Bisous

Let's talk about kissing.


The French do it a lot. An awful lot. No amount of swine flu paranoia can sway that near-stranger's lips from their inevitable path towards your defenceless cheek. It's just what's done.

I can safely say that I have kissed more people in the last four months than I have in my entire life up to my arrival in France. In fact, I probably broke that record in one night at a birthday party I bellydanced at just before Christmas, where I was shepherded round to meet everyone, complete with bisous.

I don't have any personal space issues but all this physical affection for people I've just met does jar a little with my English sense of restraint and propreity. There are people I saw almost every day at school for seven years of my life with whom I have never had any physical contact, and yet I'm expected to embrace every Jacques, Pierre and Jean-Claude that my housemates bring back to the apartment. Sometimes I'll forget, and when a random friend-of-a-friend is introduced to me as I'm chopping onions in the kitchen, I'll simply look up, smile and say, "Salut," then carry on with what I'm doing. Then I'll notice them hovering, a fixed smile on their face in an attempt to mask their thoughts about the rude, cold English, and remember where I am, before going over to faire la bise.

I hadn't realised just how important this was for establishing relations until today. Normally, when I meet friends/lovers/fuckbuddies of my housemates, it's very casual and we start off on 'tu' terms. This suits me down to the ground, because I hate the tu/vous distinction; I never know which one to use and generally end up talking in roundabout sentences to avoid having to say the word 'you' until I've worked out where I stand.* But today, I was in the middle of the delicate process of baking a banoffee pie when I was introduced to a housemate's friend, and so I simply greeted her from where I was. This was the first person I haven't kissed, and I don't think it was a coincidence that she was the first visitor to vouvoie me. I can only assume that she decided I'd set a certain level of formality between us by not doing the bise. The problem is that I refuse to offer tutoyer because of my age; I've heard too many horror stories about young people saying to older people, "Et si on se tutoie?" and receiving the crushingly civil reply, "Comme vous voulez". And so we ended up with awkwardly formal small talk until my housemate laughed, told us not to be so ridiculous and tutoie one another. All because of one bloody kiss.

Except, of course, that it isn't just one kiss; it's two. And that's just with reasonable people - it can be three or even four with some. It's incredible how much time this takes up, especially at work. I have to arrive in the staffroom at least five minutes early each morning in order to have time to do the rounds of kissing before classes begin. And if, on my way to a lesson, I happen to spot a pack of as-of-yet ungreeted 4-kissers (because they always seem to group together, like wolves), it's actually quicker to take a detour and go the long way round to avoid them. Then hometime comes, and it's the same kissy-kissy business again.

Bisous, everyone.



Update: according to Combien de Bises?, two is the average for my département, but if I go any further East, I'll be in dangerous four-bises territory...


* A while back, I was walking along the street in Montfort and met a woman who clearly knew me. I recognised her from somewhere, but couldn't think where. That would be an awkward enough situation in any language, but it was made worse by the fact that I had no idea if we were on 'tu' or 'vous' terms! The irony is that so many French people I've met must think I'm incredibly rude because of the strange way in which I speak and avoid asking questions, which is all due to my cringing fear of accidentally offending them...

FAIL

Double fail for me this morning, in the same class.

I was working on pronunciation, and in one activity, focused on the incessant and downright irritating 'h'-dropping that is so common among French people speaking English. No matter how many times I tell them, or how clearly I explain it, they always leave out 'h's where they're needed and then, bizarrely, insert them where they're not; "Ow hold hare you?" is pretty common, for example. I'm reliably informed by a linguist (a real one, not a poser like me) that this is because they know there's an 'h' in there somewhere but they just don't know where to put it. I can see this, though personally, I would have thought that the spelling was a pretty damn big clue. And while we're on the subject, Americans, go look up the word 'herb' and tell me what it starts with.

Anyway, in this activity, the students had to read aloud short passages of text, while the rest of the class listened closely to their pronunciation. If they spotted a dropped 'h', they had to yell, "Ha!" and scored a point (and, of course, if they dropped the 'h' of the 'ha', someone else could call them out too!). I should point out that this is a small, cheeky group of about 8 with whom I have a really good rapport, before anyone accuses me of bullying my students.

The game went well, and we moved on to something else. A little later, I read out some instructions that they had on a sheet in front of them. As I said the word 'hour', one of the boys yelled triumphantly, "Ha!" Twenty minutes of, "Look, I know what I said but... yes, I know it doesn't make sense but... no, there isn't any way of telling..." later, I concluded that English is a bloody stupid language.

The second fail (or epic win, depending on which way you look at it) came towards the end of the lesson. I've mentioned here before that my school doesn't have a traditional bell to mark the end of each class; instead, there is a short burst of music (usually classical, but not always), chosen by the headmaster and which changes every half term*. At the moment, it is a Mike Oldfield song, but unfortunately not 'Tubular Bells' - I have a couple of students who are demonic enough to warrant it. No, it's "Talk About Your Life" - the section where the woman sings:

"Talk about your life, I'd like to know
It's not easy going where no one goes"

A bizarre choice, but there we go. Anyway, one of the boys has a gift for mimickry and has managed to get her voice down to a T, as I discovered when I almost dismissed the class ten minutes early; I was saved only by the fact that none of them could keep a straight face.




* My suggestion of the theme tune from The Great Escape has so far been ignored.

Zoe 1, Bureaucracy 0

Hurrah! After putting it off for four months, I've finally managed to organise social security, and it was relatively painless.

I'd been avoiding it for as long as possible, since my previous experiences with French bureaucracy threatened to end up with a bodycount that would make the average episode of Midsomer Murders look tame, and just about every French person I've met had warned me that civil servants were much, much worse. They have complete job security, which is not related in any way to job performance, and generally regard themselves as demi-gods. The fate of us mere mortals depends totally and utterly on whether or not they are in a good mood, which means it is wise to choose your moment with care.

Fortunately, I didn't get my first wage slip (which is necessary for an application) until mid-way through December, and I decided it would be best to wait until after the holidays because they would not like to be disturbed so soon before Christmas. Then January came, and I had no excuse to put it off any longer.

Now, the CPAM (which deals with social security) is, in theory, open from 8am to 5pm every weekday, which is, frankly, incredible; most essential administrative services are open for a 2-hour window once a fortnight, and always while you're at work. But the problem is that you can't just turn up at any old time, unless you want to make life difficult for yourself. For example, Friday afternoons are right out - they'll be looking at their watch the whole time and hoping to be so unco-operative that you'll quickly leave the office in despair so they can bugger off home early. Any day between 12 and 2pm is also not a good idea; whoever is on duty at that time will be so annoyed that they're not having lunch that they will be in no mood to be helpful. Eventually, I plumped for 2:30pm on a Monday afternoon, figuring that the Monday morning blues would be over but the midweek depression not yet set in, and that they would be in a good mood after a lunchtime glass of wine or two, but not clock-watching to go home yet.

Walking to the CPAM, my terrified brain was still trying to justify turning round and going back home. Was I really that bothered about being reimbursed for my doctors appointments and jabs for going to French Guiana? Did I really want that 200 or so euros off my rent, paid for by the CAF? Would any sum of money really be worth this amount of hassle? Somehow, I kept going.

My heart sank when I realised that there was an 'exceptional' closure that day, at 3pm, and I'd arrived just half an hour before - not good. Still, I was there now so I took a deep breath and went in. I'd made an effort to look nice, with a fairly figure-hugging skirt, in the hopes that if all else went wrong, I could maybe seduce the guy. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and only those of you who have dealt with French bureaucracy will understand just how desperate you can get.

I was called into the office and saw instantly that my skirt was for nothing - it was a woman. Still, unperturbed, I smiled my best look-I-know-I'm-foreign-and-this-is-going-to-make-your-life-complicated-but-please-I'm-begging-you-be-nice smile and said, "Bonjour".

Oh, wang. I forgot to call her 'Madame'. She hates me already.

I don't know if it was my half-decent French, despite being English, or if she'd just had a really good bottle of Bordeaux at lunchtime, but she deigned to help out the poor foreigner. It helped that I had come well-prepared with my passport, driving licence, birth certificate, European Health Card, NHS number, RIB (certificate of bank details) Arrete de Nomination (work contract), wage slips, certificate of financial help from the SLC, P45, Attestation Professional, Attestation de Domicile, Attestation d'Etudes, Attestation de Couleur Préféré, love letters from every boyfriend I've had from the age of 5, and a receipt from 1998 for a tin of baked beans, just in case. All photocopied in triplicate, naturally.

And now it's done. I have a social security number, and I can sleep easy, knowing that I don't have to deal with French civil servants again for a very long time. Well, at least until I have to apply for CAF and medical reimbursements next week. Sigh.

The Bare Necessities

I noticed recently that, when you go into a bakery to buy a cake (something which I am now very, very experienced in doing), instead of asking, "Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?" ("What would you like?"), they often ask, "Qu'est-ce qu'il faut?" (roughly, "What do you need?").

Now, either I look like I'm only a réligieuse or two away from murdering someone* or the French have definitely got their priorities right. Damn straight il faut. None of this messing around with wanting; I need a cake. It takes a properly hedonistic country like France to recognise that pleasure - particularly pleasure with chocolate sprinkles on top and filled with chocolate custard - is a requirement and not a treat.

Plus, tomorrow I'm going to attempt the joys of social security (!) and dealing with French civil servants (!!), and if that's not a task that needs a damn good cake in order to tackle it, then I don't know what is.



* And at 6pm on a Thursday, after a long day culminating in my nightmare TSTG class, this is often the case.

Grapple For The Teacher

I'm going to put the usual 'isn't-it-funny-how-the-French-do-this?' blogs aside for just a moment while I talk about teaching styles. No, wait, don't go!

Fine. Well, it's much cosier with only the two of us left in any case. Anyway, teaching styles. French children are used to a very old-fashioned, teacher-sitting-at-the-front-lecturing-and-students-taking-notes-all-lesson approach. Your reaction to that last sentence is a good determiner of age; if you just thought to yourself, "And what's wrong with that? Never did me any harm!" then I'm afraid you're officially old. Sorry.

Now, I'm sure that type of teaching has its merits, and I'm equally sure that when I've been teaching for twenty years and have had every last drop of enthusiasm wrung out of me by league tables and brats who don't want to learn, I will also become one of those teachers, eschewing carefully-prepared lesson plans for, "Turn to page 53 and do exercises 1 to 14, and no talking while I try to catch up on sleep". But, fortunately, I'm still in that incredibly annoying (to everyone else, most of all world-weary teachers) phase where I'm naive enough to believe I can 'make a difference' and actually care about whether or not the students like me. Couple that with the fact that I grew up with the modern, more dynamic, varied style of teaching, and you get a bunch of lycéens who don't know what's hit them.

Firstly, I refuse to sit at the desk at the front, droning on about some grammatical point or other, or to be glued to the blackboard. Instead, I walk around the classroom a lot as I'm explaining things; it means that there no longer is a back row where they can pass notes among one another, because half the time, I'm right next to them. It also means that my confused students end up accidentally listening to me, because they're turning round to watch me, wondering what the hell I'm doing over there. Maybe it's the bellydancer in me, but I like to perform among my audience, up front and personal, not up on a pedestal somewhere.

Secondly, something as normal and unoriginal as pairwork or groupwork is an unfathomable concept for students who are used to silent, individual work and occasionally answering questions. The first time I tried to get my classes to split off into pairs and work on something, it took me ten minutes to explain what I meant, and that was before I'd even mentioned the activity. They simply could not get their head around the idea of being allowed to confer with someone else, much less being asked to turn their chair around and, shock horror! face the wrong way to work with the person behind them. Even now, when they're more used to me asking them to work in groups, they still whisper as if they're doing something wrong, no matter how many times I tell them that I want them to have lively discussions with each other (as long as it's on the subject matter, in English, or both).

I like to use music in my classes because pop and rock songs tend to be a great way to sneakily practice certain grammatical structures and pronunciation, or just to get the students thinking about a particular issue. Some classes have taken to it more than others, but almost all of them were initially bewildered and horrified by the idea of singing in the classroom. And that's with the relatively safe option of singing along to an MP3; I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when my boyfriend first brought out his guitar in his classes in French Guiana... But it's paid off, because they think they're having a fun lesson, and they don't generally notice how much work they're doing. My favourite clandestine pronunciation activity was on the last day of term, when I left some music playing while they were doing a Christmas crossword as a treat. Without realising it, most of them starting singing along to the ones they recognised (carefully chosen songs that I knew had been hits here), yet just thought it was cool to be able to listen to music at school. Mwahahaha!

I also like to be extremely physical when I'm teaching - again, something which I'm sure I'll grow out of, but good for the time being. A while ago, I was trying to explain the word 'cliffhanger'. First I told them what it meant, and talked about soap operas and books, then I decided to show them why it's called that. I climbed up onto a desk and pretended to be running, telling them a story about a man who was being chased by people who were trying to kill him. As it got to the part where he tripped and fell over the cliff, I jumped and grabbed a heavy door-frame next to the desk, hanging from it. My feet were only dangling an inch or two from the floor but I played up the story, asking whether he would be rescued by a helicopter or would lose his grip and tumble into the sea, to be eaten by sharks. Then I stood up and declared, "I'll tell you what happened next week. And THAT'S a cliffhanger." I'd definitely get in trouble if my headmaster found out about it, but hey, that class will never forget the word 'cliffhanger'.

Now, I know it can't be like this all the time. I know that when I'm a qualified teacher, I'm going to need to put in the spadework, drilling verb conjugations and the like. I know that when I sit on desks, I lose a bit of authority, and when I play the clown most of the time, it's harder to make them sit and work on something quietly when I need them to. At the moment, I tell myself it's okay because I can leave the boring but necessary stuff to their real teacher, but one day, I'm going to need to work out how to incorporate both styles of teaching. My informal approach - coupled with my age and the fact that they call me by my first name - leads to a few difficulties, like getting hit on fairly frequently. Still, I'm assuming that's karma, a result of the hell I put some of my male high school teachers through by flirting incessantly with them - Mr Higgon, I hang my head in shame.

Woah, I'm an alien...

Despite it being a truth universally acknowledged that the French and English hate one another, I have mostly experienced bewilderment and curiosity rather than blind xenophobia. I have somehow acquired the reputation, among friends, colleagues and housemates, of being 'the eccentric English girl': amusing, confusing, but mostly harmless. The general French attitude towards me, and therefore my country since they generalise just as much as we do, can be summarised by the reaction that my housemate-cum-landlady Laure gives to just about everything I do, cook, eat, make or say: "Ah, c'est marrant, ça..." This translates literally as, "Ah, it's funny, that..." but is used in the same inadvertantly-patronising way as we would use, "Oh, how quaint..."



So, because I like listing a lot at the moment, here are just some of the reasons that they all think I'm mental here:



- The fact that I drink a hell of a lot of tea. They just don't tire of pointing this out; it's as hilarious to them as a Frenchman actually wearing a beret would be to us. But the fact remains that this stereotype is, generally, true - there is no situation, no crisis, that cannot be solved or at least improved by a nice cup of tea. Sometimes, after a particularly stressful day, I walk in and flick the kettle on before I've even taken my coat off, put my bag down or, on one memorable occasion, closed the door, much to my housemates' amusement.



- My longing for bread that isn't a baguette. They simply cannot understand why I go into dreamy reveries talking about sliced Hovis bread or bagels when I can buy a nice flutelle from the boulangerie down the road. And let's not even mention the night I made naan breads in the oven.



- British biscuits. Have you ever seen one of those nature documentaries where they give a monkey a mirror and it examines it with a mixture of horror, confusion and a perverse sense of curiosity? That's exactly what it looks like when you introduce a French person to a ginger nut biscuit or a custard cream.



- Pasta bakes. None of my housemates had heard of the practice of cooking pasta in the oven, which takes twice as long and makes no real difference except to ensure that the cheese forms an impenetrable crust on top and half the pasta is still crunchy, and none of them could understand it either. Poor, unenlightened things.



- Cheesecake. This was my great success. After initial confusion and reluctance to try it (imagine Peter Kay's "Cheesecake? A cake of cheese?" routine done in French), they ended up loving it, and only today, one of my housemates swallowed her pride and actually asked for the recipe, admitting that it had become her favourite dessert. I think the main problem is that, when you mention cheese here, people immediately think of roquefort or a really stinky camembert. Still, score one to Zoe for improving the reputation of English cuisine.



- The concept of fidelity. I can't recall if I've already told this anecdote on here before but I'll tell it again anyway. I used to regularly go to a particular shop when I first arrived here, and after a few visits, the guy that worked there asked me out to dinner. I was flattered but replied with a smile, "Thanks, but I have a boyfriend." This seemed to make as much sense to him as replying that I had a hamster, so he looked confused, asking, "Yes, and?" It took a second for the penny to drop and I explained, "No, you see, I have a boyfriend and I intend to remain faithful to him." Only in this country do you need to clarify that you don't want to cheat on your partner.

- Continuing on this theme, the concept of platonic friendship between men and women. Before Christmas, I met a guy, a friend-of-a-friend, I got on really well with but, despite my repeated mentions of my boyfriend, we ended up falling out because he kept on trying to hit on me. The next day, I discussed this with a female housemate, who admitted that she couldn't understand why I was so angry with him, or why I still wanted to hang out with him if I wasn't going to sleep with him. She was totally bemused when I told her that, in the UK, more than half of my friends are male and the question of me sleeping with any of them just doesn't arise.

- Toad-in-the-hole. 'Nuff said.

There's No Place Like Home

I got back to France a few days ago, revealing my utter lack of foresight and cleverness because, unlike just about every other language assistant in Brittany, I managed to be delayed due to snow going home, and perfectly on time coming back. Yes, my boyfriend and I had to wait for six hours in Dinard airport, which is the size of the average Scout Hut and boasts, in terms of catering facilities, a single vending machine which grew steadily emptier as the night drew on until, finally, some brave soul caved in to hunger and actually ate the Snickers bars out of sheer desperation. There was a distinct lack of panic or dissent among the stranded passengers which would be surprising were it not for the fact that the tannoy announcer, either deliberately or through incompetence, gave different translations in French and English. The French announcement explained that our plane was still stuck in Stansted and could not take off, so there may or may not be a flight that night; the English version simply stated that there was a delay. Given that the vast majority of the passengers were English, I'd wager that we were two of very few who actually knew the full story. Still, the time passed pleasantly enough, with my boyfriend and I exchanging Flanders & Swann and Tom Lehrer songs, to the bewilderment utter irritation delight of those around us. Eventually, some enterprising teenage boy called his friend, who evidently worked in a pizza takeaway restaurant in Dinard, and began taking orders, with twenty or so delicious pizzas being delivered shortly afterwards. When in a crisis, you can always rely on the French to ensure that, whatever else, everybody is well fed.

Anyway, I digress; we got home eventually and, though I love being in France, it felt marvellous to be home. Aside from the obvious things like friends, family, and my partner, here are just some of the things I've missed about the UK:

- Tuna and cucumber sandwiches on thick, white, sliced bread. In fact, sliced bread in general.

- Lucozade

- Pringles

- Boost bars

- A decent curry. After months of only being able to find the odd pot of Korma or, occasionally, Tikka Massala, how I longed for a Balti, a Madras, a Rogan Josh, a Biryani, a Jalfrezi, a Pasanda, a Saag Dal, a Dopiaza... How I would have given my right arm for a poppadom.

- The Suffolk accent. I never thought I'd miss this, but I couldn't help but smile as I listened to my grandad and his wife singing (Suffolk people don't talk; they sing) about the local gossip.

- Christmas crackers

- Mince pies

- My Dad's home-made Scotch eggs

- Christmas stockings

- Good old-fashioned English hypocrisy. People are just so damn honest here. One of my French housemates was looking at my Facebook profile picture and cooing over the lovely costume, when she remarked casually, "Of course, you were much thinner then. Or were you sucking in your abs?" There was absolutely no malice or ill will intended in this; she was merely speaking her mind and, of course, she was correct, although I hold the local boulangeries almost entirely to blame for this. I took no offence, knowing full well that none was intended, but couldn't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia for English false politeness.

- Topical, intelligent comedy, such as Have I Got News For You and The Now Show

- Radio 4 altogether, in fact

- Trivial Pursuit

- The words 'wretched', 'codswallop' and 'numpty'. (I clearly keep good company)

- Impromptu dancing with my Mum in the kitchen

- Corner shops that you can dash to at 11pm for a bag of ice for your Baileys

- Kahlua

- Milk in tea and coffee

- Honey Nut Cornflakes

- Self-deprecatory humour

- Christmas carols (especially my favourite, It Was On A Starry Night)

- Shoes that cost less than £100

- Primark. Yay for child labour.

- Auld Lang Syne

- Being trusted enough as an adult to buy aspirin from a supermarket instead of having to go to a pharmacy

- Words only my family use, like wallies (for pickled cucumbers), sniggies (for nail clippers), hum-hums (for those small Dairy Milk chocolates you get in tins of Quality Street) and spoinks (for Daddy-Long-Legs)

- Not having to kiss everybloodybody you meet

- Not having to make an effort when listening to a conversation or the radio

- Santa's Grotto, as my house becomes every Christmas

- Muntjack deer and foxes in the garden

- And, naturally, that English dish which caused the French to nickname us after it, roast beef.