The timetable is (mostly) sorted, I have thousands upon thousands of documents/lesson plans/pupil lists, and I'm beginning to finally feel like a teacher. Walking into the familiar surroundings of the lycée, I beam as pupils call out, "'Ello Zoé!" in their tell-tale French accents, and I can hardly believe I am in the same building that seemed so labyrinthic and terrifying only two weeks ago. I love the camaraderie of the staffroom banter, with hundreds of different conversations going on at once, punctuated with typically wild gallic gestures and singsong delivery. I love the way in which the other teachers revel in teaching me risqué French phrases with wicked schoolboy glee. I love the genuine delight they take in deadpan British humour; when someone asked me if I'd like to play Gaelic football and I replied with a straight face that surely it was just like ordinary football, only you drink Guinness first, you would have thought I had made the funniest joke in the world. I love the fact that everybody drinks at least six or seven very strong black coffees every day. I love the way that it is de rigeur to greet everyone you see, no matter how many times you see them in a day.* I love the private joke of keeping a straight face when male pupils tell me with apparent sincerity that they have husbands or that they serve icecream at customers. Oh, and being able to jump the queue in the canteen isn't a bad perk, either.
The icing on the cake, however, was the ultimate tool of a professeur's trade: my very own magic key which opens every classroom in the school! Ah, the power. Sod long holidays and warm fuzzy feelings - this is why I want to be a teacher.
* This has got to be one of France's most charming qualities, and a habit I'll have to learn to shake off when I eventually return to England if I am to avoid funny looks. Even in the streets, you greet everyone you pass with some form of appropriate salutation, no matter how bizarre it might seem. Bonjour. Bonsoir. Bon journée. Bon weekend. Bon dimanche. Can you imagine a Brit or an American stranger wishing you 'happy Sunday'?
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"Can you imagine...'happy Sunday'?"
ReplyDeleteIt is the same in the American South. Eye contact is made with everyone, and at least a nod or a smile is required. Naturally, eye contact and a smile necessitates a further "hello".
It is not this way in the North. I did not know this about France, but it furthers my notion of the North being more English to the South's French.
Now that's an interesting idea, because you wouldn't believe how many language assistants from Dixie there are here. In Rennes alone, I've met so many people from Alabama, Louisiana, Florida and Missouri, for a start, but not that many from the Northern states. I wonder if it's a home-from-home thing.
ReplyDeleteAm I right in thinking you guys are quite into your offal, too? The French will eat just about any part of the animal you might care to name, and most of the bits you can't name too.