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.
Thursday, 21 January 2010
Saturday, 16 January 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, 9 January 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, 13 December 2009
Yo Ho
I have a class that contains a few budding thespians, so I was looking for an English play that they could work on. I couldn't find anything suitable - everything was either too difficult or too childish - so then I had the idea of using a film script. I found the transcribed script of the first Pirates of the Caribbean film on the internet, selected a few scenes from it, edited them a bit where the language was too esoteric, and gave them to the students to act out in groups. They went to work and soon the room was filled with cries of, "But why 'as zee rum gone?", carefully-choreographed swordfights with rulers and set squares, and students being forced to walk the plank off the tops of tables. In other words, a most successful method for waking up 17-year-olds at 8:30 am on a Thursday morning.
Before the grand performance at the end of the lesson, I did a bit of warming up to get them into character (being rather experienced when it comes to treading the boards, dontcha know...). I taught them a number of classic pirate phrases, such as 'me hearties' and 'avast, ye landlubbers', and discovered the hard way that, while there is great entertainment value in getting French teenagers to try to pronounce the word 'swashbuckling', it generally backfires when one of them asks you to explain what it means. I also learnt some French pirate phrases of my own and have since added to my staffroom reputation as the eccentric English girl (more on that in a future post) by exclaiming, "A l'abordage!" as I go off to my next lesson after the end-of-break bell.
Instead of taking a normal register, we fill out a special form noting any absences, which is normally left in a box in the staffroom at lunch and the end of the day. However, there is a separate form for the first class of the day, at 8:30 am, which is collected by whichever admin staff member is free, or has been naughty, about halfway through the lesson. Which is how the headmaster himself - who thinks I'm a retard, remember - came to open the door to my classroom, only to find the whole class on their feet and me at the front, yelling, "Yarrrrrrrr, ye scurvy dogs!" at them in my best Cap'n Barbossa accent. I'm expecting the restraining order any day now.
Before the grand performance at the end of the lesson, I did a bit of warming up to get them into character (being rather experienced when it comes to treading the boards, dontcha know...). I taught them a number of classic pirate phrases, such as 'me hearties' and 'avast, ye landlubbers', and discovered the hard way that, while there is great entertainment value in getting French teenagers to try to pronounce the word 'swashbuckling', it generally backfires when one of them asks you to explain what it means. I also learnt some French pirate phrases of my own and have since added to my staffroom reputation as the eccentric English girl (more on that in a future post) by exclaiming, "A l'abordage!" as I go off to my next lesson after the end-of-break bell.
Instead of taking a normal register, we fill out a special form noting any absences, which is normally left in a box in the staffroom at lunch and the end of the day. However, there is a separate form for the first class of the day, at 8:30 am, which is collected by whichever admin staff member is free, or has been naughty, about halfway through the lesson. Which is how the headmaster himself - who thinks I'm a retard, remember - came to open the door to my classroom, only to find the whole class on their feet and me at the front, yelling, "Yarrrrrrrr, ye scurvy dogs!" at them in my best Cap'n Barbossa accent. I'm expecting the restraining order any day now.
Rule Bretagne
Last Sunday, I woke up feeling rather grumpy because the world had conspired to give me a boring weekend. I had wanted to go to Jersey for a day, but couldn't get a bus or train to St Malo in time to catch the ferry*. Then, my plans to go out with friends on the Saturday night were scuppered by my body's last-minute decision to be ill, so I ended up staying in by myself. So, on Sunday, I decided I was going to bloody well do something, which is how I ended up at the bus station later that morning, picking some random place to visit on the off-chance that it might be interesting. I plumped for a town called Bécherel, thinking it sounded like a cool name, plus I vaguely remembered someone mentioning in the staffroom that it was pretty.
That turned out to be an understatement. Becherel is a medieval town which has kept its cobbled streets and narrow snickleways, as well as its hobbled-together, topsy-turvey buildings for a quaint, eccentric look. Best of all, it is the French equivalent of Hay-on-Wye; apparently, it was France's first book town. Twenty-odd second-hand bookshops in a town the size of Stowmarket** - absolute heaven.
It managed to be sunny - that fantastic crisp-but-sunny weather you only get in winter - for the first weekend since I've been here, and so I had a blissfullynerdy cultural day, wandering the town, gradually filling up my rucksack with piles of books, and reading in a cosy café, in front of an open fire, with a steaming mug of hot chocolate. Life really doesn't get better than that.
While it's perhaps easy to be jealous of my peers who have swanned off to La Réunion, French Guiana or Nice for their years abroad, I am still glad I chose Brittany. There's just something about the communal spirit and the regional pride here that you don't get anywhere else. It really struck me that day when I was sitting in a crêperie for lunch, drinking Breizh Cola. It costs about twice the price of Coca Cola and is nothing special, but people still buy it here because, apparently, Breizh is best. Later on, in one of the bookshops, I discovered a collection called Breizh Noir, by a writer named R. G. Ulrich, who writes murder mysteries set in different towns in Brittany. I couldn't help but grin as I flicked through Peur Sur Dinard, Requiem A St Malo, and, my ultimate favourite, Fric-Frac A St Briac. I knew perfectly well they were going to be rubbish but in a place like this, it doesn't matter. In spite of, or perhaps even because of, France's past attempts to stamp out minority languages and cultures, the strong Breton identity is alive and kicking today.
And it's amazing how far this regionalism - tribalism, almost - goes. I was most amused to discover that the little town of Montfort (which is the same size as Bécherel, which is the same size as... well, you know the rest) has not one but five Christmas trees: one for each quartier of the town. As part of a tradition so wholesome and idyllic that it could have come straight out of one of Monsieur Ulrich's books (that is, before somebody poisons the mayor's galette complête), each tree is decorated by the people who live in that particular area, resulting in quite a bit of unofficial competition between the different quarters. Aside from the fact that this could never happen in England because somebody would nick all the baubles before you could say 'Tannenbaum', what I most love about this is that this micro-regionalism extends even to a fifth of a town with a population of 4,000 people. Which means that, not only can I say with a suppressed smirk and an unexpected sense of pride that I am Montfortaise, I can specify that I am Centre-Mairie Montfortaise. Y'know, just to separate myself from all those Tardivieres Montfortais oiks.
* French public transport is a lot like Fawlty Towers: it's absolutely brilliant, but there isn't a lot of it.
** Or, for my Brighton readers, Lewes. Or, for my Cambridge readers, Bar Hill. Everyone else can go get a map and work it out for themselves.
That turned out to be an understatement. Becherel is a medieval town which has kept its cobbled streets and narrow snickleways, as well as its hobbled-together, topsy-turvey buildings for a quaint, eccentric look. Best of all, it is the French equivalent of Hay-on-Wye; apparently, it was France's first book town. Twenty-odd second-hand bookshops in a town the size of Stowmarket** - absolute heaven.
It managed to be sunny - that fantastic crisp-but-sunny weather you only get in winter - for the first weekend since I've been here, and so I had a blissfully
While it's perhaps easy to be jealous of my peers who have swanned off to La Réunion, French Guiana or Nice for their years abroad, I am still glad I chose Brittany. There's just something about the communal spirit and the regional pride here that you don't get anywhere else. It really struck me that day when I was sitting in a crêperie for lunch, drinking Breizh Cola. It costs about twice the price of Coca Cola and is nothing special, but people still buy it here because, apparently, Breizh is best. Later on, in one of the bookshops, I discovered a collection called Breizh Noir, by a writer named R. G. Ulrich, who writes murder mysteries set in different towns in Brittany. I couldn't help but grin as I flicked through Peur Sur Dinard, Requiem A St Malo, and, my ultimate favourite, Fric-Frac A St Briac. I knew perfectly well they were going to be rubbish but in a place like this, it doesn't matter. In spite of, or perhaps even because of, France's past attempts to stamp out minority languages and cultures, the strong Breton identity is alive and kicking today.
And it's amazing how far this regionalism - tribalism, almost - goes. I was most amused to discover that the little town of Montfort (which is the same size as Bécherel, which is the same size as... well, you know the rest) has not one but five Christmas trees: one for each quartier of the town. As part of a tradition so wholesome and idyllic that it could have come straight out of one of Monsieur Ulrich's books (that is, before somebody poisons the mayor's galette complête), each tree is decorated by the people who live in that particular area, resulting in quite a bit of unofficial competition between the different quarters. Aside from the fact that this could never happen in England because somebody would nick all the baubles before you could say 'Tannenbaum', what I most love about this is that this micro-regionalism extends even to a fifth of a town with a population of 4,000 people. Which means that, not only can I say with a suppressed smirk and an unexpected sense of pride that I am Montfortaise, I can specify that I am Centre-Mairie Montfortaise. Y'know, just to separate myself from all those Tardivieres Montfortais oiks.
* French public transport is a lot like Fawlty Towers: it's absolutely brilliant, but there isn't a lot of it.
** Or, for my Brighton readers, Lewes. Or, for my Cambridge readers, Bar Hill. Everyone else can go get a map and work it out for themselves.
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
Feelin' Good
Today, I taught a lesson using a wonderful song by Renaud, It Is Not Because You Are, which is a marvellous demonstration of Franglais. The students listened to the song, then worked through correcting and improving it, first in small groups and then as a class. I thought they might enjoy it - it's an amusing enough song and self-deprecatory humour always goes down well - but I was surprised by just how much of a hit it was with them. Like most STG classes, they're not normally massively interested in learning English and their level isn't particularly brilliant as a whole, but suddenly, the whole class was really getting into translating the song, suggesting various different ways of expressing phrases that cannot be translated directly.*
One of the high points was informing them that what they call 'rouler a pelle'** is known in the UK as 'French kissing', which led to a quick swapping of nice and not-so-nice phrases involving the other country, such as 'French letters' and 'French leave' versus 'la vice anglaise' (sodomy) and 'les anglais ont débarqués' ('the English have landed' - a pleasant way of referring to a woman's period). Eventually, one boy decided that we call it French kissing because the French are clearly the best kissers; when I replied that I was in no position to be able to comment on that, he decided to try his luck and offered to show me himself. I drily assured him that I would somehow manage to resist the temptation.
There were only four lines of translation left to go when the bell went. I turned round from the board, expecting the usual instant scraping of chairs, and said, "Thanks for a great lesson, guys - you did really well today. See you all in two weeks!"
One of the girls protested, in French, "But we haven't finished the song yet!"
Confused, I replied that the bell had gone and the lesson was over. I was amazed to see her actually pout.
"But we want to stay and finish it!"
I smiled and replied, "That's very touching, but you'll get into trouble if you're late for your next lesson."
She answered smugly that it was now break-time, so they wouldn't get into trouble. Amazed, I looked around the class, asking, "Do you all really want to stay behind for a few minutes to finish the song?" They all nodded, even the boys. I shook my head, laughing, and so we carried on.
That girl wasn't the class geek, just a normal seventeen-year-old teenager who had probably spent at least 45 minutes that morning picking her outfit and making sure she fitted in properly. That class wasn't the high-achieving Littéraire group, just ordinary, stroppy adolescents who had somehow managed to get fired up over this particular piece of work. It was the most incredible feeling I've ever had and, while this is a potentially dangerous soundbite to coin, it made me realise that teachers are basically like crack addicts. You get that amazing buzz, that wonderful moment of euphoria just once, and then you put up with whatever crap keeps getting thrown at you day after day, just to feel that high again one day. Whenever I ask myself what the hell I'm doing here, that lesson will be the answer.
* Such as 'chialer comme une madeleine' - to cry like a cake.
** Which translates literally as 'to roll a shovel' - a wincingly accurate mental image.
One of the high points was informing them that what they call 'rouler a pelle'** is known in the UK as 'French kissing', which led to a quick swapping of nice and not-so-nice phrases involving the other country, such as 'French letters' and 'French leave' versus 'la vice anglaise' (sodomy) and 'les anglais ont débarqués' ('the English have landed' - a pleasant way of referring to a woman's period). Eventually, one boy decided that we call it French kissing because the French are clearly the best kissers; when I replied that I was in no position to be able to comment on that, he decided to try his luck and offered to show me himself. I drily assured him that I would somehow manage to resist the temptation.
There were only four lines of translation left to go when the bell went. I turned round from the board, expecting the usual instant scraping of chairs, and said, "Thanks for a great lesson, guys - you did really well today. See you all in two weeks!"
One of the girls protested, in French, "But we haven't finished the song yet!"
Confused, I replied that the bell had gone and the lesson was over. I was amazed to see her actually pout.
"But we want to stay and finish it!"
I smiled and replied, "That's very touching, but you'll get into trouble if you're late for your next lesson."
She answered smugly that it was now break-time, so they wouldn't get into trouble. Amazed, I looked around the class, asking, "Do you all really want to stay behind for a few minutes to finish the song?" They all nodded, even the boys. I shook my head, laughing, and so we carried on.
That girl wasn't the class geek, just a normal seventeen-year-old teenager who had probably spent at least 45 minutes that morning picking her outfit and making sure she fitted in properly. That class wasn't the high-achieving Littéraire group, just ordinary, stroppy adolescents who had somehow managed to get fired up over this particular piece of work. It was the most incredible feeling I've ever had and, while this is a potentially dangerous soundbite to coin, it made me realise that teachers are basically like crack addicts. You get that amazing buzz, that wonderful moment of euphoria just once, and then you put up with whatever crap keeps getting thrown at you day after day, just to feel that high again one day. Whenever I ask myself what the hell I'm doing here, that lesson will be the answer.
* Such as 'chialer comme une madeleine' - to cry like a cake.
** Which translates literally as 'to roll a shovel' - a wincingly accurate mental image.
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