More Than I Can Tell

On Monday afternoon, I awoke from my nap in a drowsy daze. I straightened in my plushy train chair and looked to the right, where my travel companion Brittney was staring wide-eyed in my direction. “What?” I asked, half asleep. The only word she could silently mouth was “Look.” I turned my head to the other side of the train in a dizzying snap and saw exactly what she was talking about. Somewhere between Bordeaux and Toulouse, we tumbled through miles of French countryside. But this was no ordinary landscape. Before us stretched an incredible amount of natural beauty – mountains, rivers, hills, valleys, meadows and rock formations. Humongous castles were carved into boulders, horses coursed through green meadows, and sleepy medieval towns emerged from the fog. In short, we had entered a fairytale, and we nearly fainted from realizing that the place we dreamed of actually existed.

When we are small, our parents recount to us stories of knights in shining armor, of hidden villages, of castles, princesses, magic mountains, and deranged wizards. And we live our humble North American lives under the stunning delusion that these places and people have never existed; that we have only accessed them through a mix of ancient legend and imagination. The humid and fertile valley of the Dordogne (dor-dohn-yah) harbors all these fables and more. There is no other place like it in the entire world. The seat of prehistoric European man, it has more fossils, skeletons, cave paintings, grottos, and archaeological digs than anywhere else on the planet. Human civilization in this region can be traced back 300,000 years. Today, those who live here are a special breed. If their family history does not extend four centuries into the past, they live here because they have fallen just as much in love with it as we have. Many come to this area from all over France and its overseas territories and never leave. The magic one feels here is incredible: it is known as France’s Brigadoon. Fifty miles from the closest city, Sarlat-la-Canéda (pronounced as it appears) is a hidden gem of tradition and French culture that has irrevocably changed the way I see the world.

Brittney and I came to this place without an agenda or an itinerary of places to visit. Our motto consisted of two words: no worries! With this in mind, we began a three kilometer hike up hills and cobblestones from the train station to our bed and breakfast. We were lost, dazed, and running out of sunlight. By the time we reached the hidden gem, the sun was setting over the mountains. Panting partially from low oxygen levels and partially from an incredible hike, we rapped on the door of the cottage. The older man who answered – Bernard, our host – was nothing short of a real-life French hippie left over from the mid-sixties. He excitedly told us that the entire house ran on natural gas, that its water system relied on an underground spring, that all the products they eat are biologique (French for organic) and that they often go hunting for truffles in the woods behind the house. Bernard was an incredible man with an incredible dwelling, and more than anyone else we met, he was overwhelmingly willing to go the extra mile so that our stay in Sarlat was enjoyable.

That evening, we loaded up into his old blue mini-van and slid down the mountain to the medieval town below for our first authentic dinner à la Sarladaise (in the Sarlat style – ah-lah sar-LAH-dez), and weren’t disappointed. Our three-course meal featured the famous regional delicacy of foie gras (fwah-gras; a pâté made from fattened goose liver), canard à la truffe (cuh-nar ah-lah trouf; duck in truffle oil), housemade dark wheat bread, and the fantastically sweet gateau aux noix (walnut cake). With our bellies full of delicious local food (this area is so remote that it is more expensive to import food from other areas than to grow and trade it themselves), we explored the eerily quiet medieval city. Sarlat has been preserved in its original state since the eighteenth century. It runs entirely on natural gas from the surrounding earth, is paved only in cobblestone, has limited amounts of Internet access, and houses no more than 300 residents. That night, we decided to walk back to the bed and breakfast - a four kilometer walk up a mountain in near darkness. I was terrified. Yet, there was something inherently peaceful and safe about it. From the summit, the view of the stars was beyond compare. 

The next morning, we woke to the smells of fresh coffee and walnut bread. Over breakfast, we discussed our day with Bernard. "Since you don't have a car," he said, his eyes sparkling, "I suggest you hitchhike."

Since "hitchhike" (faire du stop) isn't really a phrase you learn in French grammar class, Brittney and I were confused, but we went with it, expressing enthusiasm for something we didn't understand a bit. It was our grand adventure after all, wasn't it? Adventure isn't meant to be questioned. It wasn't until thirty minutes later, when Bernard dropped us off at the highway roundabout, with signs of the destinations we had in mind, that we understood. Oh right. Woops! 

By this point, I was ballistic. Brittney, ever calm, reassured me that if the proprietor of a tidy bed and breakfast had recommended it to two clearly defenseless young women, he must be under the impression that it was perfectly safe in this area. Two minutes later, he was right. A lovely mother, with a little girl in the back, picked us up and took us 20 minutes north on a winding and intimidating mountainous road to the darling little town of Montignac, where one can find the first human art ever created: the grotto of Lascaux. 

After once again walking halfway up a mountain, we arrived in the unassuming and rocky forest of Lascaux where it is believed cro-magnon man dwelled from 17,000 BC to 10,000 BC. We bought our tickets and followed the French tourists inside the cave. Our tour guide quickly explained the historical significance of the plot, when it was discovered, and how it has been restored, and then led us into one of the most awe-inspiring places I have ever seen in my life. Lascaux is absolutely huge. Red bulls blur together on gigantic cave walls, obscured only by the flickering light of the torches. It was here, in this incredible place of earth, nearly one meter underground, that our ancestors arrived, for the first time, to create art. 

As a passionate, creative soul myself, this moment is one I shall never forget. Like in Bordeaux, I could feel the weight of human history bearing down on my shoulders. As a race, we have created art for thousands upon thousands of years. Anthropologists suspect that cro-magnon descended to this place and painted bulls and horses to connect to what they believed to be a spirit world. But the real reason for the art is unknown. And isn't that what art is, anyway? Why are we even motivated to make art? Why do we create the things we create? Why is art important at all? It all struck me in the cave. We have needed to create since we first arrived in the world. Maybe art is "meaningless". Even so, it is essential. I wanted to transport all the American skeptics to the cave that afternoon so that the indescribable significance of art could be revealed to them, too. 

We successfully hitchhiked back to Sarlat-la-Canéda reflecting in silence upon all we had seen. We decided to explore the little shops in the medieval city and stumbled into a colorful, inviting, and empty nougat shop. The shop door closed with a slam and we spun around to see one of the tiniest, prettiest women we'd ever seen. "Hey girls!" she said, her smiling lighting up the room, "I'm Julia, the proprietor. Can I help you?" Could she help us? All we knew is that we loved sugar and had never tried house-made French nougat. In less than ten minutes, she convinced us to buy six little morsels of the chewy goodness and threw in a ton of free samples. "I'm 22," she said, and my ears perked up. "And I've always wanted to travel to Canada." 

Over the next two days, we stopped in to say hello to Julia-the-Nougat-girl and found her to be one of the cutest and kindest people we'd ever met. "Do you have any evening plans?" she asked one afternoon, her long brown hair bouncing with enthusiasm like her musical voice. "Because I happen to have this huge apartment in the country and well, I'm always up for visitors!" Brittney and I looked at each other and shrugged. Why not? 

That evening, Julia and her half-Algerian friend Camille drove us through miles of wild woodlands to what I am sure is literally the middle of nowhere and recounted to us tales of her childhood in Sarlat and her family's history. "How did you come to live in this huge house?" we asked her politely. 

"Well, my grandparents left Italy during the second world war, came here, loved it, built a house, and opened a business. I share it with them, my aunts, and my parents. It costs me next to nothing, and it may be small, but it's home and I have my own apartment!" She paused. "I love my family, but I have a confession. I have never left France. Once I went to Paris, but I'm such a paysanne (pay-E-zan - country girl) I couldn't leave home. The world is big and beautiful, but also frightening. And expensive." 

As we drove out later that night to the closest city, Périgueux, for some impromptu clubbing at a disco bar that played only American music, Julia's friend Camille admitted her fear for her friend. "She wants to travel the world and I don't blame her. But she's so naive, I don't know what to tell her. If she goes to America people will surely try to take advantage of her." 

I guess, I supposed to myself, simple people can be found everywhere, from the farms in Appleton, Wisconsin to the mountains of Sarlat, France. 

Humanity is complex, brilliant, foolish, afraid, brave, ignorant, and sage. If this trip taught me anything, its that ignorance is not purely an American phenomenon and neither is fear of the unknown. It is human. Our time with Julia was well spent, and it was fantastic to hang out with two other girls our own age; to hear their thoughts and revelations about life. At the same time it was humbling. Julia has never left her country and while I sit here with emphatic wanderlust and a bucket list full of exotic places to visit, she may live her entire life perfectly content to run a nougat shop in a tiny medieval town far from all that is cosmopolitan and modern. I hardly resent her for it; in fact I admire it. To know what we know of the world in our generation and have no desire to visit it takes a certain kind of satisfaction with one's life. Julia is endemically French: she has great friends, knows how to cook great food, and takes the time she needs to relax and enjoy her family. The meaning of life in this little French valley is the same as it is in suburban Chicago:  eat well, love well, live well. 

On our last two days in the region, we continued to taste regional delicacies, explore renaissance castles, and ancient caves. For me, however, all these experiences were a bit lost and mixed in my head, for I was too busy reflecting on what it meant to be human. There is no point to life, but while we're here we may as well create something beautiful, believe in something bigger than ourselves, love those who are dear to us, and enjoy our little moments of tranquility. 

And maybe, just maybe, pursue adventure in the great, wide somewhere. 

Polytheism and Stereotypes

On a bright blue afternoon in wine country, we boarded a tacky red tour bus aptly named "The Wine Machine". With Spaniards, Englishmen, and a Japanese couple, we set out to explore one of the most famous medieval cities in Bordeaux's vicinity: Saint Emilion, population 300.

Saint Emilion is southern France's Mont St-Michel. Founded around the eighth century by a monk searching for hermitage, Saint Emilion harbors not only a meticulous wine producing tradition (I would attempt to explain their process, but I honestly do not know how to translate it), but the largest underground cathedral in Europe. In the time of the crusades, it was used to protect the residents of Saint Emilion from the English (Aquitaine was oddly and stupidly ruled by the English for 100-200 some years, so there was quite a bit of danger involved in being French on French soil - as an American this is beyond me, but I suppose British people enjoy ruling from afar.) and from the Sarrasins (who, by the way, never actually came to Aquitaine). Nevertheless, this underground cathedral is one of the most unique ones in Europe because it is polytheistic.

Polytheistic? A Catholic cathedral? As odd as it sounds, it is indeed true. The residents of the town were once members of pagan religion, the Knight's Templar (read: Crusaders!), and Catholicism. Since the monks who built the cathedral were also reputedly a mix of these three - to the Church's anger and later the monk's demise - their cathedral is a unique blend of pagan imagery, symbols from the templar, and Christian rites. The cathedral's sanctuary is covered in zodiac signs, roses and the double-rider on a horse, and a crucifix. What's more, it is carved entirely out of ancient rock. Matthew, 16:18: And I say also unto thee, That thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.

After a full tour of the cathedral and its accompanying crypt, we returned to the dizzying sunlight. Our tour guide happily informed us we had 45 minutes of free time to explore the city before heading out to one of the many vineyards that surrounded it. Ecstatic, we meandered through the winding and steep cobblestone hills until we stumbled into an exquisite little grotto covered in vines. We promised we'd come back, but not before tasting the regional specialty: a tiny little rum and custard cake called a cannelé.

With our cannelé in hand, we returned to the magnificent little grotto. Here I am posing for a picture amidst the other tourists: 

As you can see, I am not exaggerating its beauty or quaintness! Long story short, we fell in love with this tiny town and grew even more excited to explore the other ones on our trip itinerary. 

We boarded the giant bus and drove out to one of the last family-owned wine chateau in the region: Chateau Lafiotte. Conveniently located ten minutes from town via car, this small vineyard of 700 hectares has been in the same family since 1600. A total prankster, the vineyard owner himself took this picture of Brittney and I in the cellar, insisting that there is no proof of going to a French vineyard unless there is a picture: 

While once again amazed at the wine-making process and rather excited to learn about the complicated business, our trip was nearly ruined by a large group of American students who were studying abroad in Bordeaux. 

Here comes the fun part: apparently I look so European that even my own people, Americans, ask me to take pictures of them in French . I'm all for playing along with the game, until they find out I'm actually Anglophone (Brittney and I speak in English most of the time, albeit in soft monotones as not to be overheard). Once the French hear us speaking English with other Americans, the jig is up. We are automatically labeled young, foolish, and incapable of speaking other languages. We experienced this prejudice in nearly every restaurant in Bordeaux and every single tour, so upon introducing ourselves to tour guides and waiters, we insisted we were French Canadian and there, problem solved. But the moment we spoke English to each other, the entire attitude and ambiance of any given restaurant or tourist trap changed completely. 

I'm truly at a loss to explain this phenomenon except to say that the majority of Americans who come to France to study or live are here to party (because they're under 21 and can't do it in the states) and can hardly speak a word of French. When I studied in Paris in 2011, I came across this horrible facet of American culture and turned my back on all things American. National stereotypes that the French harbor for the Americans are just as awful and untrue as the ones Americans harbor for the French, and this unjust and confusing part of our relationship with this country is not only ridiculous but wildly unfair. 

This whole trip, I've been questioning my identity, and especially as Brittney has lauded (and rightly so) Canadian life and privilege, I have grown more and more averse to my nationality. Voilà the next hardest chapter in the quest for my great perhaps: how American am I? Should I be proud to be American when it causes so much international grief and anxiety? How can I explain adequately to Europeans why my country goes without basic human rights like healthcare and legalizes the use of lethal weapons like guns? 

As a representative for all of America to the few French people I meet, I politely decline my responsibility to explain these atrocities of American culture. For the moment, I'm perfectly all right with being French Canadian. Instead, I'll hide in the vineyard and taste the sweetness of the indian summer without all the trimmings. 

Health, Happiness, and Hope: French Wine and Bordeaux

The breezy and chilling autumn air whips around us and flows through the mirror of Bordeaux - an extraordinary reflecting tile coated with water that shows the most beautiful and well known area of the city, la Place de la Bourse. We look out into the powerful river across the way and wonder how many millions of people have seen it before us, how many tourists and Frenchmen and nobles and paupers and slaves and musicians and pagans and popes. This is Bordeaux. It is one of the only cities in France untouched by the devastating world wars of the twentieth century and as such its downtown is comprised of layer upon layer of historical vestiges - from medieval bell towers to ancient Gallo-Roman arches, underground churches, and vineyards over eight centuries old.

Bordeaux is one of those wonderful places that reminds us of our humanity. It is one thing to stand at the base of the Eiffel Tower, where you know great men have also stood, but it is entirely another to find yourself lost in a city where ordinary people have trod for dozens of millennia. It is in this place you can feel the immense weight of history and human experience. French people have lived here, uninterrupted, since 800 AD, and before them their predecessors, the Romans and the Gauls. Bordeaux is a city steeped in the past and moving toward the racing horizon of the future. It is hardly surprising then, that this incredible city places an overwhelming amount of value on tradition. 

This weekend has been one of my favorites because it has involved an incredible amount of learning. And in a place that is itself a living testament to human existence, what more could you expect? On our first full day in the city, we wandered its cobblestone downtown streets, marveled at its hidden monuments, and tasted some wonderfully organic and traditional French food in a renowned little bistro called L’Oiseau Cabosse (lwa-ZOH ka-BOSS; translation: The Bird Pod). What’s more, we took an impromptu and intimate wine tour in the only vineyard within the city limits: Chateau Luchey-Halde (sha-TO lou-shay ald) We arrived without reservations and were two of four on the entire tour. And although we were completely annoyed with our tour companions (they were far younger, far more ignorant, and in general less motivated to understand culture and more motivated to get drunk off wine), the information we retained from the 9 euro tour was beyond compare. With any luck, I will transport you to the world I experienced on a breezy day in southern France.

First, a little information about the wines of Bordeaux, and of wines in general, for those of you who are not connoisseurs:

1.     Red Bordeaux wine is always a mix of three wines: Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Médoc. The Bordeaux region almost exclusively produces this red blend: 89% of its production from year to year is red, 8% rosé, and 3% white.

2.    The poorer the soil, the better the wine. Why? Rocky soil forces the vine’s roots to dig to two miles beneath the soil for water and nutrients. As a result, the nutrients they receive are cleaner and crisper and the roots are hardier, meaning they can survive weather changes and produce a higher bounty of grapes.

3.    Once the grapes are harvested, they are kept in gigantic steel fermentation barrels that regulate their temperature, flavor, color and acidity for 1-3 months. After this fermentation process has ended, the skins and seeds are removed from the wine. At this point, the three different grapes are then mixed together and placed in oak barrels.

4.    The average time a bottle of wine spends in an oak barrel is 1.5 years, though this is dependent on the winemaker’s preference. This part of the process is called the “purification” process. The barrels are rotated, tasted, and tapped with wooden hammers every two weeks to insure the consistent quality of each drop in the barrel. Each barrel yields approximately 300 bottles of wine.

5.    Why the cork? Why the screw cap? Corked wines are meant to age because the cork gives more complexity and tannin to the wine. By contrast, screw cap wines indicate that the wine is not meant to age, so it should be drunk soon after purchase. Corks and screw caps are NOT indications of the quality of the wine!!! Some of the most expensive wines are screw cap wines. Keep this in mind, collegiate friends! Using a cork is tradition in Bordeaux, so the majority of Bordeaux wines are corked, but this does not necessarily mean they are great wines.

6.    Further, price does NOT indicate the quality of a good wine! Price indicates the reputation of the vineyard that made it and the quality of the grape’s skin. If, for example, the vineyard is new or has had a low yielding season, the cost of their wine will be significantly less than that of an older vineyard with high yields. The grape’s skin is, as you can imagine, greatly impacted by the weather, bugs, and pollen. A cheaper wine means that the skin may have been damaged or contorted by any of these elements.

7.    The winemaking process in France is highly regulated by the government and extremely complicated. Only certain kinds of wine from certain regions bear names of the wines. For instance, there is no such thing as champagne from Bordeaux. It may well be the same thing – fermented and carbonated white wine – but it is not allowed to be called champagne because it is not FROM Champagne. Opening a vineyard means you comply to the government standards of production, from planting to fermentation and beyond.

8.    A chateau (sha-TO) is NOT a castle. In Bordeaux, a chateau is a winemaking facility (laboratories, fields, and a house) inhabited by proprietor and his or her family (or alternatively, by the larger corporation that owns the vineyard, a new phenomenon in France).

Still with me? Great! Back to our first French vineyard experience.

Upon our arrival to the vineyard, we remarked upon its modernity. The facilities possessed a fresh façade that imitated the French provençal style but lacked its vintage wash. Upon further examination of the grounds, we saw what appeared to be two giant trenches now filled with murky soil, the remnants of barbed wire fencing, and giant oak trees. My travel companion, Brittney, immediately whispered, “Do you think it was possible a battle was fought here?” She brought up an all-too-valid point, but why would there be trenches in a city whose residents swore was untouched by war? Upon the commencement of our tour, our questions were answered: the Chateau Luchey-Halde is a brand new, 21^st century facility whose grounds were previously used as an army training camp for the world wars of the twentieth century.

Shivers coated my skin. This place, so remarkably peaceful and hidden on the edges of a cultural southern city, was once the temporary home of hundreds of thousands of Frenchmen who lost their lives in cruel and unusual ways. And there we stood, peering out upon its immensity and tasting wine produced from the very soil that bore their suffering and predicted their loss.

Today, Luchey-Halde is not only a chateau of great renown; it is also an agricultural training facility for students who wish to break into the wine business – from sommeliers (professional wine collectioneers and tasters) to farmers and the engineers behind the science of wine. The profits from the wine are given back to the school, the employees and to production costs. Though Brittney and I never found out who the owner was, our guide made it clear he was 100% altruistic a propos de his wine. In other words, he takes no profit from its production and gives it back to the community.

In short, we were enamored with this vineyard. It was a paradise of history, kindness, and beauty all wrapped into one. The kind of place you dream of when you think “French vineyards in Bordeaux”.

But this little excursion was only the beginning of our incredible weekend in Bordeaux. We finished the day strolling along without a care in the world and returned to our hotel room deeply satisfied and incomprehensibly exhausted.

On Sunday, we expected to muddle through the day with little or nothing to do, because France all but closes down on Sunday. In Bordeaux, this is not so. All the museums, most restaurants, boulangeries (boo-LAN-juh-ree; bakeries), and public transports remained open and highly accessible. Pleasantly surprised, we headed out to the Museum of Aquitaine, a free museum with an imposing southern French design on the south side of the city. It is here we were awed by Bordeaux’s illustrious and lengthy history dating from 80,000 BC. As an American, it is often difficult for me to wrap my head around European history because my nation is itself so young. My comprehension of the Paleolithic age is limited to Native American culture and ritual because my ancestors had not yet arrived on the soil I now call home. Thus, looking at the fossilized bones of these European early humans through thick plexiglass was absolutely spellbinding. These people, though perhaps not related to me directly, lived and breathed and loved and thousands of years later those of us of European descent carry their struggles and joys in our bones. As you can tell, the weight of human experience weighs heavily upon my shoulders as I struggle to find my place in the world.

The Bordelais (residents of Bordeaux - pronounced bor-duh-lay)  are a proud people, shrouded in history. Yet there is something extraordinary about their way of life. More than any other city I've visited, I've found the Bordelais to cherish relaxation and reflection. They are clever, funny, and believe in the importance of hakuna matata. Why would you wake up early when you can sleep in and have a nice little breakfast? Why would you rush through your vacation with a list of monuments and museums to see when you could enjoy those small and unpredictable moments these little French cities can give you? Why would you be afraid of someone selling fruit on the street or shy from the Algerian man, dressed in traditional costume, on the tramway? The point of life, according to the Bordelais, is to sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride. Well, for the moment, don't mind if I do. 

Intrepid Vessels of Knowledge? The French Educational System

By now I’ve met with all my cooperating teachers (there are eight of them), sat in on their classes, and begun my actual job: teaching. For most of them, I have even begun “assisting” which means I’m teaching half their students fun stuff while they teach the other half English grammar and syntax. And while I do enjoy the teachers and the students, I must say I am very irritated with one thing: the lax rules of the educational institution as a whole.

In my high school, as with many American high schools, teachers have to call in when they are sick and then request a substitute, they have classes straight from 7:30 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., they rarely have a decent lunch hour, and for the most part, are so exhausted by the end of the day and exasperated with their students they are about to blow a gasket or fall asleep at the dinner table. In France, this is not so.

As I started to explain in my previous blog post concerning French high schools, classes start at 8 a.m. and finish at 6 p.m. However, most teachers only teach approximately 5-6 lessons each day, and typically have one day or half day off. They have long breaks in between each class (with few exceptions) and their lunch breaks are often 1-1.5 hours long. If they are ill, there are no substitute teachers to take their place. They also do not tell the students or administration ahead of time. The rule is that the students must wait outside the classroom (all classrooms are locked when not in use) for fifteen minutes, and if they do not see the teacher, they can leave.

I just…what?!

I was blindsided by this lovely and completely unorganized facet of the French educational system three times this past Thursday. After the secretary told me for the fourth day in a row that it was impossible for me to use the computers and the internet (including using the copy machine, printing out articles, pictures, lessons, etc) because the person in charge of technology has been missing in action for a week (but really though?!), I headed up to my first classroom five minutes early to find a band of eager students waiting. I unlocked the classroom and we all walked inside, but fifteen minutes later, when there was no teacher, they all left. “Wait, wait, I’m here!” I shouted after them, to no avail. “Rules are rules,” said one gorgeous French 16-year-old girl with a devilish smirk, “If the teacher isn’t here, we can go!” Thankfully, half the class elected to stay just to get some English speaking and listening comprehension practice, so my time wasn’t entirely wasted. My favorite part of this hour was the fact that the vice principal walked in halfway through the class and said, “Oh, and the teacher thought you should know that this class is studying race relations in the United States, and the children know nothing about it. So, if you could summarize that and then lead a critical thinking discussion, that would be fantastic!”

I’m sorry, you want me to summarize 300 years of grisly American history in the remaining forty minutes without access to the internet or  textbooks? ARE YOU INSANE?!

I was extremely irritated by this lack of responsibility particularly because it was Thursday. On Thursdays, my first class begins at 9 a.m. and my last class ends at 6 p.m. Since I live an hour away by train and the train station is a 15 minute walk from school, I have to take the 7:15 train in order to get to school on time (the next train doesn’t leave Nantes until 8:04, and that would make me late for class). So I was up at 5:30 a.m. (because the train station is a 15 minute bike ride from my current residence, and also because I can do nothing without coffee in my system), in the dark, with little sleep and too much coffee, to come to school, only to find that there was no reason for me to be there until 10 a.m.

Frustration doesn’t even begin to cover it.

So, after waiting over an hour and a half until my next class, literally doing nothing because I have no internet or computer access and couldn’t print, copy, or organize my lesson plans, I had class, then lunch, then what I thought would be four hours of straight class. For the French system, this is odd. Four hours of work? Heavens no! You must have a break in between there! Something is wrong! I attended the first two hours like a good language assistant, and then searched around blindly for the third class (by now it’s 3 p.m.) until a German professor informed me that the English department made an error on my schedule – that class doesn’t meet at all today, and certainly not at 3 p.m.!

Okay, I thought, in an attempt to calm my rising anger, another hour free. Maybe I could take a nap.

Yet another hour later, ready and raring to go, I headed up to the room number written on my schedule to once again find a loud and sassy band of high school seniors waiting outside the classroom door. This cannot be happening to me three times in one day! I thought to myself, but alas, I was once again surprised to find that the teacher “had some errands to run and wasn’t able to come to class at all”. She, at least, had the courtesy to text me this information. So the students left, and here I am waiting around for yet another hour before my 6:30 train because I was originally told my last class for the day would be over at 6 p.m.

On top of all these lax rules and bureaucratic inconsistencies, French teachers are given 6 weeks of paid vacation (which DOESN’T include the summer holidays, which last a 6 weeks at the end of July through the beginning of September), half days on Wednesdays, minimal staff meetings (max one hour a week), free health care, a kick-ass retirement plan, life insurance, and often, three-day weekends. And yet, all I hear them talk about is how poorly they are paid. Call me an American, but I am completely aghast. To make matters worse, I just found out that there is an organized teacher’s strike on Tuesday, so I won’t be teaching at all and neither will any of my teachers. When I asked why they are striking, they replied, “Well, they raised the retiring age to 70, and that’s just impossible. Nobody can work until they’re 70!”

While I greatly admire the French system for its commitment to language learning and its inspired use of career planning (some kids start learning business skills when they’re 14), I cannot help at this moment but be anything other than irritated. How is this even a school? How do these kids manage to even learn English between the vacations and unannounced teacher absences? It is only my third week of work and already, it’s driving me insane. There must be some kind of discipline I’m not seeing; some kind of subtle machine that is integrated into the French way of doing things that lets kids learn more and the staff work less. At the moment, though, I am in one hell of a struggle to understand it. I guess only time will tell – as long as it’s not time I’ve wasted sitting around in empty classrooms.

Since I have begun teaching, two of my classes have been cancelled, plus one day of teacher’s strike, plus other missed hours because of miscommunication with my cooperating teachers means that I’ve only officially worked 15 hours over a stretch of two weeks. I mean can I even call this a job? Every time I attempt to work, my classes are cancelled! For a Lawrentian who is accustomed to 60+ hours of things to do each week – whether in class, studying, homework, club management, or exercise – I’m aghast, bored, and irritated. France, I love you, but I wish I could actually be useful to your educational system instead of waiting around like a cold fish with nothing to do. And while I can hear all my American friends whining, “I wish I had that luxury!” in my head, I reply, do you really wish you only worked 15 hours a week? I think not. Yes, I’m spoiled because my job is more laissez-faire than I ever expected it would be, but honestly, I’m a girl who loves being busy and maybe even a little addicted to the concept of “stressed-out”.

Can I put up with this for seven more months? As much as I adore living in France, can I come to terms with my enormous amount of free time, tiny budget, and bureaucratic nonsense?

Where the Magic Happens // The Beauty Is

A year ago today, I was applying for the final round of the Watson Fellowship, a prestigious liberal arts award that gives the recipient 28k and free license to travel the world and create, analyze, and witness beauty and art. It was my top choice post-grad experience, and I made it to the final round before my eventual elimination. Ever since May, when I found out about my acceptance to TAPIF and rejection from the Watson, a bitter taste was left in my mouth. I was so excited for my friend Daniel, because he won the fellowship and was about to go on an extraordinary voyage around the world to see all the places he wanted to see and more, but I had quite a lot of pity for myself. Yes, I loved France. Yeah, teaching was OK. But TAPIF wasn't my first choice. Scrambling over the summer and ultimately unable to land an internship or find a job in the industries that interested me, I felt like I was settling. Settling for France, and still, petrified to go, because I knew living in Europe would be expensive, and I only worked part-time for 2.5 months. My funds were limited. My heart was heavy. My head was disappointed.

I never thought I would find adventure in France because France is a "known quantity" as my best friend Deborah would say. Been there, done that. However, I'm a strong believer in the phrase "everything happens for a reason", so I accepted my fate and boarded a plane to France earlier than I should have, spent way more time in Paris than I could afford, and ended up in a rather desperate situation upon my arrival in Nantes. I was desolate, and had a million reasons to be angry with myself. Why hadn't I planned things better? Why had I even chosen France? What kind of an idiot does something so stupid? I knew the facts going in and I ignored them.

This blog post was originally going to be about my social life in France and how it has evolved thus far. It's true, I have several amazing people around me - American, Canadian, British, French, and German - who I consider to be friends, or at least, people with whom I could have some great friendships in the months to come. We go out on the weekends and enjoy the silly adventures of youth, like walking into cyclists on a busy street, eating crêpes that have been flambéed (lit on fire), getting lost in a hangar, and partying in French apartments until the sun comes up. And while I wanted very badly to share these experiences with my friends and family back home via this blog, I could not bring myself to do it. Because all these adventures are normal. My readers had and are having them, and there's nothing magical about any of them except that I am happy and having a fantastically relaxing time (which, I admit, is a miracle in itself, because I rarely let my hair down in college). What's more, I find that these moments in life are best kept private, if for nothing else to strengthen my bond with all of these wonderful people, and to protect those moments between friends that really shouldn't be published all over the internet. :)

This morning when I woke up, I had a quote stuck in my head that played over and over throughout breakfast with my host family: "The magic happens outside your comfort zone". It is a phrase that one of my mentors and advisers, Dean Pertl of the conservatory of music, used to push the four Watson fellowship finalists to explore new options in our year-abroad proposals. This whole experience has been my happy place - my comfort zone. Sure, finding an apartment has been rough. Coming up with lesson plans is challenging. Taking public transport for 2 hours every day isn't fun. Regardless, I have done it all before. So, as I looked out into the crisp fall morning, I thought to myself, "Today, it's time for an adventure." Albeit, a small one.

With my phone in my pocket and sunglasses in the bike basket, I left the cozy surroundings of provincial Vertou in search of a new place. I biked and biked and biked and biked until I had no idea where in heaven's name I was. This is weird for me, because if you know me at all, you know I like planning. I like being aware of my surroundings and I like being in control. I'm afraid that the worst is always going to happen to me, so I rarely take risks. Was I even on a bike path anymore? I had no idea. I was completely alone in this odd countryside between the suburb and the city, and all I knew was that it was a beautiful day and I wanted to burn some more calories (I mean I could stop eating speculoos or Nutella on a toasted demi-baguette for breakfast, but why in heaven's name would I do that?!). So I kept going, until just around the bend, I saw it: A small hill, a rushing river, and a clearing. Well obviously, that's where I'm going.

Wine country. Le vignoble. Where golden trellises sneak out from the shadows of trees and lovely white grapes ripen in the afternoon sun. Where horses run out in herds to the little river Sèvres, a tributary of the Loire, and where goat kids nestle in the tall grass. As I watched life pour out from the valley, I had the intrinsic feeling that I was disturbing some private, extraordinary way of life that I shouldn't be witnessing. This place belongs to movie directors, to dreams, to unassuming farmers, and to God. And yet, there I was, a normal and flabbergasted American, taking it all in while the autumn breeze whispered through the leaves around me.

My host parents keep talking about wine country near their house, but I've never seen it. In fact, I've never experienced wine country at all in France, in spite of the fact that it is a quintessential part of French life and culture. I could easily get lost in the beauty of this place and be unable to find my way back home after dark. But it was worth the risk. Because clearly, this gray area between reality and dreams, between comfort and confusion, is where the magic happens.

I descended the unpaved and winding path on my bicycle without expectations. It's a beautiful day and I have an incredible view. Thinking this would be the highlight of my bike ride, I continued on, past the vineyard and the pastures, until I reached a sign on the right of the road that read: "Aujourd'hui: Dégustation gratuite" (Today: Free tasting). Free tasting?! Of what?! Did it matter?! Nope, because I knew I was going to love it! I ventured in, hoping I could muster up enough courage and energy (by this time I'd been biking for nearly an hour, so I was rather tired) to talk about whatever product I was going to be tasting in French and understand what the farmers were saying. I walked into the country home and was immediately greeted by a short, thin Frenchman in his late 60s, who spoke extremely fast, but whose smile was so genuine it could have lit up an entire city. At this hour of the day, I seemed to be the only person in the farmhouse, so I took a small taste of the sweet, light muscadet and a tiny cut of fresh goat's cheese, smiled and thanked the proprietor for some of the best wine I've ever tasted, and headed on my way (though I did feel guilty for not purchasing either item). Since it was only two p.m. and I had nowhere else to go (assistants don't teach on Wednesdays), I continued along this unknown path in the afternoon sunshine.

Wandering farther and farther into the French countryside meant the scene became more and more idyllic. I followed the river, sparkling in the heat, to a little bridge shaded by willow trees. I parked my bike, tied it to the bridge, and sat down on the rocky shore. It was utter and unadulterated paradise. The silence was immense. I was breathless as I examined the beauty around me. Of all the places in the world, I was here, in a nameless French town outside of Nantes, where the color green reigns over the fields even in the first week of October. And as I watched the water drift by, I noticed something else. Past the bridge and the forest was a mansion, hidden behind a rusted wrought iron gate and coated in bright red autumn vines. It was as though I had stepped into a fairytale, and while part of me didn't want to push my luck (what if there was some crazy murderer like Boo Radley waiting inside, or a monster from Beauty and the Beast?), the other half of me couldn't resist another adventure. But the gate, though weak from years of use, was fiercely locked with three different devices, so I got the overwhelming feeling that whoever (if anyone) lived there didn't want intruders. Oh well, no harm. Perhaps the Prince on the hill doesn't like visitors.

Even as I read this back to myself, I can hardly believe this is my life. I am filled with overwhelming gratitude for the opportunity to explore these hidden, exquisite corners of the earth that nobody else knows about. I may not have been sent on an official quest to discover the world, but I've made a promise to myself, which is to never stop exploring, no matter where I am or where life may take me. I am slowly but surely learning that a situation which may not sound ideal has its own little bright spots, and that the universe will always present an opportunity for adventure. The question is not "when will life begin?", but rather, "when am I going to start my life?" Today's lesson, cheesy as it may sound, is that life is yours for the taking, and adventure is waiting around the bend.

Crash Course: The French High School System

I must profusely apologize for the general lateness of the update of this blog. I would like to say that it is due to the fact that I have been quite busy, which I suppose is true, but moreover, my lateness is due to avoidance. Thus far, my blog has been rather, well, deep - for lack of a better word - because my observations concerning life in France, humanity, and my place in the world are serious and crafted with quite a bit of reflection. When inundated with new information and tasks, it becomes more difficult to reflect and far easier to accept and move forward.

I didn't want this blog to be about "my adventures in France" because I know that many of my friends who read this blog have lived abroad, and those who haven't followed my blog when I was abroad in Paris, so the culture shock is greatly diminished and the experiences I am having are similar. Yet, my position here in Nantes is in the school system, and since the French school system is extraordinarily different than the American one, I think it is time to describe my first week and what I know of the French system so far! So, if this part of the post does not interest you, just ignore it and perhaps I'll have some "deep thoughts" for you next time!

I made the decision about a month ago to make Nantes my home regardless of where I was teaching. Of course, I was placed in a tiny town far from Nantes (the universe has a sense of humor) called La Roche-sur-Yon. Okay, so it's not tiny by American standards - about the size of Appleton - but still, I'm a city girl and I have been itching to live in one for quite a long time. So, I decided to take fate into my own hands. Thus, I take an hour train ride three times a week to get to my school and then a fifteen minute walk from the train station. Considering that some people have two hour commutes, I still don't think mine is that bad, especially because the public transport here is so fantastic.

My first day in La Roche-sur-Yon, I met with the coordinating teacher for the TAPIF program, who happens to be the head English teacher at my high school. She gave me a quick tour of the facilities and gave me some statistics:
Number of students at LGT Pierre Mendès-France: 2152
Number of buildings: 13
Number of languages taught: 4 (English, Spanish, German, Arabic)
Number of levels of English classes: 6 (from beginning through near fluent)
Number of specialized schools on the campus: 2 (arts magnet, community college)

In other words, my school is HUGE.

Ann also gave me my schedule. Here's where the fun begins! First, allow me to make some general disclaimers about the French high school system:
1) In the last year of middle school, every student is required to choose a "major" or "specialization" for high school. This essentially determines what they will do for the rest of their lives. (Pressure much?) There are tracks for each kind of study: economics, history, literature, language, music, dance, art, drama, European studies, sciences, mathematics, agriculture, etc.

2) At the end of every year, there are exams for every subject. If you do not pass the exam, you do not go onto the next grade. However, passing for the French can be as low as 5/20 (getting 18/20, which is an A for us Americans, is damn near impossible. A 15/20 is considered an A. Yeah I don't know, the math makes no sense...) This year, every exam now has an oral component, which is why having an English assistant helps the kids exponentially in preparation.

3) At the end of the last year of school, you have a 30 minute oral exam in English, regardless of your level. Of course, the expectations are different, but in general, it is a very tough exam and it takes an incredible amount of preparation and concentration to pass.

4) The French high school is three years and divided as such:
- 2 or seconde, is the first year of lycée, basically sophomores for us. These kids are 15-16.
- 1 or premier, is the second year of lycée, juniors for the U.S. 16-17
- Terminal is the last year, meaning seniors who are 17-18 years old (some 19, but that's rare).

And then at my school, there is also an école technique (technical school) for people who have completed high school and want an associates degree to work in human resources and sales. These students are 19-21. Some are even the same age as me, which is going to be a challenge for sure!

5) French students are REQUIRED to take English alongside another foreign language (usually German or Spanish) from the time they are seven until their graduation from high school. However, once they choose their specialization, the time that they spend learning these foreign language ranges from one hour a week to eleven hours a week. Those who specialize in sciences or music usually take that one hour a week, while those who specialize in languages, European studies, or literature take approximately 9 hours. They can also elect to take more via independent study, and if they want, they can contact me during their vacations (French schools have 6 weeks of vacation during the year outside of the summer vacation) to take more English.

6) Class runs from 8 a.m. - 7 p.m., but most kids don't have class the whole time. The structure of French high school is more like American college/university. They are free to come and go as they please, and they may not have class on Tuesday/Thursday but all the classes on M/W/F. In addition, Wednesdays are half days, and French students DO NOT have school on Saturdays anymore (although they used to - that has changed because of budget cuts).

Still with me? All right, so here's the next level of understanding (lots of abbreviations coming up!):

The most basic level of English at my school is BTS MUC2. These are the kids who are in the technical school/community college. They've finished their high school diploma and are now getting the equivalent of an associate's degree to work in sales (at big department stores like H & M, etc.) and in human resources, only in France or Europe. Their motivation is not very high and their level is basic enough to understand English customers who come in and need help, but not enough to have a conversation. The good news is that this class requires no preparation on my part, rather just review of vocabulary lists. The teacher for this class has told me that I will speak in French more than in English.

The next level is 2BC. These are the equivalent of sophomores in high school in the US (French high school is only three years, so this is the "first year" of high school for them) - these kids are 15-16. Since this is their first year in lycée (high school), they are overwhelmed and timid, but many of them are quite good at English regardless. "BC" stands for "biologie/chimie" - biology/chemistry - so they are in the minority in that they are studying science. Nevertheless, some of them are hoping to become doctors, so they are well aware that a mastery of English along with Latin/Greek (which they also take because they are BC) could help them a lot in the future.

The level after this is 2AEuro. These are also sophomores in high school, with the specialization in "arts européennes" meaning they study the arts as well as European history. These are the future business people, professors, etc., of France. As such, they are well aware that English is imperative to their future, and while their current level is not very high, they are motivated to improve it very quickly.

Then there is 1LA2. Juniors, specialists in arts and languages. Some are extremely motivated, some not. Because they are specialists in arts, they are loud! Others who specialize in languages are very, very good in English. Each class is different and each class has a variety of of levels - though they are all grouped together, some are near fluent while others can barely say "how are you?".

1LELE is full of juniors, and LELE stands for "langues étrangères, littératures etrangères" - foreign language and literature. These kids are in a word, amazing. They are reading excerpts from George Orwell's 1984 in English, Kafka's Metamorphose in German, and some have even started Don Quixote in Spanish. In other words, their level of English is extraordinary, especially for 16 years old (honestly I didn't read 1984 until I was 17, and even then it was rough!), but their vocabulary is formal more than it is conversational. My challenge with this class is to get them talking more practically, without using literary words like "metaphor" in everyday language.

1Euro is also juniors, specialists in European studies. This is a history class, taught in English, with a focus on Australian/Canadian/American/British/UK culture. For example, they are reading excerpts of Oliver Twist and next week we're starting the effects of the automobile industry in the U.S. and the inventions of Henry Ford. Impressed doesn't even begin to express how I feel about this class!

1L2 = junior theatre and music kids. Their level is decent and most of the kids in this class are also in the 1LELE class. (This just gets more complicated as we go. I'm exhausted just writing this!)

1 SPE/LVA = juniors. This abbreviation I have yet to crack, but what I do know is that these are the students who specialize in English above all other studies and languages. They want to live in England or the U.S. and are among my most excited and motivated students.

TMK = seniors specializing in marketing and business. You would think these kids would be motivated, but sadly, they are not. They mostly want to live and work in France, in the business sector, so while they know words like "networking" and "commercialization", they have little interest in learning how to converse in English.

TL2 = seniors of languages. One of the better classes as well.
TS2 = seniors of sciences. Decent, but not especially motivated.
TL3 = seniors in drama. This is one of my favorite classes! They only meet every other week, but this is a theatre class, where the kids are putting on one act plays and studying Shakespeare (at the moment, Hamlet). They work especially hard on their pronunciation and their deep comprehension of the English language is astounding. They can get a little rowdy and love to taunt me because I don't have a British accent (Shakespeare, you betray me!!!) but they are great kids.

And at last, there is T SPE/LVA: seniors who specialize in English. They are the best kids in the school and many are already fluent. They want to live abroad, teach English, or go to an American/British university. They are fascinated by race relations, systems of power, and other complex academic topics that would honestly bore most other high schoolers. This is the class I can have the most fun with, and many of them have already asked if I could do an English movie workshop during the upcoming holiday. (The first one we have is two weeks at the end of October.)

Almost everyone at the school eats lunch at the cantine - the cafeteria. I was rather shocked at the quality of the food - even for a cafeteria it was incredible! For 5 euro (approx. $5), you get a three course meal (appetizer, entrée, dessert),  and half a baguette.

So now that you've had a crash course in lycée, let me tell you just a little bit about the kind of bureaucratic woes I have had to deal with since being in France. This past Wednesday, all the English assistants in the Académie de Nantes (the Nantes school district, which includes cities two hours away) were assembled for a long day of administrative formalities. I can only share that which I understand, because still, at this moment, it's a bit of a mystery to me of what I need to do and when, and quite frankly most of the administrative representatives who were there had no idea when everything was due, either, but I will try my best to explain it to you.

First things first: health insurance. In France, health insurance is called social security, and since that is a term which means something COMPLETELY different in America, that was my first level of confusion. When someone asked me, "Have you signed up for the social security?" my first reaction was, "Why are people asking me this if I'm not 65...?" But no, the French social security is indeed health insurance. It covers 80% of medical costs, from doctor's visits to emergency hospital visits. The remaining 20% can be bought for 100 euro per year if need be. I opted not to purchase this extra 20% because the health care costs with the social security are SUPER low. For example, a doctor's visit costs approximately 6 euro. As an American, I am NOT opposed to paying so little, since my co-pay WITH my parent's insurance is $25.

Second, there is "professional insurance". This is a bit more complicated. As a teacher, you are 100% responsible for your students 100% of the time. If, for example, you let a student go to the bathroom, and he falls down the stairs on the way and cuts himself or breaks his arm, you have to pay for his outstanding medical costs. Enrolling in this professional insurance therefore, insures you from having to pay for his remaining cost, and I think it's also relatively inexpensive. Professional insurance supposedly also protects you from being laid off (at least from what I understand my host parents told me?) and makes it easier for you to look for a new job in the event you become unemployed. I don't quite understand this one, so some research must be conducted before I turn in all the paperwork!

Now, to do all of this (and also to get paid) you need a bank account. I opened my bank account on Friday, and it is QUITE the experience. In the U.S., opening a bank account is simple. You go, you fill out one or two forms, and you're done. Here, the process can take up to two hours (mine took 1 hour total). You make an appointment usually a week in advance and have to come to it with the following information:
- your passport
- your birth certificate
- proof of employment
- proof of lodging (your landlord or whoever must write an official attestation proving you live with them)

If you have all these things, you then sign no less than 15 forms. My personal banker explained all the terms and conditions on these forms, but sadly she spoke so incredibly fast I have no idea whether I sold my right kidney, killed in orphan in Uganda, or successfully opened a bank account, but either way I now have an RIB (aka as checking account number) which makes it possible for me to be paid. Phew! Glad that's over.

I will stop boring you with all this detailed and superfluous information, noting now that this is quite possibly the longest blog post I have ever written. Tomorrow or the next day, I will update you on the more exciting happenings of this weekend, which included an all-nighter with my host brother and his friends in their apartment, a crêpe that was lit on fire, adventures in an old navy hangar at midnight, and an incredible time meeting amazing people from all around the world. Until then, I'll let you absorb all this insane information for a little while!

À bientôt!