Thursday, October 30, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
The Mystery of French Women
It’s highly likely that I will have many installments on the subject of French women. Like French school children, French woman have a particular reputation across the ocean in America. They are known for their tasteful sense of style, and also for their icy behavior, right? I have always hoped that the iciness is but a stereotype, or that it thaws in time, once you get to know one of these elusive characters. This is a hope that I will not give up on easily. I want to understand French women – befriend them even! Even after encountering the Mushroom Woman.
Yesterday I was sitting in Flunch, as I am wont to do these days. It was earlier than usual, and there was only a quiet late afternoon smattering of coffee drinkers. There was one person near me, a man reading a stack of newspapers. I saw one headline that undoubtedly introduced a heady article about the conflict between Israel and Palestine. Across the room, a middle aged woman with died blond curly hair was speaking loudly at a table to a young Flunch employee on break (yes I know them all). The blond woman eventually came over to the man near me and made loud small talk with him. She was wearing off white on both the top and the bottom. Style, eh? Her off white jeans were a bit tight and I couldn’t help but notice her pronounced underwear line. An image of her standing in her bedroom in her underwear, trying to pick out a pair of pants flashed through my mind. Whitney, why on earth would you go there? Keep your mind to yourself!
The man asked her how she was. This was all she needed to launch. She heaved a sigh and began her tale of woe. She was on her way somewhere distant, a name I didn’t catch. Her mother was ill in the hospital, poisoned by a mushroom. I couldn’t help but look up. She and I made eye contact. Ah Maman! The poor woman had been eating mushrooms. Normal old mushrooms. But she had gotten a bad one. Just one of the lot had been bad. You just can’t trust a mushroom! The same mushrooms can be edible or poisonous, it depends on the surroundings, she explained. She started talking about color variation and soil and air quality and farms and so on and so on. Then she described her mother’s blood, her kidneys, and her liver. All poisoned. The man nodded. “Des champignons sont très dangereux.” He said.
I don’t think I was smiling. I think I was controlling myself quite successfully.
“People don’t understand the dangers anymore.” Said the blond. “No one learns about plants. No one understands the dangers of mushrooms. You know, it’s all the internet and the kids these days. All they do is click click click away on their laptops.” Yes, she said laptops. I looked up again. Was there any possible connection to her mother’s mushroom plight and kids using the internet? Or was she directly challenging me, sitting there so near her on my laptop clicking away? She continued, “All they know is the computer. And video games. Now now now! They don’t learn about farms or dangerous plants.”
I kid you not. This is really what she said. She didn’t look at me again, but I couldn’t help but stare at her in amazement. What is my fault that her elderly mother had fallen ill at the hands of a poisonous mushroom? In the off chance that she believed what she was saying, or even realized what she was saying, her tone was hostile and accusatory. I leaned back and watched her. I looked at the man to see if he was embarrassed at her open hostility towards the nearby internet using, laptop toting youngster. He was either oblivious or totally un-phased.
So I ask, am I too sensitive? Or do the social morays that exist in my world have no part in French culture? Or are French women truly the frosty queens that the stereotypes would have us believe? Maybe they just hate the internet and the globalism that it represents. Maybe that’s why it’s so damn hard to get the internet here, and why I still have to go to Flunch everyday.
Yesterday I was sitting in Flunch, as I am wont to do these days. It was earlier than usual, and there was only a quiet late afternoon smattering of coffee drinkers. There was one person near me, a man reading a stack of newspapers. I saw one headline that undoubtedly introduced a heady article about the conflict between Israel and Palestine. Across the room, a middle aged woman with died blond curly hair was speaking loudly at a table to a young Flunch employee on break (yes I know them all). The blond woman eventually came over to the man near me and made loud small talk with him. She was wearing off white on both the top and the bottom. Style, eh? Her off white jeans were a bit tight and I couldn’t help but notice her pronounced underwear line. An image of her standing in her bedroom in her underwear, trying to pick out a pair of pants flashed through my mind. Whitney, why on earth would you go there? Keep your mind to yourself!
The man asked her how she was. This was all she needed to launch. She heaved a sigh and began her tale of woe. She was on her way somewhere distant, a name I didn’t catch. Her mother was ill in the hospital, poisoned by a mushroom. I couldn’t help but look up. She and I made eye contact. Ah Maman! The poor woman had been eating mushrooms. Normal old mushrooms. But she had gotten a bad one. Just one of the lot had been bad. You just can’t trust a mushroom! The same mushrooms can be edible or poisonous, it depends on the surroundings, she explained. She started talking about color variation and soil and air quality and farms and so on and so on. Then she described her mother’s blood, her kidneys, and her liver. All poisoned. The man nodded. “Des champignons sont très dangereux.” He said.
I don’t think I was smiling. I think I was controlling myself quite successfully.
“People don’t understand the dangers anymore.” Said the blond. “No one learns about plants. No one understands the dangers of mushrooms. You know, it’s all the internet and the kids these days. All they do is click click click away on their laptops.” Yes, she said laptops. I looked up again. Was there any possible connection to her mother’s mushroom plight and kids using the internet? Or was she directly challenging me, sitting there so near her on my laptop clicking away? She continued, “All they know is the computer. And video games. Now now now! They don’t learn about farms or dangerous plants.”
I kid you not. This is really what she said. She didn’t look at me again, but I couldn’t help but stare at her in amazement. What is my fault that her elderly mother had fallen ill at the hands of a poisonous mushroom? In the off chance that she believed what she was saying, or even realized what she was saying, her tone was hostile and accusatory. I leaned back and watched her. I looked at the man to see if he was embarrassed at her open hostility towards the nearby internet using, laptop toting youngster. He was either oblivious or totally un-phased.
So I ask, am I too sensitive? Or do the social morays that exist in my world have no part in French culture? Or are French women truly the frosty queens that the stereotypes would have us believe? Maybe they just hate the internet and the globalism that it represents. Maybe that’s why it’s so damn hard to get the internet here, and why I still have to go to Flunch everyday.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
School Starts, Finally
I survived my first week of school and have even begun my second. I admit that I felt some apprehension about the beginning of school – not so much because I wouldn’t have a clue what to do, but more because French children have a reputation for being little devils. I know it sounds harsh, but this very term has been lodged in my brain for months. Little French maniacs. It turns out there are maniacs, but its not the kids.
As a precursor, I should describe my contract with the French government. I work in the Department of the Vaucluse, which is part of the province of Provence, which is part of the region of Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur. I also live in the Lower Luberon (a geographical name for the exact same location). From the academic perspective, I live in the Academy of Aix-Marseilles, under the circonscription of Pertuis. You got that?
I teach twelve hours a week in three schools in Pertuis. Yes, you heard me correctly. Twelve hours a week. That evens out to four hours a day, three days a week. Four hours per school. And I’m not even supposed to be teaching the full four hours. Fifteen minutes of each hour is my own, to make photocopies, drink a cup of coffee, chat with the other teachers, or twiddle my thumbs if it suits my fancy. What on earth will I do with the rest of my time, you ask? Write a novel, I suppose, and hopefully find some way of earning money under the table.
And I have to add one more little detail. Next week, as in two weeks after I started to teach, the entire country goes on vacation for ten days. We have almost two weeks off in honor of Toussaints (All Saints). No one knows what that even means here, but who cares when you have two weeks off in the middle of October?
On Monday morning, I started at my first school, La Burlière. Thanks to my mad housing search, I didn’t have time to visit the schools, or meet the directors or the teachers before my first week of teaching. I arrived at the gates, and in front of a large crowd of waiting parents and their children, went though an embarrassing process of trying to enter the school premises. I jiggled the gate, I reached through the bars and felt for a latch, I looked forlornly at the building in front of me – no luck. I learned that schools here have an archaic system by which one is required to a ring a bell (ok not so archaic – it is a button) that sounds inside an office. Then the secretary has to walk out to the gate and unlock it with a special key to allow the individual admittance. No pedophiles lurking around here!
Most of the teachers were immediately welcoming and friendly. They showed me into the small teacher’s room and introduced me around. Florence, Laurence, and Geraldine were the most notable. They were immediately using the “tu” form with me instead of “vous,” which took me by surprise. To drop this formality is very un-French, and not a simple act for a foreigner so carefully groomed to use the “vous” at all times. It turns out that in the school setting, amongst teachers and even directors, one should always use “tu”. I wonder what the story is behind that. I’ll look into. Likely, no one will be able to explain it to me.
Of course, because I am me, I had not prepared anything for my classes, so at this point I began to feel a little nervous. Seriously, though, how could I know what to teach? I didn’t know the level, or what they’d been working on this year so far. No one was clear on what my schedule was to be, and La Directrice had apparently not shown up yet to help us out. The teachers dealt with the situation amongst themselves and eventually things seemed clear enough.
I followed Florence into her classroom of CM1, or the American equivalent of 4th grade. She had her students come up to the front of class in pairs and recite the dialogue that they’d been working on: Hello. Hello. (shake hands). Who are you? I am …. Who are you? I am…. Goodbye. Goodbye. I decided not to comment on the fact that the English speakers I know would likely not ask “who are you?” But who knows, maybe the British do say weird stuff like that… I spent the rest of the class asking them what their names were and how old they were. The kids seemed sufficiently excited and challenged just to answer those simple questions, and I began to picture a year of simple amusements stretching out ahead of me, requiring little effort on my part.
I taught another 45 minute class, this time to 3rd graders. And then it was time for the 20 minute “récréation”, or recess. The teachers gathered in the teacher’s room for a cup of black coffee or a snack. There was a tall woman dressed entirely in black, with black hair and blunt bangs, and dark almost black lipstick. She spoke about something or other in a loud, irritated voice. As far as I could tell, she wasn’t talking to anyone in particular. She didn’t glance in my direction, not even once. I thought about the approach of Halloween, and here we had a witch right in our midst – grimace and all – but I doubted she’d like being singled out.
I looked over at Geraldine and asked quietly if this was La Directrice – mais oui! Indeed it was. And Geraldine did not attempt to hide the contempt on her face. Oh boy.
Tuesday, my second day of teaching, I headed to Albert Camus, in the center of town. Once I got passed the familiarly difficult gate system, this time aided by a little girl with glasses, I found myself in the court yard to a beautiful old school house. Since Marcel Pangol represents all images of the idyllic world of southern France, I thought of him as a child tromping up the old stone stair case in this lovely building, to have his head filled with ideas of Liberté and Franternité…As I stood there in the courtyard, my cell phone rang. It took a couple of moments, but I discerned that it was Sylvie, La Directrice, wondering if I had arrived. I looked at my watch – five minutes early. Ah well, the French continue to be unpredictable. She rushed out to collect me, and then spouted off a string of words that lasted about fifteen minutes. I didn’t have time for questions, or even to acknowledge that I had understood her before she clicked off in her high heels. She left a typed schedule of my day in my hand, and pointed me in the direction of my first class.
I walked in and again, found myself looking at a picturesque image - a French classroom this time – adorable little desks, a colorful timeline of French history, and an attractive blonde teacher standing at the front of the room. I gave her an inquisitive glance as if to say, Pardon for interrupting, how would you like me to proceed? Silently, she stepped aside, and gestured sharply for me to take her place in the center of the room. She didn’t say a word. Not even to tell me whether or not she had started English this year with her students. Not even to say hello. So much for making a young, attractive, blond friend.
The rest of my day at Camus continued in much the same vein. The teachers (most of them men at this school) seemed indifferent to my presence, and not in the least interested in giving me any information about the status of English at their school. Its possible that they were merely observing me, sizing me up. After all, who knows what kind of assistants they’ve had in the past? This is when I began to feel that I really was being used by the French government, to teach a language that no cares about, to people who feel a sense of obligation to compete on the world stage. But really, why learn anything when you already speak French?
Luckily the kids were sweet for the most part, but I still left feeling a little sad and foreign.
My third day (which was Thursday – there is no school for elementary students on Wednesdays) was at Henri Crevat. It is an ugly building, and I found a mixed reception. One teacher leant me all of her English language materials, while another interrupted me mid-lesson to inform me that I was attempting something with her students that they hadn’t yet learned. As if it wasn’t obvious to me. But hey, they have young sponge brains, why not give them a little challenge? I smiled at her and thanked her for her input.
Overall, it was a good day at Henri Crevat. I went home, exhausted, and took a nap for the first time in weeks.
As a precursor, I should describe my contract with the French government. I work in the Department of the Vaucluse, which is part of the province of Provence, which is part of the region of Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur. I also live in the Lower Luberon (a geographical name for the exact same location). From the academic perspective, I live in the Academy of Aix-Marseilles, under the circonscription of Pertuis. You got that?
I teach twelve hours a week in three schools in Pertuis. Yes, you heard me correctly. Twelve hours a week. That evens out to four hours a day, three days a week. Four hours per school. And I’m not even supposed to be teaching the full four hours. Fifteen minutes of each hour is my own, to make photocopies, drink a cup of coffee, chat with the other teachers, or twiddle my thumbs if it suits my fancy. What on earth will I do with the rest of my time, you ask? Write a novel, I suppose, and hopefully find some way of earning money under the table.
And I have to add one more little detail. Next week, as in two weeks after I started to teach, the entire country goes on vacation for ten days. We have almost two weeks off in honor of Toussaints (All Saints). No one knows what that even means here, but who cares when you have two weeks off in the middle of October?
On Monday morning, I started at my first school, La Burlière. Thanks to my mad housing search, I didn’t have time to visit the schools, or meet the directors or the teachers before my first week of teaching. I arrived at the gates, and in front of a large crowd of waiting parents and their children, went though an embarrassing process of trying to enter the school premises. I jiggled the gate, I reached through the bars and felt for a latch, I looked forlornly at the building in front of me – no luck. I learned that schools here have an archaic system by which one is required to a ring a bell (ok not so archaic – it is a button) that sounds inside an office. Then the secretary has to walk out to the gate and unlock it with a special key to allow the individual admittance. No pedophiles lurking around here!
Most of the teachers were immediately welcoming and friendly. They showed me into the small teacher’s room and introduced me around. Florence, Laurence, and Geraldine were the most notable. They were immediately using the “tu” form with me instead of “vous,” which took me by surprise. To drop this formality is very un-French, and not a simple act for a foreigner so carefully groomed to use the “vous” at all times. It turns out that in the school setting, amongst teachers and even directors, one should always use “tu”. I wonder what the story is behind that. I’ll look into. Likely, no one will be able to explain it to me.
Of course, because I am me, I had not prepared anything for my classes, so at this point I began to feel a little nervous. Seriously, though, how could I know what to teach? I didn’t know the level, or what they’d been working on this year so far. No one was clear on what my schedule was to be, and La Directrice had apparently not shown up yet to help us out. The teachers dealt with the situation amongst themselves and eventually things seemed clear enough.
I followed Florence into her classroom of CM1, or the American equivalent of 4th grade. She had her students come up to the front of class in pairs and recite the dialogue that they’d been working on: Hello. Hello. (shake hands). Who are you? I am …. Who are you? I am…. Goodbye. Goodbye. I decided not to comment on the fact that the English speakers I know would likely not ask “who are you?” But who knows, maybe the British do say weird stuff like that… I spent the rest of the class asking them what their names were and how old they were. The kids seemed sufficiently excited and challenged just to answer those simple questions, and I began to picture a year of simple amusements stretching out ahead of me, requiring little effort on my part.
I taught another 45 minute class, this time to 3rd graders. And then it was time for the 20 minute “récréation”, or recess. The teachers gathered in the teacher’s room for a cup of black coffee or a snack. There was a tall woman dressed entirely in black, with black hair and blunt bangs, and dark almost black lipstick. She spoke about something or other in a loud, irritated voice. As far as I could tell, she wasn’t talking to anyone in particular. She didn’t glance in my direction, not even once. I thought about the approach of Halloween, and here we had a witch right in our midst – grimace and all – but I doubted she’d like being singled out.
I looked over at Geraldine and asked quietly if this was La Directrice – mais oui! Indeed it was. And Geraldine did not attempt to hide the contempt on her face. Oh boy.
Tuesday, my second day of teaching, I headed to Albert Camus, in the center of town. Once I got passed the familiarly difficult gate system, this time aided by a little girl with glasses, I found myself in the court yard to a beautiful old school house. Since Marcel Pangol represents all images of the idyllic world of southern France, I thought of him as a child tromping up the old stone stair case in this lovely building, to have his head filled with ideas of Liberté and Franternité…As I stood there in the courtyard, my cell phone rang. It took a couple of moments, but I discerned that it was Sylvie, La Directrice, wondering if I had arrived. I looked at my watch – five minutes early. Ah well, the French continue to be unpredictable. She rushed out to collect me, and then spouted off a string of words that lasted about fifteen minutes. I didn’t have time for questions, or even to acknowledge that I had understood her before she clicked off in her high heels. She left a typed schedule of my day in my hand, and pointed me in the direction of my first class.
I walked in and again, found myself looking at a picturesque image - a French classroom this time – adorable little desks, a colorful timeline of French history, and an attractive blonde teacher standing at the front of the room. I gave her an inquisitive glance as if to say, Pardon for interrupting, how would you like me to proceed? Silently, she stepped aside, and gestured sharply for me to take her place in the center of the room. She didn’t say a word. Not even to tell me whether or not she had started English this year with her students. Not even to say hello. So much for making a young, attractive, blond friend.
The rest of my day at Camus continued in much the same vein. The teachers (most of them men at this school) seemed indifferent to my presence, and not in the least interested in giving me any information about the status of English at their school. Its possible that they were merely observing me, sizing me up. After all, who knows what kind of assistants they’ve had in the past? This is when I began to feel that I really was being used by the French government, to teach a language that no cares about, to people who feel a sense of obligation to compete on the world stage. But really, why learn anything when you already speak French?
Luckily the kids were sweet for the most part, but I still left feeling a little sad and foreign.
My third day (which was Thursday – there is no school for elementary students on Wednesdays) was at Henri Crevat. It is an ugly building, and I found a mixed reception. One teacher leant me all of her English language materials, while another interrupted me mid-lesson to inform me that I was attempting something with her students that they hadn’t yet learned. As if it wasn’t obvious to me. But hey, they have young sponge brains, why not give them a little challenge? I smiled at her and thanked her for her input.
Overall, it was a good day at Henri Crevat. I went home, exhausted, and took a nap for the first time in weeks.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
My housing crisis #2
After the anti-climactic morning, Jen and I ran to an internet café to collect more numbers from seloger.com, and pertuis.com and sat down to make some phone calls to rental agencies. One must never call before the hour of 10, or between the hours of 12 and 2 pm, and even then, a response on the other end proved few and far between. How in the world France gets anything done is beyond me. A couple of the Pertuis agencies answered my calls and despite my stilted French, we made appointments for the following afternoon. Of course, nothing could be done today, that would be too hasty, too sudden, too impulsive. Instead I’d have time to eat four meals, buy a new sweater at H&M, start my blog at Flunch the Internet Café, meet up with Pascale for a quick driving tour of Pertuis, lie sleeplessly in bed for 8 hours, and take a shower – not in that order.
At last, I arrived at M. Lallande’s office, promptly at 4 o’clock. I didn’t have much choice but to go through a rental agent to find an apartment, and I went ready to impress. If it was anything like the Bay Area, I’d be competing against a gaggle of eager young couples with a list of references as long as my arm. M. Lallande’s office was a cramped room, two small desks, a typewriter and a telephone. His papers were jumbled on the desks, the floor and also the chair he offered to me, sort of like a storm had suddenly happened upon the room. His facial expression conveyed a similar sense of surprise and agitation. Other than that, we were alone in the room - no competition. “Mademoiselle!” He cried.
He drove me to the first apartment in his tiny beaten French car. During the drive, he found out my financial limitations and also my lack of furniture, and began convincing me that this studio would do me no good before we had even see it. He then told me that another was would be opening up in a few days, and it was meublé (furnished). Not only that but much more in my price range. Then, suddenly, he shook his head no. No, no, it would never do for a single young woman. And this was not the first time a person had told me this. No, no, the neighborhood is just not right for a young woman… You could never go out at night…etc. etc. I told M. Lallande to let me be the judge. After all, what could he possibly be referring to in a French village of 20,000 with no crime rate to speak of?
The studio was totally barren, not even hotplates or a refrigerator. He said he’d contact the current tenant of the other place and set up a rendez-vous as soon as possible. He understood that I was pressed for time. Honestly, he was a very kind and generous man. Instead of impressing him, I think he was struck by my homeless desperation. He is perhaps a metaphor for many of the things in France – completely disorganized and in a state of disarray, but very kind and willing to help. We set something up for the following afternoon at 5 pm.
I walked from M. Lallande’s office to the next rental agency, Votre Maison. This place was much more organized and professional looking. Auréllie stood up to greet me. She gestured to a young man sitting across the desk from her with a helmet in his lap. I had competition now. Damn. He didn’t look especially well off, more like a poor student, so I didn’t worry too much. She showed us two apartments. One, a bit cheaper, had a loft platform for a bed and the entrance to the building’s cave (in English we might call it a basement but that word just isn’t appropriate). The young man and I tiptoed down there and it was scary! I have no doubt that corpses from the 18th century were hidden between the stones in the walls. There’s NO WAY I would sleep so near that Poe phantasmagoria! Plus, there really wasn’t a proper window in the apartment.
Then we climbed up to the third floor (that’s the American third, not the French third) of the same building. Far enough away from the cave – good. We stepped in and I let out a sigh of relief. Nothing immediately amiss. The tenant was still there, and he seemed like a nice guy. I always feel like a snoop when I am inspecting someone’s apartment, especially when they are standing there looking at you. The bathroom was a decent size. The toilet did have a toilet seat. There was a stand up shower – now that’s really rare for France. You know they usually prefer the masochistic wash technique – to start: bathtub with no shower curtain, a shower head connected to the bathtub spout by a long hose, and weak water pressure. You are on your knees, with one hand operating the long necked shower head and the other hand trying to apply soap to your goose bumpy skin, all the while just wishing it would end. Ah, I’ve digressed. This apartment had a real shower.
At this point, I can’t say a whole lot more about the apartment because I don’t remember much about it, except for the view. I walked over to the window and saw a slice of Pertuis’ Vieux Village, and in the distance a beautiful mountain. At last, I’d found my true French charm and I knew that the apartment was mine. Thank goodness the young man preferred the price tag of the one downstairs.
M. Lallande was very disappointed to hear the news the next day. I did look at his other studio just in case, and I was sure that I had made the right decision.
At last, I arrived at M. Lallande’s office, promptly at 4 o’clock. I didn’t have much choice but to go through a rental agent to find an apartment, and I went ready to impress. If it was anything like the Bay Area, I’d be competing against a gaggle of eager young couples with a list of references as long as my arm. M. Lallande’s office was a cramped room, two small desks, a typewriter and a telephone. His papers were jumbled on the desks, the floor and also the chair he offered to me, sort of like a storm had suddenly happened upon the room. His facial expression conveyed a similar sense of surprise and agitation. Other than that, we were alone in the room - no competition. “Mademoiselle!” He cried.
He drove me to the first apartment in his tiny beaten French car. During the drive, he found out my financial limitations and also my lack of furniture, and began convincing me that this studio would do me no good before we had even see it. He then told me that another was would be opening up in a few days, and it was meublé (furnished). Not only that but much more in my price range. Then, suddenly, he shook his head no. No, no, it would never do for a single young woman. And this was not the first time a person had told me this. No, no, the neighborhood is just not right for a young woman… You could never go out at night…etc. etc. I told M. Lallande to let me be the judge. After all, what could he possibly be referring to in a French village of 20,000 with no crime rate to speak of?
The studio was totally barren, not even hotplates or a refrigerator. He said he’d contact the current tenant of the other place and set up a rendez-vous as soon as possible. He understood that I was pressed for time. Honestly, he was a very kind and generous man. Instead of impressing him, I think he was struck by my homeless desperation. He is perhaps a metaphor for many of the things in France – completely disorganized and in a state of disarray, but very kind and willing to help. We set something up for the following afternoon at 5 pm.
I walked from M. Lallande’s office to the next rental agency, Votre Maison. This place was much more organized and professional looking. Auréllie stood up to greet me. She gestured to a young man sitting across the desk from her with a helmet in his lap. I had competition now. Damn. He didn’t look especially well off, more like a poor student, so I didn’t worry too much. She showed us two apartments. One, a bit cheaper, had a loft platform for a bed and the entrance to the building’s cave (in English we might call it a basement but that word just isn’t appropriate). The young man and I tiptoed down there and it was scary! I have no doubt that corpses from the 18th century were hidden between the stones in the walls. There’s NO WAY I would sleep so near that Poe phantasmagoria! Plus, there really wasn’t a proper window in the apartment.
Then we climbed up to the third floor (that’s the American third, not the French third) of the same building. Far enough away from the cave – good. We stepped in and I let out a sigh of relief. Nothing immediately amiss. The tenant was still there, and he seemed like a nice guy. I always feel like a snoop when I am inspecting someone’s apartment, especially when they are standing there looking at you. The bathroom was a decent size. The toilet did have a toilet seat. There was a stand up shower – now that’s really rare for France. You know they usually prefer the masochistic wash technique – to start: bathtub with no shower curtain, a shower head connected to the bathtub spout by a long hose, and weak water pressure. You are on your knees, with one hand operating the long necked shower head and the other hand trying to apply soap to your goose bumpy skin, all the while just wishing it would end. Ah, I’ve digressed. This apartment had a real shower.
At this point, I can’t say a whole lot more about the apartment because I don’t remember much about it, except for the view. I walked over to the window and saw a slice of Pertuis’ Vieux Village, and in the distance a beautiful mountain. At last, I’d found my true French charm and I knew that the apartment was mine. Thank goodness the young man preferred the price tag of the one downstairs.
M. Lallande was very disappointed to hear the news the next day. I did look at his other studio just in case, and I was sure that I had made the right decision.
Friday, October 10, 2008
My housing crisis #1
As of next Monday, I am ecstatic to announce that I will no longer be a sad and homeless Assistant de Langue. The housing search has come to an end. Like every other small or large frustration that I have had to face in orchestrating the success of this position here, the French rental market is no exception. First of all, I spent my first two days of this search (separated by three days due to the crazy orientation madness) looking in Aix-en-Provence. I have always considered myself a city girl, and Aix is a big city, whereas Pertuis is a petit village of 20,000 people. Actually, by French standards that’s not even that small… As it turns out, Aix is the second most expensive city in France. Damn tourists and Americans buying property and boosting the housing rates! A list – a piece of paper with more value than a 100 euro bill – comes out every Wednesday morning with the latest rental options. By the time I got the list at 11 am, most of the listings had already been taken. Seriously.
The first place I went to look a, the apartment owned by the old lady who wants people in by 9 pm, which I mentioned in my last letter. It was outside the city center in an ugly clump of apartment buildings constructed in the 1960’s. Yeah, not my wild ideal of a quaint French studio with a view of some buildings from the 17th century with mountains in the background. There was a view of a parking lot, though, and a very depressing kiddie playground that looked all bent out of shape. The next (and last available room on the infamous list) claimed to be in the city center. I bought one map to find it, and then had to buy another because my first map wasn’t good enough. Strangely, the street wasn’t on that map either. After speaking to at least 10 French people on the streets, and walking almost two hours up a mountain side in my silver shoes, I came to an area of government subsidized housing. You can image the dilapidation, the laundry everywhere, the stray dogs and children. While I am happy that this housing can help put a roof over the head of some under-privileged folks, I was not willing to pay 325 euros a month to share one of these apartments at the top of a huge mountain next to an enormous hospital with a large family. I was on the verge of tears when I headed back down the mountain. And that was the end of the first day.
Before I move on the second day of adventure in Aix, I should put things in perspective. The language assistants are getting paid 750 euros a month. It is indeed below the poverty level (or so I was told). And we aren’t even getting paid until the end of November. So imagine finding housing options which range from 320-420 euros a month being the absolute least expensive. How on earth do they expect me to pay for my trip to Morocco and eat everyday?
I used this internet sight – seloger.com – to get another angle into the rental options, now looking in both Aix and Pertuis. Based solely on prices, Aix and Pertuis actually looked comparable. Again, I thought I might start to cry and then throw a tantrum. I made some appointments in Aix, but didn’t manage to in Pertuis because NO ONE in Pertuis works either Saturday OR Monday. Not even on freaking Monday! Where’s the service, people? Jen (the lovely young lady who has taken me in this last week and a half) came with me to Aix. I had a meeting with an agent from a rental agency at 10 am. We stood outside his agency until half past ten and then I called him. I thought for sure that by 10, he’d be able to make it to work on time. Turns out, he was there but working on finishing “a thing” and he’d be down in two minutes. That turned into another 15 and then we rang the bell for entry, and marched our way up to his weird burgundy colored tiny office which he shared with two other large men, and sat in front of his desk and stared until he was ready to leave. He led us to the first studio, up three flights of stairs, and it dawned on me that an appropriate question to ask these rental people would have been whether or not the room had a window. This one did not. Or more accurately, it has a window that faced the dark and dingy and smelly stairwell. No 17th century charm there. Plus, the electricity had been turned off, so we had to look at the pathetic hole of a studio in near pitch darkness. I could make out a futon couch (this place was meublé – or furnished), and an image of the sad soul who likely committed suicide on that very futon flashed before my eyes.
The next studio was across a square from the Palais de la Justice of Aix. This building was laden with charm… we climbed to the 4th floor, and arrived at what once had surely been the attic. The studio had low ceilings, carpeting, a small kitchenette with rotting food in the mini fridge and a toilet missing a toilet seat. But, there were three little windows that looked out onto the beautiful square lined with sycamore trees (I think that’s what they are??) and plentiful sunshine flooded into the room. My heart ached with sadness – no assistant would be able to furnish this attic space and then pay the 500 euros a month on top of that.
So thus far, my choices were either a windowless studio in an unacceptable state of decrepitude, or a decent apartment with windows that was far out of my price range. Oh sea of misery….
The first place I went to look a, the apartment owned by the old lady who wants people in by 9 pm, which I mentioned in my last letter. It was outside the city center in an ugly clump of apartment buildings constructed in the 1960’s. Yeah, not my wild ideal of a quaint French studio with a view of some buildings from the 17th century with mountains in the background. There was a view of a parking lot, though, and a very depressing kiddie playground that looked all bent out of shape. The next (and last available room on the infamous list) claimed to be in the city center. I bought one map to find it, and then had to buy another because my first map wasn’t good enough. Strangely, the street wasn’t on that map either. After speaking to at least 10 French people on the streets, and walking almost two hours up a mountain side in my silver shoes, I came to an area of government subsidized housing. You can image the dilapidation, the laundry everywhere, the stray dogs and children. While I am happy that this housing can help put a roof over the head of some under-privileged folks, I was not willing to pay 325 euros a month to share one of these apartments at the top of a huge mountain next to an enormous hospital with a large family. I was on the verge of tears when I headed back down the mountain. And that was the end of the first day.
Before I move on the second day of adventure in Aix, I should put things in perspective. The language assistants are getting paid 750 euros a month. It is indeed below the poverty level (or so I was told). And we aren’t even getting paid until the end of November. So imagine finding housing options which range from 320-420 euros a month being the absolute least expensive. How on earth do they expect me to pay for my trip to Morocco and eat everyday?
I used this internet sight – seloger.com – to get another angle into the rental options, now looking in both Aix and Pertuis. Based solely on prices, Aix and Pertuis actually looked comparable. Again, I thought I might start to cry and then throw a tantrum. I made some appointments in Aix, but didn’t manage to in Pertuis because NO ONE in Pertuis works either Saturday OR Monday. Not even on freaking Monday! Where’s the service, people? Jen (the lovely young lady who has taken me in this last week and a half) came with me to Aix. I had a meeting with an agent from a rental agency at 10 am. We stood outside his agency until half past ten and then I called him. I thought for sure that by 10, he’d be able to make it to work on time. Turns out, he was there but working on finishing “a thing” and he’d be down in two minutes. That turned into another 15 and then we rang the bell for entry, and marched our way up to his weird burgundy colored tiny office which he shared with two other large men, and sat in front of his desk and stared until he was ready to leave. He led us to the first studio, up three flights of stairs, and it dawned on me that an appropriate question to ask these rental people would have been whether or not the room had a window. This one did not. Or more accurately, it has a window that faced the dark and dingy and smelly stairwell. No 17th century charm there. Plus, the electricity had been turned off, so we had to look at the pathetic hole of a studio in near pitch darkness. I could make out a futon couch (this place was meublé – or furnished), and an image of the sad soul who likely committed suicide on that very futon flashed before my eyes.
The next studio was across a square from the Palais de la Justice of Aix. This building was laden with charm… we climbed to the 4th floor, and arrived at what once had surely been the attic. The studio had low ceilings, carpeting, a small kitchenette with rotting food in the mini fridge and a toilet missing a toilet seat. But, there were three little windows that looked out onto the beautiful square lined with sycamore trees (I think that’s what they are??) and plentiful sunshine flooded into the room. My heart ached with sadness – no assistant would be able to furnish this attic space and then pay the 500 euros a month on top of that.
So thus far, my choices were either a windowless studio in an unacceptable state of decrepitude, or a decent apartment with windows that was far out of my price range. Oh sea of misery….
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Bienvenue à blogspot, Whitney!
To state the obvious, this is my very first ever blog post. I feel like I have entered a new class of the technologically advanced. I have just become a young, very hip, up to speed, hopefully clearly pretentious, Frenchophiliac, black turtle neck wearing, internet blogger. Following are the contents to an email that I sent to most of you already, but being nervous about this sudden exposure, I am going to make that my introduction here. Please make me feel special and post comments.
So, as much as I wanted to find a place in Aix-en-Provence, I have to admit that that may not happen. I am actually teaching at three schools in a small village outside of Aix called Pertuis (a word for "hole" in French, apparently). It turns out that Aix is the second most expensive city in France, after Paris. I wanted to live in the bigger city, but I am not willing to live a long walk from the bus station in a tiny room in the home of a persnickity old woman who doesn't like people coming in after 9 pm at a cost of 400 euros a month! I am looking in both Aix and Peruis, and hopefully will be able to find a studio, and still have money to pay for the internet AND to travel a little. I hope to have answers to all of this within the next couple of days and I'll keep you posted.
It turns out that there are 284 language assistants in the Aix-Marseilles region alone. 40 of those are Americans. We have been going through some hilarious orientation/French bureaucratic hooplah the last few days. It has given me a chance to get to know some of my fellow assistants, considering that we are all suffering together in a completely illogical world. Let me just say that the word for "stamp" in French is "tampon". Apparently, tampons are very important here, and without particular tampons, one cannot access vital information, nor solve fundamental problems. As you might have guessed, these tampons are very hard to come by, and even the people who are supposed to have them don't know where they are. Someone who is supposed to be helping me navigate my new post here in Pertuis, a woman named Pascale, informed me that she wasn't even supposed to make contact before I was given a stamp from her boss, L'Inspecteur. This tampon, of course, is one that has gone missing, and she broke down and broke the rules this week and contacted me without it.
I'll try and put this in a nutshell: The reason that there is and has been little to no communication between the people who brought us into the French system and the thousands of assistants for all over the world, is because of the fifteen billion layers of French bureaucracy. And I'm talking about no information about housing, salary, paperwork, job expectations, contact info, or schedules. There is a Director of Education in Paris. Below him are directors of each of the 24 (?) French regions. Each region is split into at least two sections, each which has its own director. Each half a region is then split into two or more regions, each of these which has its own Inspector. Each inspector has one to two people who works for him/her who may or may not correspond with the language assistants. The aforementioned Pascale falls into this category. One more thing, it is not only the poor foreign saps like me who have no information whatsoever. The French are equally as clueless about how the system should work, and what is even more illogical is that the people here don't even seem to fight or question it at all. I guess that is where the difference between a French person and a non-French person lies.
I have seen some wonderful sides of the south of France too, of course. I spent an early morning walking through old Avignon with my friend Jen. We walked up to the castle where the pope was situated in the 14th century. He even had his own little vineyard, which still grows grapes today. The 13th century wall that surrounds the old part of the city still stands, and its outer walls are lined with tiny parking lots for the tiny French Citroens and Renaults. It is strange to see busy life as usual against the backdrop of an ancient crumbling wall.
Marseilles was a breathtaking sight. The Consulate General of the US invited the 40 American assistants to dine at her house on Thursday night. If only I had been wearing a gown and some jewels, I would have felt like Grace Kelly. The CG's house is a mansion that sits on the coast of the Meditteranean looking out at the island prison Le Chateau d'If, where the famous tale of The Count of Monte Cristo takes place. We arrived on a charter bus right at sunset, and climbed the hillside staircase to the mansion. The dinner was a multi-course provencal affair, that we ate sitting either in the living room or on the veranda, all the while drinking wine and chatting like true sophisticates. Unfortunately, no one told us that the meal was multi-coursed, so I scarfed down two slices of quiche and a load of cous cous thinking that this would be my last free meal for a year. And I wasn't the only one. We persevered, luckily, and gorged ourselves on the stuffed cabbage, baked meat and tomatoes, foie gras, cheeses, fruit, and then cake. Even a chocolate hazelnut cake.
The CG herself was a very interesting and pleasant woman. She admitted openly to me that she wasn't married and that she'd never met a man who wanted to follow her around the world. Anyway, she said that a husband wasn't important when you could have lovers in every country.
And now it is the weekend, and no one is working, so I can't really look for an apartment. I have done some internet research and made an appointment, and will have to wait until Monday morning to do much more. School doesn't start for another week, luckily.
So, as much as I wanted to find a place in Aix-en-Provence, I have to admit that that may not happen. I am actually teaching at three schools in a small village outside of Aix called Pertuis (a word for "hole" in French, apparently). It turns out that Aix is the second most expensive city in France, after Paris. I wanted to live in the bigger city, but I am not willing to live a long walk from the bus station in a tiny room in the home of a persnickity old woman who doesn't like people coming in after 9 pm at a cost of 400 euros a month! I am looking in both Aix and Peruis, and hopefully will be able to find a studio, and still have money to pay for the internet AND to travel a little. I hope to have answers to all of this within the next couple of days and I'll keep you posted.
It turns out that there are 284 language assistants in the Aix-Marseilles region alone. 40 of those are Americans. We have been going through some hilarious orientation/French bureaucratic hooplah the last few days. It has given me a chance to get to know some of my fellow assistants, considering that we are all suffering together in a completely illogical world. Let me just say that the word for "stamp" in French is "tampon". Apparently, tampons are very important here, and without particular tampons, one cannot access vital information, nor solve fundamental problems. As you might have guessed, these tampons are very hard to come by, and even the people who are supposed to have them don't know where they are. Someone who is supposed to be helping me navigate my new post here in Pertuis, a woman named Pascale, informed me that she wasn't even supposed to make contact before I was given a stamp from her boss, L'Inspecteur. This tampon, of course, is one that has gone missing, and she broke down and broke the rules this week and contacted me without it.
I'll try and put this in a nutshell: The reason that there is and has been little to no communication between the people who brought us into the French system and the thousands of assistants for all over the world, is because of the fifteen billion layers of French bureaucracy. And I'm talking about no information about housing, salary, paperwork, job expectations, contact info, or schedules. There is a Director of Education in Paris. Below him are directors of each of the 24 (?) French regions. Each region is split into at least two sections, each which has its own director. Each half a region is then split into two or more regions, each of these which has its own Inspector. Each inspector has one to two people who works for him/her who may or may not correspond with the language assistants. The aforementioned Pascale falls into this category. One more thing, it is not only the poor foreign saps like me who have no information whatsoever. The French are equally as clueless about how the system should work, and what is even more illogical is that the people here don't even seem to fight or question it at all. I guess that is where the difference between a French person and a non-French person lies.
I have seen some wonderful sides of the south of France too, of course. I spent an early morning walking through old Avignon with my friend Jen. We walked up to the castle where the pope was situated in the 14th century. He even had his own little vineyard, which still grows grapes today. The 13th century wall that surrounds the old part of the city still stands, and its outer walls are lined with tiny parking lots for the tiny French Citroens and Renaults. It is strange to see busy life as usual against the backdrop of an ancient crumbling wall.
Marseilles was a breathtaking sight. The Consulate General of the US invited the 40 American assistants to dine at her house on Thursday night. If only I had been wearing a gown and some jewels, I would have felt like Grace Kelly. The CG's house is a mansion that sits on the coast of the Meditteranean looking out at the island prison Le Chateau d'If, where the famous tale of The Count of Monte Cristo takes place. We arrived on a charter bus right at sunset, and climbed the hillside staircase to the mansion. The dinner was a multi-course provencal affair, that we ate sitting either in the living room or on the veranda, all the while drinking wine and chatting like true sophisticates. Unfortunately, no one told us that the meal was multi-coursed, so I scarfed down two slices of quiche and a load of cous cous thinking that this would be my last free meal for a year. And I wasn't the only one. We persevered, luckily, and gorged ourselves on the stuffed cabbage, baked meat and tomatoes, foie gras, cheeses, fruit, and then cake. Even a chocolate hazelnut cake.
The CG herself was a very interesting and pleasant woman. She admitted openly to me that she wasn't married and that she'd never met a man who wanted to follow her around the world. Anyway, she said that a husband wasn't important when you could have lovers in every country.
And now it is the weekend, and no one is working, so I can't really look for an apartment. I have done some internet research and made an appointment, and will have to wait until Monday morning to do much more. School doesn't start for another week, luckily.
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