Still, You've Got To Love It

I've been ploughing through a number of heavy books about the history of linguistic policies in France (and yes, it's almost as riveting as it sounds) for one of my dissertations, a word that should never exist in the plural. I came across this paragraph, which I'd like to share with you:

"As always, the French sought institutional answers to the problem [of the threat of English] with the creation over the years of a number of governmental institutions to defend the integrity of French... The first governmental institution to be founded was the Haut Comité de défense et d'expansion de la langue française, created by decree in March 1966... In 1973 this body was replaced by the Haut Comité de la langue française, the change of name reflecting a name in orientation, the term 'expansion' being seen as too 'colonial' and the term 'defence' too negative. In 1984 it was replaced by two bodies, the Comité consultatif de la langue française and the Commissariat Général de la langue française. Finally, in June 1989, they were replaced respectively by the Conseil supérieur de la langue française and the Délégation générale à la langue française."

This paragraph neatly demonstrates everything that is wrong about France.

There's No Place Like Home

I've been back in the UK for a week and a half now, and have experienced the strange feeling of examining your own culture from the perspective of a foreigner. I'm still in French mode, so I keep trying to kiss people when I meet them*, and talking to myself in French when trying to remember things. I haven't quite shaken off the slight feeling that we're driving on the wrong side of the road, or the surprise at how enormous banknotes are here.**

But there are also many things I'm grateful for about living in this country, things which I took for granted. Politeness, for one thing; whatever Lynne Truss says, most people will still say 'sorry' if you bump into them. The NHS, which I will never moan about or describe as inferior to the French health system again. Bourbon biscuits. And, as Dara O'Briain marvellously points out in his new book, Tickling the English, the fact that we Will Not Be Told that our country is nowhere near as crap as we like to think it is.

I went to Brighton yesterday to see some friends and also to visit the library since, thanks to my dissertations (and there's a word that should never exist in the plural), I have a hell of a lot of research to do. Within ten minutes of being on campus, I had been handed six flyers (two of which were for demonstrations against things I didn't care about) and offered an STD test. It's always nice to know that some things never change.

One of those things is the British sense of humour. I wondered why, despite the French propensity for physical affection and extremely personal questions, I always felt that they were always somehow more distant than British people, and now I realise what was missing. It's the constant joking. Almost every exchange you have on this pretty little island of ours - and that includes soul-baring, weepy conversations because we only allow a limited amount of self-pity - will involve some kind of sarcasm, irony, self-deprecation, or plain old piss-taking. It's a reflex as natural as breathing to us, and I didn't realise how much I missed it until I got to experience it again.

A quick example: when changing trains at Brighton, I had to show my ticket to the inspector so he could let me through the barrier manually. I mentioned that, for some reason, that ticket had been playing up all day and that it hadn't worked in any of the machines at any of the stations I'd changed at that day. With a completely straight face, he replied, "That's because the machines are fitted with a special chip that identifies all the pretty girls and sends them to us inspectors to make the day go faster."

Now, in France, the inspector in his position may well have said something similar, but the difference is that a) there would have been genuine intent in his flattery and b) he would have tried to get my number. But this guy wasn't being sleazy - he was a grey-haired fiftysomething, probably with a wife and grandkids, just joking around. I could make some deeply philosophical hypothesis that he was spreading joy and happiness by doling out cheerful compliments, but the truth is that he probably was doing nothing of the sort. He was just reacting in the only way he knew how. The British way.



* Fortunately, the first person I did that to had lived in France himself for a few years many moons ago, and completely understood my sudden onset of affection. Cue a lovely long chat about how wonderful the food is and how chiant the civil servants are, something that only a foreigner living in France can appreciate.

** Seriously, go look at a £20 note some time. I'm surprised they fit in our wallets.

Premature Nostalgia

I now have only two teaching days left (and half-days at that, due to mock exams) before I return to England for good. I will confess to mixed feelings about my departure: on the one hand, I'm looking forward to seeing friends and family again, and have been promised one of my Mum's whacking great fry-ups when I get back. On the other hand, I really feel at home here; I walk the cobbled streets of Rennes feeling like it's my city, and I feel like the kids I teach are my kids.

So, all in all, the last week or so has been pretty emotional. It's essentially been a fortnight of goodbyes, as every class has been my last for that group. Three of my students have cried so far, which isn't bad going seeing as they're all over 16.

I'm really going to miss some of those kids. In my last practice oral with him, Philosopher was as breathtakingly bright and enthusiastic as ever - instead of droning on about how bullying was bad, as his classmates had done in response to a particular text, he started talking about Jamie Bulger and debating whether children can be held morally responsible for violence. Remember, this is a 17-year-old kid (whose moustache still hasn't properly sprouted, to his frustration), speaking in a foreign language about a news story most people in his country have never heard of.

As I was going home last Thursday, I walked past a darkened nook, where I could just about make out two students... well, making out. I tend to sympathise with the students on these matters, remembering those days well myself*, so, hearing the Principal leave his office, I decided to give them a heads up.

"Come out, get your tongue out of her throat - the Principal's coming."

And who should emerge, but a scarlet-cheeked Mr Boombastic and one of his female classmates? This is the kid who, only the day before, had announced in his presentation on stereotypes of England that, "English people are all ugly, except Zoe. And English men are especially ugly and they smell really bad, so I think she should break up with her boyfriend and have a French boyfriend."

I grinned and said with mock hurt, "Mr Boombastic, you never told me about this! I feel betrayed!"

I'm only entering the teaching profession because I like torturing teenagers.

Seriously, though, I want to be a teacher because, as I mentioned in a previous post, I've now had that crack-cocaine high of getting through to a kid, and I want more. It's amazing how quickly you forget the crap times after a good lesson. I asked one class to write a short statement (in French) to help me with one of my dissertations, on their opinion of what the point of having a language assistant is. I collected them in after the lesson and started to read them, but had to stop because I was welling up too much to see properly. Some of the anonymous comments, roughly translated, were:

"Having an assistant is definitely a good thing because her lessons are more fun than the ones we have with our normal teacher, because she plays games and songs and does acting, but we still learn a lot."

"Having a language assistant is a good experience because we can learn about her culture. It's made me realise that not all English people are weird and that some of them are actually quite nice."

"It's been very positive for me to have had a language assistant this year because I feel like I've improved my English so much because of her. Normally, I'm too shy to talk very much in class but she's very relaxed and encourages me to try so I don't worry so much about making mistakes. I now have a lot more confidence about speaking English in front of English people."

As I read that last paper, tears rolled down my cheeks and I felt a million miles away from the nightmare lesson I'd had a couple of weeks ago, where I'd stood in that same classroom sobbing after the class had left, but for very different reasons. I realised that this was why I had to go into teaching, for all the warnings about league tables, paperwork and pushy parents I'd received. And then, because some things never change, without thinking, I picked up a red pen and corrected the ending of 'parler'.



* All right, then - imagining those days well myself. I was a late starter...

Fish, Frogs and Cheese

Today was April Fool's Day, or Poisson d'Avril, as the French call it. I have absolutely no idea where their obsession with fish comes from, but it appears that the pinnacle of Gallic wit is to pin a paper fish onto someone's back when they're not looking. Very bizarre, but then again, we are talking about a country where Mr Bean is still found amusing.

It's getting towards the end of my stay here, so my lessons have become a lot more lighthearted and self-deprecatory. I gave one class a list of bizarre sports practiced in Britain, such as bog-snorkelling, gurning, shin-kicking, the Bognor Birdman, zorbing, and so on, and got them to decide which were real and which I'd made up. They were amazed to discover that they were all true, leading to declarations that, "Ils sont fous, les anglais!" Just in case our reputation wasn't bad enough.

They were particularly struck by cheese rolling. For those unfamiliar with British rural pastimes (we really do have top-notch eccentrics), this is a race which takes place in Gloucestershire every year. A large Double Gloucester cheese is rolled from the top of Cooper's Hill, a very tall and steep hill, and hundreds of people run/stagger/fall down after it in an attempt to catch it. The person who manages to grab the cheese first is the winner, but since it can reach speeds of up to 70 mph, there are usually plenty of injuries, although so far, there haven't been any deaths.

There are some great clips of last year's event here, although I'm slightly disappointed that they've gone all health-and-safety mad by now having lots of races with smaller groups instead of everyone at once. Still, there aren't many times in your life you get to hear someone yell, "Get the cheese!" at the top of their lungs.

My students were absolutely dumbfounded; after I explained how it worked, there was a stunned silence followed by a bewildered, "But... WHY?"

I looked at the girl. "You spent today trying to stick paper fish to people, right?"
"Well, yes."
"And you think the British are weird?"


Of course the real answer is that if you have to ask why someone would want to roll down an enormous hill, risking serious injury, while chasing a 70-mph cheese, then you're simply the kind of person who will never understand.

I'm The King Of The Castle

There's a saying in France that, "Le client est roi" - the customer is king. It's often viewed as being rather tongue in cheek, because everyone has at some point experienced being totally ignored by someone supposedly in the customer service sector. I remember in my first week of being here, I was waiting in a long, long queue in Fnac (yes, yes, I know), which only had one girl on the till. After about ten minutes of queuing, another girl turned up to help her out. I, in my English naivety, brightened up, expecting her to throw her jacket off and get the till opened as quickly as possible to start serving customers, as I would have done. Oh no. Instead, she wandered leisurely over to her colleague, fait la bise, naturally, and then started up a little chat with her about the weekend. So now, instead of doubling the speed of service, she actually stopped the only cashier from working - and I was the only one who was surprised by this.

Yet the fact remains that, once you get used to little idiosyncracies like this, you do actually get great service in France. Shopkeepers and even fast food servers do actually speak to you like a human being and use full sentences. You might be nothing when you're in a queue (which may explain the French's distaste for such things) but when it's your turn to be served, it doesn't matter how long it takes. Unlike in the UK, you never feel like the person is constantly checking their watch and hoping you'll hurry up so they can reach their speed-of-service target. In a pharmacy, after I'd paid for my prescription and was about to leave, the pharmacist engaged me in a long, in-depth discussion about how pretty she thought my dress was, and after I had my travel vaccinations, the doctor kept me chatting for ten minutes about the imperial monetary system in the UK. Previously, I would have felt guilty about such time-wasting, but my head has become accustomed to this very French way of not caring about keeping others waiting. Right now, I'm the customer, and it's my right to be the king.*

Even in the supermarkets, you never feel rushed. One little act of politeness I will most certainly miss when I return to Blighty in just under two weeks is the fact that cashiers wait until you have finished packing your bags, putting your change back in your purse, and are ready to depart (with a bonne soirée, naturally) before they begin scanning the next customer's items. There's no pressure, just respect, and both the cashier and the person behind you will wait quite patiently because that's what's expected. You're not herded through with a two-minutes-per-customer target time like you are in certain UK supermarkets.

Furthermore, aside from in McDo (as the French call it) and Quick, you will never see a spotty, sixteen-year-old waiter or waitress. Putting plates on tables isn't a standby for the unqualified or a Saturday job for teenagers; it is considered an art form. I don't eat out very often, an assistant's wage being nothing special, but even in the cheap restaurants or family-run crêperies that I visit, every single waiter knows how to clear and carry plates in the 5*, silver-service fashion. Good service is seen as a God-given right here, and I can't help but love a country in which I can pay less than 10 euros for a two-course meal and a quart of local cider, and have that cider poured expertly for me by a guy who's probably got more qualifications than I'll have by the time I'm thirty.



* The French attitude to time infiltrates in other ways, too. While I was in Guiana, my boyfriend and I had an hour's gap between two of his lessons. He lives five minutes from the school, and I worriedly asked him if he thought we'd have enough time to eat lunch. He looked at me, shook his head, and replied, "You have become so French..."

Things I Never Knew About Teaching...

... when I was still at school.

- Teachers know everything that goes on in the school, even if they don't show it. They do notice when best friends fall out, and when pupils date each other. Carefully Coiffed, a 16-year-old boy in one of my classes, used to be - let's be frank here - a little shit until he recently started going out with the most intelligent girl in his class. Now his hand shoots up at every question, just to impress her, and every teacher in the staffroom is rooting for that particular relationship to last, at least until the summer holidays. And they're both still convinced we don't know.

- Teachers can spot masticating teenagers a mile off. Do they seriously think we don't know the old trick of putting chewing gum under your tongue when you answer a question? Come on. It was only six years ago that I was still at school. The same goes for surreptitious texting in the classroom, no matter how subtle they think they're being.

- Teachers never seem to tire of discussing pupils in the staffroom; it's the favourite topic of conversation. All the gossip, and dissection of their fashion senses too. Honestly, they'd be mortified if they heard what their maths teacher had to say about their new skirt.

- Teachers also appear to sense no shame or irony in announcing that a pupil they have taught for the past five years knows absolutely nothing about their respective subjects.

- It feels really quite weird for a 22-year-old unmarried female to be called 'Madame' by her 19-year-old pupils. And yes, some of them do call me that, despite the fact that I introduced myself as Zoe. I imagine it's equally weird for a fifty-something woman with three kids and thirty years of marriage under her belt to be called 'Miss' in the UK.

Why It's Great To Be A Foreigner

I have a little confession to make. I often abuse my status as a foreigner - as well as the general perception that the English are all monolingual - for my own good. When approached by some market researcher/charity collector/general annoying timewaster, I simply smile apologetically, tell them I'm English, and walk away. It works almost all of the time; I have only been challenged once, and then I just ran away before he could catch me.

What makes it worse is how I do it: to make it more effective, I say, "Pardonn, je sweez on-glay" in my best (that is to say, worst) British accent, and deliberately make the gender agreement error in order to reinforce my linguistic incompetence. I discovered the hard way that people are less likely to believe that you don't understand what you're saying when you reply, "Chuis anglaise," in a reasonably authentic French accent; imagine a foreigner trying to fob you off by saying, "Sorry, mate, don't have a scooby doo what you're on about," in an Eastenders accent.

Of course, that trick works less and less these days with the growth of globalisation. Everybody speaks English these days and it's getting harder to use as an excuse for getting out of talking to somebody. A few years back, I was in Paris with my boyfriend at the time, and we were constantly getting hassled by beggars. Telling them we were English never helped because they'd learnt their spiel in several languages for the tourists. In the end, we pretended to be German: as soon as they approached, he rattled off a list of phrases he'd learnt from playing Medal of Honour, such as, "Can I see your papers, please?," "Look out, he's got a Bazooka!" and, "The American has dog biscuits in his pocket." They usually went away fairly quickly; I'm not sure if it's because they didn't understand German, or because they did and they decided they didn't want to be near anyone with a Bazooka or dog biscuits in his pocket.

Still, I'm not sure if even German would work as a shield against being harassed any more, as we become more and more multilingual. Hopefully, my conversational Arabic will help for a few more years yet, although it could potentially get me into trouble as I've learnt most of it from Hakim songs so most of the phrases I know are just chat-up lines. And, you never know, learning Irish Gaelic one weekend when I was bored may well come in useful in this respect one day. At the very least, there's always the Latin - as long as I never get asked to fill in a questionnaire by a public schoolboy or the Pope.