Crossing a Threshhold

I've spent the last two weeks wandering around France with three of my favorite Americans, and we had enough adventures and misadventures to fill several blog posts. I've been too distracted to record everything, but it's worth noting that navigating around the country proved that I have indeed made progress with my language and cultural comprehension. We dealt with difficult people, made new friends, navigated the highways, moved throughout two beautiful cities (Paris and Marseille), and saw beaches on the Southern coast, the Alps, and everything else on the road to the capital. My favorite stories from the trip involve interactions with difficult people.

A few weeks ago we went out in Paris, and at the suggestion of a new French friend, we jumped the turnstyle to avoiding paying for the metro. He told us foreigners that everyone does it (not that we'd never done it before...). When we reached our destination, we faced a number of ticket vendors and controlers waiting to give fines to people who didn't buy tickets. We weren't fast or smooth enough to sneak past, and the controler immediatly launched into a lecture about cheating the system. The Parisian accompanying us whispered that I should "bat my eyes" at the controler and talk my way out of the fine. Apparently, most controlers don't fall for bullshit, but I was able to use my best French to explain we weren't used to the trasit system because we're foreign. It finally paid to have one foot in with the culture and customs and one foot out -- not to mention the fact that I did bat my eyes.

In addition to our bad choices (like jumping turnstyles) the car proved to be a good source of trouble on this trip. I intended on selling it in Paris and stopped at a garage to have a required checkup the morning that two of my friends arrived. We planned on driving South directly from the airport. After taking my payment and explaining all my car's faults, the secretary at the garage realized that they gave my ownership card to another client. It is not legal to drive without this card, so the garage's mistake was stranding my friends at the airport and all of us in Paris. I've learned by now that it doesn't work to get angry in these situations, but I was able to calmly explain to the secretary that if they didn't find my gray card within an hour, my problem would become her problem. To passify me, she told me to go grocery shopping while I waited... This was just the beginning of our issues with the car, but they did retireive the card, and we left the following day for Marseille.

A week after the mess at the garage, one our way back to Paris from Marseille, someone rear-ended my car. Because my liscence plates were from a region to the far west, my accent betrayed my foreignness, and my ignorance about police reports was obvious, the man who hit me laughed in my face and insulted me. I had enough composure to argue with him, write down his liscence plate, and storm away before I myself broke down. Fortunately, there was nothing wrong with the car. Even though I was clueless about the procedure, and I rode away shaken, my girls were proud that I proved myself a "sassy bitch" even when dealing in French.

Despite all the minor disastors of the trip, nothing went horribly wrong, and it was wonderful to catch up with friends while touring France. We subsisted on baguettes and cheese and enjoyed French wine and French DJs when we partied. It was also exciting to me to have my language and cultural skills put to the test. I think I finally crossed a point with my comprehension that I wouldn't have discovered if we weren't so young and stupid and (mis)adventuring around with an old and shoddy car.

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.

Out of Money

I've reached an all time low in my financial valley, but thus is life with a salary like mine. Visiting with other assistants is some consolation, as we're all in the same rocky boat being tossed around by the terrible exchange rate and our limitations on further work. Technically we're not allowed to find another job, unless it's under-the-table waitressing, babysitting, translating, or something along those lines. I've just about reached the limit on my credit card (thankfully, no interest applies yet), so that can no longer be my crutch. Live and learn to live more economically, I guess.

I'm leaving Paris today so Celine can get ready for her boyfriends visit later this week. Her school schedule doesn't align with mine, so when I restart classes, she'll have her official vacation. I would like to wander around Paris for the next few days, but that just isn't possible with my lack of funds. I have a plan to help me cope with the rest of my time on my meager wages. March will be my month of economy, so that when my girlfriends come in April I'll be able to show them a good time. (We'll have a good time even if we're couchsurfing and subsisting on baguettes and butter).

In happier news, I figured out how to post pictures and you can see a sample of our week in Spain. ≈

When in Spain

Party like the Spaniards! Last night Celine and I joined several members of the local couchsurfing community for drinks, and ended up bar hopping until four in the morning. We were waiting for a few bars to open (at 4 AM!!) when we decided to head back and sleep. Half American, half French Celine wasn't the only dual citizen, and when we started the night our group included my American self, our ex-pat French host, two German men, a young Sweedish woman, a local of Cuban and Spanish parents, and one born and raised Spaniard. By the end of the night we had picked up an Indian man, and a very annoying American girl.

Our first destination was packed due to their 1 Euro beer special for Valentine's Day. The crowd had piled into the street, and included a huge number of study-abroad American students. The Spanish-Cuban teaches classes to American students at the university in Alicante, and was embarrassed to happen upon his students. I was also embarrassed by some of the Americans on the street, including one girl who said, "Don't you just miss America? I mean, they do, like, everything better there." The same girl grabbed the shimmering sport coat of a passing local and shouted with an awful accent, "Mee goostah les sparkles! Mucho!" Meaning, "I, like, really like your sparkles."

The guy in the sparkly coat worked for a nearby bar offering free shots, so we followed him for the glowing green freebies and cheap beer. This is where we picked up the Indian and American, and lost our host and one of the German men. We headed on to a jazz bar for another beer, where it was quiet enough to get background from everyone in the group. At that point, Celine and I were the only two who had met beforehand, and it was fascinating to consider how this group of interesting strangers ended up drinking and getting to know each other. The other American girl monopolized her corner of the conversation chattering nervously about her bad Spanish and her frustrations with Spanish banks.

I don't mean to get on my high horse, and I could sympathize with this girl's anxiety, but talking to her took every ounce of patience I possess. I tried to avoid walking next to her, but when we fell in stride together I couldn't help making conversation. She explained to me that her study abroad program arranged everything for them -- something that always makes Celine and I jealous, since we're on our own in France. When I asked why this girl had a Spanish bank account even though she didn't work here she explained, "Well, like, my dad gave me 5000 dollars CASH before I left, and I just didn't want to worry about all the exchange fees. I mean, I can only withdrawl, like 200 Euros a day, and that is, like, not THAT much. It's kind of cool that I can use my SPANISH debit card when I go shopping. But my dad puts money into my American account too, so it's kind of frustrating to have to transfer THAT. And I went to three branches of my bank and NO ONE speaks English. I'm like, come on, you guys."

And I'm like, who IS this girl? She doesn't know where she is, or who she's talking to. I personally think 200 Euros is a lot of money, as it's a QUARTER of my monthly salary. Her manner of speaking and ignorance also made me hope that no one would group us together as "the Americans." I hate pretension, and I don't think I'm better than anyone, but I have seen some of the world, and I would hate for anyone to imagine her as a representative of young American women. After this exchange, I did avoid her, and Celine insisted that she pay for the tequilla shot she took with us (she didn't offer, despite her reserve of thousands of Euros). That conversation and my irritaion was tangential to the rest of the night, and I spent most of the time enjoying the down-to-earth members of the group.

The last bar we went to was celebrating it's 10 year anniversary and giving out free gifts with every drink. I won a lighter with the mark of a popular rum from the Dominican Republic, and with my personal appreciation for Caribbean rum, I was more than happy. My prize was coveted by some of the smokers in the group, but they all won T-shirts and keychains. Spain is known for being lax about marijuana consumption, and I watched people roll splifs (cigarettes with hash, or marijuana resin) on the street and in the bars. That is not something you see in France, and certainly not in the States. The night ended with Celine and I dancing, then a stop to try a Spanish favorite, red wine and coke, which we shared as we walked through the streets.

Celine and I are not used to such late nights, so we slept until 3:30 this afternoon. When we woke up, Celine had all the symptoms of a bad cold. We spent the afternoon getting some fresh air, and stopped at a pharmacy, where Celine went in for decongestant and left with an anti-itch allergy treatment. That's what happens you don't speak the language and have a bad dictionary! Tonight we took it easy to spare our immune systems and our pocketbooks. We leave tomorrow after a last look at the city and a last taste of it's cuisine.