out in the oddly angled corners of the building. I imagine that we all had clothes (and shoes!) to wash after such a soirée.

March!

I just had my first week back at work, and while it was a good one, I can't help thinking that in five weeks I'll be back on vacation. I'm not exagerating when I say that the French are serious about their vacation time. March will be the only month when I don't have any official vacation. In October/November I went to Germany, in December/January I spent three luxurious weeks in the States, in February I went to Spain, and all the in between time included weekend and day trips around France.

To break up the month of March I think I'm heading to Marseille with my roommate for a weekend of cheap tourism. Fortunately, if we go in two weeks, we'll have a three day weekend because of some random holiday. When I applied for my assistantship I selected Marseille as my preference to work and live, but I got tiny tiny Confolens. It's supposed to be France's "second city" after Paris, full of contemporary culture and ancient history (i.e. Roman ruins).

Hopefully, I'll also get rid of my car this month, and I found a potential buyer near Paris. If everything lines up, then I'll probably make a trip to Paris to sell good old Anita and collect the money for her. Though that trip is not so much pleasure, as business. I'm getting tired of the responsibilty of having a car here, and even little things like changing the oil, or the liscense plates (which I had to do when I moved), are expensive chores.

I hesitate to talk about the weather in a blog, because 1) I don't want to be boring, and 2) I don't want to brag. I'm going to take a risk anyway, because the weather here has been unbelievable. I had three weeks of sunny, warmish weather last month in France and Spain. By February 20, I was taking walks in a tee-shirt and jeans and singing to myself, since it felt like spring had come a full month early. Trees have started budding and blooming; crocuses and dafodils have opened up a little. It's been cloudy this week, but still incredibly mild, and I can't help hoping that winter is over. (I apologize to readers in the midwest.... I know Spring seems far away for you guys!)

March is my first and last full month of work, and hopefully the weather will keep me motivated. I'm feeling refreshed from February's vacation, as well as the wonderful mail I received for Valentine's Day from my family friends and boyfriend, and a long-distance celebration of my one-year anniversary with Ben. I also have April to look forward to which brings a reuion of my oldest girlfriends, here in France. And the day my contract ends, April 30, my family will arrive for a visit and tour.