I arrived in Brittany, my new home for the next year, on Saturday and, frankly, the omens weren’t good. An eerie mist curled around my feet, rolling across the desolate countryside and snickling through narrow cobbled streets. Across the deserted street, I could see a driving school, ominously named Abyss. And at that moment, I swear the church bell chimed the devil’s chord itself, a diminished fifth.
But the day brightened; the sun sneaked out from behind the clouds and I discovered that Montfort-sur-Meu is, in fact, a beautiful little town set on a picturesque river. I was also pleasantly surprised by how modern the lycee I’m teaching at is: large, airy and generally welcoming.
My arrival at the lycee was not without hiccoughs, of course. Firstly, my attempts to make a good first impression with the headmaster were swiftly scuppered by the fact that his accent is completely incomprehensible and so I spent our entire brief meeting smiling and nodding in all the wrong places and asking him to repeat everything:
Headmaster, with a big fake smile: “*mumblemumblemumble* autres professeurs?”
Right, Zoe. Let’s try not to look like an idiot. Maybe he’s asking if I’ve met any of the other teachers yet. “Euh… non.”
The broad smile faded instantly.
Merde. I think he meant ‘do you want to meet the other teachers?’. “Euh, je veux dire oui…”
In the end, he passed me over to another teacher, asking her with a sigh, “Do you speak English?” Brilliant. So the headmaster thinks I’m a retard.
Second faux pas was that my responsable, whom I’d addressed in all my carefully-crafted-using-lots-of-typically-French-flowery-arse-licking-language-so-as-not-to-offend emails as ‘monsieur’ turned out to be a woman. Hurrah. Thankfully, she appeared not to hold it against me and was incredibly lovely, inviting me and my family to her house for tea and even complimenting me on my French. At least I don’t have to worry about being hit on.
As for my lodgings, I have a small studio flat on the school premises. It is fortunate that I have no cat, nor a desire to swing it; however, it is provided free of charge and that is one gift horse whose mouth shall certainly not be looked in.
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