14 posts tagged “france”
Yesterday my friend Grant emailed me, saying, "I already read the ice cream thing weeks ago so get off your ass and write something cool." Simmer down, Grant.
But he's right, of course. I haven't written anything in over a month, mostly because I was in the States for over three week. Mostly in New York, with a quick three-day visit to my maternal grandparents in Los Angeles. Even though this trip was significantly longer than most of my trips home, I still didn't get to see everyone or do everything I wanted to. I was particularly looking forward to catching up with one of my childhood friends, Jade. She's one of the friends I mentioned back in this post, and we haven't seen each other in way too many years. Hopefully next time . . .While I was in New York, I reached the three-year anniversary of my arrival in France. It was hard to celebrate while not in the country, but it is amazing to me that I'm still here. And entering my fourth year of teaching! So, happy third anniversary to me.
I don't think I've actually written here about what I'll be doing this year. Back in January, when my job with the cool educational non-profit fell through, I had less than a week before the last deadline for the assistantship. This program is what brought me to Paris back in 2006. Technically, you're only allowed to do it twice. Which I have already done. In 2006 I was accepted through the US embassy in Washington, DC, and then my contract was renewed for the 2007-2008 school year through the rectorat in Paris. The program is so insanely disorganized, however, that I thought there was a pretty good chance that there is no master database, and so I figured I’d take a shot at applying again. I had to rush to get my recommendations and fill out the paperwork, but managed to get it done in time. It’s funny, ‘cause when I applied in the winter of 2005 I spent SO LONG on getting the application just right, and this time around I just threw it together. I didn’t think it would work, especially because the supposed overnight express envelope that I sent ended up taking two nights, and so my application got in a day late.
The stars were shining on me, however, because I was accepted. Once I moved apartments, I called up the lovely new lady at the rectorat (I’m still sad that Madame Dionis is gone, but the new Madame Couetdic seems to be more on the ball) and asked if it was possible to assign me a school near my new apartment, rather than the one they had on file. She said she’d see what she could do, but no promises. And then, score! The high school I’ll be working at is a 12-minute walk from my place!
I went by to meet the headmistress back in July, and we really hit it off. Then yesterday I met the English teacher in charge of me, Solange. We had already spoken on the phone and emailed a few times, mostly to discuss my scheduling preferences. I have been nothing but impressed with the school’s organization, so far. I already have my finalized schedule for the year, and received all my paperwork from the intendance and secretariat. I’ve been given a tour of the school, my own whiteboard markers and attendance book (ooh, the power I wield!), and met three of the six English teachers I’ll be working with. All of this makes me think that I’ll probably hate the students, as in my experience it’s impossible to like both the staff AND the students in one school.
I’m really happy with my schedule, too. Every other week I have to work one hour on Fridays, from 11 am to noon, but other than that I have four-day weekends and never work before 9 am or past 4 pm. And eight of my 12 classes are in the same room, which is really nice. Of course, the other four classes are in the amphitheater, which will be interesting, to say the least, but you can’t have it all.
Tomorrow is orientation, which I’m not looking forward to that much since I have a feeling I’ll know most of the information. But I can just play Scramble on my awesome new iTouch.
I’ve already had two hours of tutoring since being back: one with Lucas, and one with the hot pilot. Both went really well, and I had a huge smile on my face when I rang the doorbell at Lucas’ house and heard him squeal “it’s SOPHIE!” His reading has advanced so much; I have a feeling that soon I won’t have much more work to do!
I’m still in the process of scheduling all of my private lessons. I have to turn down quite a few people, since I won’t have the time or energy to take on all the clients that contact me. I’m having trouble figuring out how many hours I should do in addition to the twelve hours of classroom time. It’s a bit frustrating, because if you break down the pay by hour, I get paid literally twice as much to tutor as to be an assistant, but I need the assistantship for the working papers and the paid vacation. It’s really a pretty good deal.
And I am SO relieved that my 15 months of being a sans papiers are over. I think the only reason I don’t feel guilty is that I earned this! Living illegally takes dedication.
Since my plans for the month got all kinds of messed up, I've decided to do lots of little day trips from Paris. Not having to pay for youth hostels will keep the cost down, and there are tons of things to do in under a 2-hour train radius. I picked up the Guide du Routard Week-ends autour de Paris, and have been marking things I'd like to do.
So far this week I went to Chartres (one hour by train from Gare Montparnasse) and Chateau de Vincennes (5 metro stops from my house!). I'm looking at Reims (45 minutes by TGV), Orléans, Chantilly, and Provins.
Does anyone have experiences with any of these cities/towns/chateaux? Other places to recommend? I'm thinking of making at least 3 more trips next week, so send your ideas my way!
So this is now the second time I’m writing this post, as the last time (5 days ago) it was erased before I could save it. I HATE when that happens. I think I’ve learned my lesson. Since vox sucks, I’m going to write my posts in Word and then transfer them over. I’ve been meaning to switch from vox to another platform for, oh, about two years now, but find the whole idea daunting.
Anyway. Back to the story.
After leaving the house in Apt, I took a train from Avignon to Bandol. My parents’ friends Elise and Henry, who are doing a home swap, picked me up at the station. They were spending the day there, although they’re based in the Var. I changed in the street, and went swimming in the most beautifully temperatured water ever. We went for a free wine tasting in town, and while Bandol is very famous for its reds, I didn’t particularly like them. I did like what came next, though: fireworks!
Elise, like me, is a huge fireworks fan. There was a pretty
great show, including lots of pinky purples that you don’t see often, and even
a ring of fireworks that surrounded the full moon.
The next morning, after sleeping at their house in Pierrefeu, we hopped in their car for a trip to Cannes. Along the way, we stopped for a seaside lunch near Frejus. I had a pan bagnat, which, although not entirely authentic, was quite tasty.
We made it to Cannes, where I checked into a hotel that they had reserved for their daughter, Amanda, who arrived later that night. I settled in while Elise and Henry went on to check into their swanky digs, at Cannes’ most famous hotel, the Carlton. We met on the beach for an evening dip and enjoyed the calm before the madness of Cannes at night.
It ended up that none of us liked Cannes. And I think that’s
putting it lightly. Both Elise and Henry had been there when they were younger,
but apparently things have changed. The hotel was SO tacky. Considering the
outrageous prices for their rooms, you’d expect decent service, or at least
breakfast included. But instead you’re nickel and dimed for every little thing.
Even sitting on the beach in front of the hotel isn’t free!
While the fireworks were great, the rest of Cannes is totally not worth it. One of the hotel’s guests, the prince of Saudi Arabia, had parked some of his cars. These included a SOLID GOLD FERRARI. At least, according to the front desk clerk it was solid gold. It certainly looked possible.
There was also a Lamborghini that was in some kind of matte plastic, so it looked like a toy car.
The women all looked like they charge by the evening, and we saw some truly ugly, ridiculously expensive things in hotel’s stores. There were 24-karat gold-covered alligator clutches, gold-tinted mink throw blankets, and men’s watches big enough to serve dinner on. The bathrooms were really out-dated and in need of renovation, although there was a maid who went into the stall after me and folded the end of the toilet paper into an attractive V. Very important.
The main reason we were in town was for the finals of the Cannes Fireworks Festival. That night was France’s entry, which was just outstanding. It was set to music, which I didn’t think I’d like. But it was awesome. At one point I looked over at Elise, Henry, and Amanda, and all four of us were sitting on our lounge chairs with stupid smiles on our faces, jaws hanging open. The fee to sit on these lounge chairs included a glass of champagne and a small plate of pastries. It was really lovely.
A thirty-minute train ride later, and I was in Nice, where Pauline and Patrick met me at the train station! We went for dinner in Vieux Nice, which is beautiful. On Sunday Pauline and I went to the market to shop for lunch and dinner, and then I went to the Musée d’Art Moderne et d’Art Contemporain, or MAMAC. They have a great permanent collection, but I particularly loved the Robert Longo exhibit. His black and white works are really powerful, and it’s kind of overwhelming to see how much he can do with only two colors.
I walked back through Vieux Nice, which was even more beautiful in the late afternoon sun. It really looks like Italy. If you had dropped me down in Nice, without telling me what country I was in, I would definitely have said Italy. The architecture, the colors of the buildings, even the ice cream was Italian!
Speaking of ice cream, I’ve very glad I took Patrick’s suggestion of going to Fenocchio. The orange blossom was scrumptious, but the honey with pine nuts was a bit too strong on the honey flavor. Not a big deal, though, as there are dozens of other flavors to try! Next time I’d get jasmine or rose. Yum.
That night we had dinner of the balcony, where we spied on the neighbors and chatted until bedtime.
The next morning I took a one-hour bus ride to Vence, a beautiful medieval hilltop town. It’s incredibly well preserved, but a bit touristy.
It looks exactly like what you think a medieval town should be, but with an artistic bent: there’s a Chagall mosaic in the cathedral, a 500-year old tree immortalized by Soutine, and a chapel entirely designed by Matisse. You're not allowed to take pictures inside the Matisse chapel, otherwise known as la Chapelle du Rosaire, so I only got a couple of outdoor shots:
While waiting to get in, the clouds started rolling in for the mother of all summer storms.
Supposedly it never rains in Provence during the summer, but in my 9 days there I experienced two huge storms. I had to catch a bus back to Nice, in order to make the last train back to Paris, so I had no choice but to walk 20 minutes in the rain to the bus “station.” Also known as a bus stop. There was a shelter, but the roof of the shelter was missing, so it didn’t do much good. It was actually pretty funny to see people go into the shelter, realize that they were still being rained on, and look up really confused. My purse was so soaked through even my wallet was wet! And let’s not talk about the state of my underclothes. NOT the right day to wear a white shirt. Ahem.
I did manage to make the train back to Paris, although I wish I could have stayed longer in Nice. I snapped a picture of the beach at 6pm, and you can see how packed it is.
That doesn’t appeal so much, but the water looked beautiful. I would happily have spent a morning exploring the hills surrounding the town, and then an afternoon on the beach. And maybe another day trip to Grasse, for the perfume museum. If Pauline stays down there, I will happily invite myself back for another long weekend.
So, that was the end of my time in Provence. There are many more towns and cities I would have liked to see, including Marseille and Aix, but I had packed my bags for a three-week stay in one spot, not for hopping from place to place. I had my computer, and three weeks’ worth of books and toiletries. Everything was just too heavy to be practical, which is too bad. But Provence isn’t going anywhere. I’ll be back.
Once again I'm too tired to write much, but am having a great time. I'm currently in Nice for a few days, staying with Pauline and her boyfriend Patrick. I spent last night in Cannes, and the day before in the Var. I'm really excited to get to see Pauline, since it'll likely be several months before we're able to hang out again. She's right in the middle of writing her dissertation, so I won't get quality time with her till November, if not December. And it's nice to see her new home and get to know her new (to me) boyfriend.
I'll post more about my experiences on the Riviera tomorrow, including a picture of me with the Prince of Saudi Arabia's solid gold car. Until then, I'm going to collapse into a blissful night's sleep.
I do not like creepy-crawlies. I kill bugs left, right, and center. I don't feel any qualms about it. They freak me out, and I want them gone.
And yet, I have been totally unbothered by the night visitors I get in my new place.
In New York, my apartment had screens on the windows. I had the occasional small spider in the summer (which I would kill. I know they supposedly eat other bugs, but they also eat me. Dead.) but I never had anything flying around.
Here, I have two beautiful, big windows that open into my apartment and give me a view of the courtyard, with its grey roofs and rust-colored chimney pots. These windows, that make my apartment look a lot bigger than it is, have no screens. I can't recall seeing any screens on friends' windows, either. If I had screens, I couldn't water my plants or pluck basil for dinner from my lovely window boxes. And I couldn't shake out my bathmat or kitchen rug into the courtyard below. And I couldn't make my friends lean ALL the way out the window when they smoke at my housewarming party.
But these screenless windows let in lots of winged creatures. I have what looks like miniature mosquitoes that don't seem to bite, flies, big flies, bigger flies, microscopic flying things, ladybuggish things, and even a big-assed moth once. I only notice they're here cause I can hear them beating their gross wings against my ceiling. And it just doesn't bother me.
Okay, the flies bother me. But those are here during the day, not at night. And I have a lot fewer now that I bought a pitcher plant. I wonder if it's because, somewhere in my New Yorker mind, bugs are more acceptable in Europe? Is nature invading your space an "old-country" thing to anyone else?
I went to Lisbon for a long weekend a few weeks back, and met a guy in my hostel. We hit it off, and spent the whole time together. Aaron took two months to travel around Europe and take a break from his normal life in northern California, where he's going through some changes. Now that he's back to the usual, he's kind of taking stock and considering a greater shift.
So we just got off the phone, and he asked if I think it would be crazy for him to sell all his shit and move to Berlin to get a bartender job. I said no, but you're talking to a girl who sold all her shit and moved to Paris for a teaching job.
And then I realized, wow. I did that. I sold all my shit: bed, bookshelves, couch, rugs, kitchen appliances, electronics. I boxed up books and vintage dishes. I gave away bags of clothes. I bought a one-way ticket. I live in Paris.
This might seem incredibly obvious to you. I have, after all, lived here for over two and a half years now. I am in my fourth Parisian apartment. But every so often I'll have a moment where it hits me: Oh. Right. I live in Paris. Huh, how'd that happen?
Aaron asked if the romance has worn off, if I regret my decision. But I really don't. I love that I can go to Portugal for the weekend. I love that in the past week I've been to one of Napoleon's castles and the cathedral where all the monarchs of France are buried. I love that I buy my produce in a market from the 1700s. I just, every once in a while, wonder how I got here.
The last time I felt this way was about six months ago. I was in Monoprix, buying groceries. I had chosen some spices, to help with my advancing cooking skills. And as my cart was rolling up the automatic ramp next to my escalator, I looked over and saw my bags of flour and my jars of spices and the new cake pan I was buying. And something about the spices, their longevity, made me aware that I'm building a life here. Cause you don't buy oregano unless you mean it.
My faithful readers might remember that over a year ago I claimed to have learned to ride a bike. This was lies.
After the previously noted two lessons, I didn't get back on the saddle until yesterday. Well over a year has passed, and I still have not truly learned how to ride a bike. I explained how I managed to reach a ripe old age and still be completely reliant on others for my transportational needs in this post, back in May 2007. Not much has changed since then.
But since I'm living on Ile de Ré for over six weeks, not riding a bike is really just not an option. Checking out the island's website shows that one of the ONLY things to do here is tour the villages by bike. To quote the site: the bicycle is Ré's favourite mode of transport . . ." (bolding is original to the site.) And when clicking on the information for the particular village I'm living in, Loix, they have this to say: We advise you to explore Loix de préférence by bike!
So I was very intimidated coming here. Sarah and Omar both knew that I don't know how to ride, but indicated that my time off would be much more enjoyable if I learned how. Our house is literally a five-minute walk to the center of town, but the center of town has a church, a café, a market, and that's about it. There is always the merry-go-round, but I think the seats max out at like 50 pounds, so that's not a real option.
So, I needed, really this time, to learn to ride. Yesterday, given a few hours to myself, I decided to bite the bullet and rent a bike. At the rental place in town I was greeted by a 20 year-old with a poorly rolled cigarette dangling from his mouth and a rhinestone in one ear. His sidekick had freckles and a mouth that never quite seemed to close. I told the boys that I wanted to rent a bike, mais je suis vraiment débutante/I'm a real beginner.
Boy number one pulled out a maroon bike and said it should fit me, and to take it for a spin to see if it's good. I looked at him and said, mais je ne peux pas! Honnêtement, je suis débutante!/But I can't! Honestly, I'm a beginner!
Understanding finally dawning in his eyes, he told me not to worry, that he has a friend who's 82 and doesn't know how to read or write. Um, thanks? Is this supposed to make me depressed or motivated?
Still refusing to completely believe that I, an adult woman, cannot ride a bike, he told me to just get on and try it out. When I stalled, claiming fear and inability, he just wouldn't take no for an answer. He told me, Si on ose pas, on arrivera jamais/If we never dare to try, we'll never achieve anything. Big words from a small-town boy.
Promising to hold the back of my bike, he handed his damp cigarette to the gaped-mouth boy, and convinced me to climb aboard. After pedaling for a few seconds, I guess he let go, cause suddenly I was turning circles around the parking lot. Alone. On a bike!
I signed a rental contract and rode home. RODE HOME! ON A BIKE! I only ran into one small post, and had to restart twice. When I got back here, I instantly called my mom, who was shocked and told me to go for a ride. So I did.
I found myself on one of the island's many bike paths, although it turns out I probably picked the wrong one for my first day. After sliding down the bank of a small creek, landing in reeds, I turned around and headed for home. Where I ran into one more post and one woman. Both of them were very understanding.
Today, after an evening trip to the beach en famille, I figured I better ride a bit or I would lose my momentum. So I took off, salty and damp, for an evening ride. I passed chickens cooped up behind chain link fence, grandfathers tending gardens with their grandsons, salt marshes, farmland, and beautiful countryside. When my thighs started burning, I turned around and made my way home.
I noticed several improvements today. I'm now able to shift gears without stopping the bike and turning the pedals by hand. When a bike is coming towards me, instead of stopping and waiting by the side of the road, I just keep my eye on where I'm going and everything is okay. I'm able to relax my hands a bit, so they don't cramp quite so much. And I'm actually enjoying it. The feeling of pumping your legs and really letting go on a nice stretch of bike path is fantastic.
I still have a lot to learn, such as the intricacies of gears, and how to slow down without either stopping completely or riding straight into the vegetation, but I'm learning. And I'm sore. Is it normal to have crotchal bruises?
This summer is divided into three parts: Greece, New York, and Ile de Ré. Tomorrow I embark on the third leg of summer 2008.
Considering I just got back to Paris yesterday morning, I'm not happy about this. I'm super-excited to meet the baby I'll be nannying, and settle in to the beach house, but I would love a bit more time at home. And I would love to go a week without either packing or unpacking my bright blue suitcases.
I have mastered the art of packing light. For my 3.5 weeks in Greece I had a small, carry-on size rollie and a carry-on bag. That's it. For 6.5 weeks I'm moving up to a medium-sized suitcase, but am still not bringing much. After Anna came over for breakfast and expressed shock at the number of sandals I was packing, I had to reduce. But seriously, fifty days on an island requires more than one pair of sandals! And no, flip flops are not optional!
I'm right, right?
Yesterday, after my plane arrived 90 minutes late, I showered and went to two job interviews. The first was atrocious, as the woman freely admitted that she hadn't really read my CV, and she thought I should get a master's in order to be a viable candidate. Did I mention that this was an assistant job? That's right, she thought my six years actually WORKING in publishing (including 2.5 years as an assistant) do not a qualified candidate make, as I don't have an advanced degree.
When she named the specific master's program she thought I should look into, I replied that I had gone to that program's open house day, and been told by two of the heads that I am overqualified and would most likely be bored. She didn't have a whole lot to say to that.
Also, she said that I am competing for jobs with people who went to the top French schools. I asked if she happened to notice what school I went to, and she was like, oh, I guess I didn't notice that. You should reorganize your CV. As if it's my fault she didn't bother reading it! Thanks for wasting my time, lady.
The next one was a bit better, although by this time I was so exhausted (it was well after midnight, New York time) that I'm not sure my French was at its best. Still, they're going to try me out on a freelance basis, and once I re-do part of my writing test they'll consider me for a full-time position. We'll see. It took three months from sending in my CV to actually get an interview, so maybe I'll get a job offer some time in 2009.
Okay, now I'm off to visit a sick friend, before I continue packing. We head out tomorrow around 9 am, in order to make it to a friend's house in Poitiers by 1. It'll be interesting to see if I'm invited for lunch, or relegated to the kitchen. I've never been "the help" before. I hope I don't suck.
Last year, I played an April Fool's Day prank that many people believed. I said that I had met the love of my life, Jean-François, and that we were moving in together. Alas, the fact that it was so believable led to a bit of confusion when I was back in New York. A guy I had been seeing before I moved to Paris read the prank post, but not the follow-up confession. So he thought I was in a serious relationship, and we only cleared it up when it was a bit too late. He's planning on coming down to the city when I'm back soon, and I've just realized that I might have messed things up again.
So, to make things very clear, Nick: I am still single, and I will definitely be in New York in two weeks. Whoop! It'll be great to see you. :)
In other news, I'm in a good mood. I'm feeling really hopeful about finding a job for next year. Nothing concrete has happened, and I have a feeling that nothing will for several months, but the ball is finally rolling. I had an informational interview at a major publishing house yesterday, had a private session with the Hot Pilot to perfect my French CV and cover letter, and compiled a list of 38 companies to apply to. Surely out of 38 there'll be one who wants me . . . right?
I've come to the decision that I just don't want to apply to grad school. I know I could do it just to get the student visa, but it's not like applying is that simple here. I'd need to track down old transcripts and diplomas and recommendations, and get them all officially translated, and write a whole spiel about why I want to study X, Y, or Z degree at such-and-such particular school, etc. And honestly, I'd rather put all that time and energy into finding a job.
I wouldn't mind if I have to teach again to stay, but my first choice is really to find a steady office job. I'm shocked to hear myself say that, but after two years of my schedule changing vastly from day to day, I'm ready for a bit of routine and stability. Even if that means missing out on the blessed school vacations. Sigh.
Jenn sent the pictures she and Nick took while they were here, and they're really cute. Here's me and Jenn on the Seine:
The weather is finally becoming spring-like, thank God. March was just ridiculously rainy. It's still overcast at times, but most of the afternoon today was blue skies and fluffy pink blossoms and pale green leaves popping out all over the place. Spring has sprung!
This weekend there's a marché du terroir de la France right across from my house. This is basically two dozen or so small booths filled with all the best food from all over France. There are sausages, cheeses, olive oils, dried fruit, massive brioche, and artisanal honeys, just to name a few items for sale.
I picked up a jar of marinated sundried tomatoes, and bought a small tarte du caramel au beurre salée for my goûter. When I was paying for the tarte, the salesman asked me if I would repeat what kind I wanted. I got a bad feeling, and said no. He continued, "I love the accent."
For some reason, I got pissed. I refused to repeat caramel au beurre salée, even when he tried imitating me. I wanted to scream, "I don't sound like that!" But instead I walked away, after telling him that it wasn't a nice thing to say.
I'm not sure why this kind of comment upsets me. Obviously I have an accent. I'm not a native French speaker and no matter how long I live here I will never sound like one. I'm okay with that. Most French people can tell I'm not native, but they don't necessarily know where I'm from. And that's fine. But asking me to repeat a phrase with a lot of R's, just for your amusement? It rubs me the wrong way.
Any other expats, in France or elsewhere, feel the same way?
