Christmas Lights in Pertuis

Last night, I took pictures just for you of Pertuis all decked-out for Christmas:

The "shopping street" lookin' good (and empty...it was 9:00 pm on a Friday night, after all)

Even a shoe boutique gets in on the action

Christmas tree & clock tower in main square by my apartment

Looking mysterious through the branches...

The mayor's office looking like a Vegas-style Greek palace (n.b. there are palm trees at the base of the columns...oh yes)

I dragged myself out of bed EARLY today and am leaving for Paris in a few minutes. The day after tomorrow, I'll be home!

Noël dinner at Courtepaille

On Wednesday, Whitney and I went out to dinner with our favorite French family at Courtepaille, a grill/restaurant in Pertuis. It was GOOD and it lasted 3 hours. Here' s the evidence:

Mireille, Whitney, Pascale, Robin, Sonny, Julie, and me

We had so much fun/wine that even Pere Noel decided to join us...we ended up with a pet shop's worth of stuffed cats & dogs by the end of the night

Robin ordered a still-mooing hunk of beef topped with a raw egg - delish!

Whitney laughing

My friend Julie and me.
We like to color together, and she reminds me how funny stuffed animals' bottoms are

La Neige et Une Petite Maladie

I got back today from the weekend in the Alps ~ it was so fun! See photos posted on my Picasa site:

décembre - un week-end aux Hautes Alpes

Unfortunately, I'm still feeling malade. While checking the BBC tonight before bed (I know...bedtime stories have gotten more depressing with the passing of the years ;)), I noticed this timely article written by correspondent Emma Jane Kerby: "A curiously French complaint". Luckily, I don't have a case of "heavy legs," it looks like I will be staying away from French doctors unless absolutely necessary...

Voila, voila

It's official: I am a temporary resident of France...

...and the greatest/most shocking part is that it was extremely EASY. I'll never understand a country where it's less complicated to become a [temp] resident than to buy postage stamps.

I caught a bad cold after too much partying and not enough sleeping this past weekend, and coupled with rainy, distracted days and an inability to convince myself to sleep lately, matters have not been improving. I'm going through mes mouchoirs like blowing your nose is going out of style (note: it's not). Think positive thoughts, though, because this weekend, Whitney and I have been invited to tag along with Pascale's family to the Alpine town of Risoul, located in les Hautes-Alpes (it looks SO cold, non?). It should be a ton of fun, so I have to get better before Friday's long drive into the mountains or I may create disastrous results in the backseat - ewww.

Two weeks from now, I'll be in Minnesota for Christmas! Time's been speeding by at a terrifying pace; somehow, I've already been in France for 3 months. Here's the plan for the next few weeks (buckle your seat belt and secure your helmet): after spending the weekend of the 20th in Paris finishing Christmas shopping, I'll be in Minnesota from the 22nd-29th before flying to Frankfurt. From there, I'm train-ing it to Lille to spend New Year's with a French friend, and then my two best "Avignonnaise" friends are flying over from the USA to visit me in Provence for a week while classes resume at my schools. Woo!

*Almost* a Resident...

On Friday, I received a letter from La Poste saying that I can go pick up my titre de séjour (residency card). It's supposedly waiting for me at the municipal police headquarters in Pertuis, which is the last place I would expect be handling residency stuff, but I'll take it! I've heard of assistants in other towns/cities needing to wait in long lines at the Prefecture's office and at the mayor's office, but the police headquarters is a new one.

After teaching two classes about Christmas this morning (we wrote letters to Santa Claus, emphasizing the phrase, "I would like..." and sang "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" complete with emphatic swishing of our arms), I hurried over to the Police Municipale with my shiny convocation in hand to prove that I deserve residency after all the hard work I've done. They are open on Mondays from 8:30 am to 12:00 pm, so I had a pin-sized window to hit. Luckily, Pertuis is about the size of a French dinner plate, so I arrived in about 3 minutes. Once inside the tiny lobby, I approached the accueil window and asked the woman where I could find the office of the service des étrangers.

Shrugging, she pointed to a closed service window next to her and explained to me that their employee who handles foreigners like me is ill today and will probably be out sick tomorrow, too. At that point, two flics (cops) sidled into the "cozy" room, and all three began discussing when I should return. Conclusively, one of the flics handed me a slip of paper printed with the hours of the sick employee and told me that maybe I should come back on Wednesday between the hours of 1:30 pm and 5:00pm. The special foreigner window is closed on Thursdays, though, so it's either Wednesday or waiting till Friday morning between 8:00 am and 12:00 pm.

So maybe on Wednesday, pending incurable disease and national police strikes and flash flooding of the Vaucluse region, I'll be officially a French resident!

Thanksgiving dinner à la Francaise

Rebellious Americans, we ate the cheese before the meal rather than afterward

Me chopping vegetables with the dullest knife in France

The food was so good!


American assistants Heather, Andrew, Whitney, me, and visiting Canadian Doug

I <3 American Music

This guy, Alain Souchon, has been all over the news the past few days promoting his newly released album. This single & its music video serves as a perfect example of why I cannot appreciate most "popular" French music.

Le Pincement

On Sunday afternoon, I took a long walk around Pertuis since there is.nothing.to.do.here. on Sundays because everything's closed (except for trusty old Banette, my favorite boulangerie...but let's be honest, you can only go to the same bakery so many times in one day). Anyway, I walked through a residential area near one of my schools by way of the cemetery (interesting, centuries-old place) and a football stadium I had never seen before. Since this particular residential zone is on a big hill overlooking the old part of town and the surrounding valley, the view of our very own pertuis and the mountains was especially spectacular since the sun was setting (I'll take pictures & post them sometime soon). I had climbed the hill through the neighborhoods and turned around near the municipal pool so as to make it back home before dark.

As I was walking past the pool, I noticed in the parking lot two prepubescent boys, a skinny one who would probably reach my shoulders and a chubby one just a few inches taller than his playmate. They were about 50 yards away from me, and the chubby boy shouted out to me, "Excusez-moi, Madame, est-ce que vous avez l'heure?" (Excuse me, Madame, do you know what time it is?). I shouted the time back to him, and they asked me if I was English. I continued walking and yelled "American" over my shoulder. As I was walking away, I heard them practicing saying, "Hhhamerricaan" in a very strong French-but-I'm trying to-sound-American accent (it's distinct!). It made me think fondly of my students mimicking my accent, and I continued to walk down the hill on my way home.

About three minutes after I passed the pool, I heard someone's approaching feet pounding the pavement behind me. Thinking it was a jogger, I stepped aside to let him pass. Instead, who should wheeze up next to me but my new friend, the chubby boy from the parking lot! Saying hello again, he politely asked me what the date was. I assumed he wasn't the brightest crayon in the box and kindly told him that it was Sunday, November 30, 2008, all day long. He then asked me what the time was, again. It was at this point that I realized that I wanted to keep walking. Turning back to the path, I told him it was five minutes later than when he last asked, and in response, he quickly shouted, "Do you have boyfriends?", pinched my butt, and immediately started trucking up the hill towards his waiting skinny friend, arms pumping hard and head ducked to his chest.

In high school and college French class, I was never taught the correct vocabulary to use in these types of situations, and thus I'm always left speechless. I just shouted, "Alors!" (which translates to a meek, "Well!") to his slowly retreating back and kept walking, laughing because it was so ridiculous that a 12-year-old boy would pinch mes fesses! I had made it to the school Pierre Augier--recognized territory--by the time the two baby Frenchmen once again came running up behind me. This time as the chubby boy was honing in, I whirled around and shook my finger at him, saying in my best angry-teacher voice, "C'est dégueulasse! Allez!" ("That's disgusting! Go away!"). He looked scared, and they immediately turned to run up the hill again. I continued the rest of my walk in peace, stopping at the Banette bakery on my way home for a calmer version of Sunday afternoon entertainment.

Joyeux Thanksgiving!

Here's the "hand turkey" that I made and used while teaching Thanksgiving this week. It turns out the French have very little practice saying or thinking anything like, "I'm thankful for..." It was a new concept! But like good Americans-in-training, they still loved the turkey and made their own versions. Enjoy your turkey and pumpkin pie!

I'm cold...

...and I finally feel justified seeing that the temperature is closer to 0-degrees than it should be.

A Franco-American Family Dinner

On Friday night, I was invited to have dinner at the house of two of my students, Hugo and Celeste. After hearing that I was from Minnesota, Celeste slipped me a note from her mother one day after an English class. Their mother, Liz, is originally from Rochester, Minnesota and then lived in Minneapolis for many years after school. After a few emails, it was decided that Liz would pick me up at La Poste at 6:00 pm after grocery shopping with the kids to take me back to their house in the country for dinner. Upon my arrival at La Poste, I met Liz, Celeste, Hugo, and cute little Emerson, their 5-year-old brother.

Hugo and Celeste go to Pierre Augier, the larger (and my favorite) of the two schools where I teach. Hugo is 9 years old and is the quieter of the two older kids, while Celeste, at 10 years old, takes the role of “oldest sibling” and “only girl” very seriously. All kids speak both French and English, switching flawlessly between the two languages with an ease that will forever confound me. Since Liz speaks very little French, she and the kids speak only English among themselves. Patrick speaks French to the kids, but he speaks to them in English if he’s saying something that he wants to make sure Liz hears, too. It was fascinating listening to them all! The funniest and most mysterious thing was that the kids speak English with a little bit of an accent that’s not French. Their words are shortened and have a nearly indiscernible lilt to them. Another funny thing about their speech is that they frequently use French words in place of English words (for instance, using crayon instead of “pencil” (a true faux ami) and recreation in place of “recess”). I can’t place the accent or figure out why this would happen, but it’s cute!

I couldn’t wait to hear Liz’s story, and so on the way to the family’s house, I asked her about herself. She told me that she grew up in Rochester and in several other small towns in southern Minnesota, and then she went to college for one year at Wisconsin-La Crosse before realizing that partying is an expensive major and subsequently dropped out. Moving to Minneapolis, she worked in the art world in different capacities: first in frame shops, then helping to set up exhibits at the Science Museum in St. Paul, and finally working at the Walker with new and traveling exhibitions. While at the Walker, she traveled extensively around the world with the art. In fact, she told me that when she accepted the position at the Walker, she was told that her first assignment was flying to Tokyo the next week! While living in Minneapolis, Liz happened to meet Patrick, a Frenchman visiting his French friend who had moved to Minnesota after marrying an American man. When Patrick returned to France, he and Liz began a correspondence that lasted several years until he moved to Minneapolis to be with Liz. They lived together for 6 years before having Celeste and then a year later, Hugo was born. Shortly thereafter, they decided that they would rather raise their children in France, and thus they moved to Pertuis, the same region where Patrick spent his childhood. Five years ago, Emerson made his entrance into the world to complete their Franco-American family.

Patrick is a professional beekeeper, so when they moved back to France, land and the necessary resources were a crucial piece of the equation to decide where they would live. The family found a position as gardien of a mansion in the country outside of Pertuis, and they snapped it up. A wealthy Parisian couple owns the estate and rarely comes down except during vacations and sometimes, for long weekends. When Liz and Patrick first moved in, they told the Parisian couple that they would commit to being guardians for a year and then would probably move out. Eight years later, they’re still there! Living on such a sprawling estate, Patrick is able to make many different varieties of honey, from lavender and rosemary to a rare, dark-colored kind of which I can’t remember the name. From the stories I heard and the food I ate, Patrick’s entire family seems to be a stereotypical French people of the earth, as his brothers make homemade walnut oil and nougat, and his father recently visited them and made homemade wheat bread, which we ate along with Friday’s dinner.

Their apartment is warmly decorated, full of chic art and colors that just make you feel toasty inside. Much to everyone’s delight, Liz had prepared a veritable French feast for dinner. Appetizers included a few kinds of fresh green and black olives, hummus and pita bread, pretzels, and peanuts. While appetizing at the kitchen island, the kids flew around telling me stories and showing me everything, including pieces of crabs found at the beach and knots of wood they found in their forest-backyard. Upon sitting down at the dinner table, I noticed that Liz had even printed a rustically-styled menu listing the courses in both French and English. I had the privilege of sitting in between Emerson and Celeste for dinner, where Celeste filled my ear with the myriad stories of 10-year-old life and Emerson precariously squirmed around on his high stool, begging the whole while for the nougat that would come at the end of dinner. The first course was a salad dressed with homemade walnut oil (thanks to Patrick’s brother) and sliced bread (thanks to Patrick’s father) topped with baked brie (so, so delicious). Along with a good red wine, the second course was soupe aux cèpes, a mushroom soup of the region that must have been invented with autumn in mind. The next course was boeuf daube provençal, a slow-cooked beef stew with carrots; the beef was so tender that when we ate it, it nearly melted in our mouths. *sigh* protein! Also included in that course was a dish of roasted potatoes and carrots sprinkled with rosemary. I was unbelievably full at that point, but perseverance is an important trait when eating these endless French dinners, so I stayed strong for the sake of the food.

We then took a short intermission during which I heard a piano recital from Celeste and a clarinet concert from Hugo. Liz, too, had played the clarinet when she was little, and when I told them that I had played for many years, Hugo brought me his cork grease to smell to stimulate the memories! It was so funny that he did that and knew how that distinctive smell would bring it all back. After the musical interlude, the cheese course marched into our lives and included a heart-shaped Neufchatel, a plump little chevre (goat’s cheese), and a slab of blue cheese along with slices of Grandpa Frenchman’s bread. A bowl of clementines (strangely, a staple of French dessert) was served next along with the highly-anticipated Uncle Frenchman’s nougat, spongy and delicious candy made with fresh almonds and honey.

After another short intermission (this time, we looked at the comic books the kids had just gotten from the library), I was ready to throw in the napkin when they started roasting chestnuts in the oven, and then who could say non to roasted chestnuts? Pas moi, monsieur! Emerson, however, content after having finally eaten the greatly anticipated nougat, collapsed on the sofa and didn’t wake up for the rest of the evening, despite the continued chatter and noise. After dinner, Celeste and Hugo showed me nearly everything in their rooms: we carefully examined all their art projects, photos, toys, books, and their carefully ordered Christmas lists, before they put on their pajamas and gave me les bisous to say goodbye.

Because it was dark when I arrived and when I left, I wasn’t able to see the house or the property very well, but as Liz drove me back home to downtown Pertuis, I got a feeling for the enormity of the estate: the driveway is two kilometers long and being as it’s on a hill, the twinkling lights of the region spread out before our eyes as we drove away from the house. As I was leaving, Liz and Patrick loaded my arms with American and British magazines and a jar of homemade lavender honey. :) Miam-miam!

My French Birthday

A pretty autumn day

Surprise birthday pastries! Merci, Whitney ;)

"Un boeuf" at Hakuna Matata

Fighting the Funk

A few weeks ago, that initial glittering, romantic splendor of living in a foreign country wore off, and I experienced my first slump. I had forgotten how living abroad sweeps away your regular emotions and replaces them with an unpredictable carnival ride, full of the highest highs and the lowest lows, leaving you not much in the way of regularity. Talking to some of my other assistant friends, I’ve discovered that almost all of them were feeling stuck in the same depressive state as I was. Whitney and decided that we would just have to take matters into our own hands and make ourselves be happy. This included going shopping at H&M in Aix (always a weakness), jogging several times a week (endorphins are free, a beautiful--although sometimes painful!--thing), eating lots of chocolate and wine (not so free but still worth it), and otherwise keeping busy.

Staying occupied is one of the toughest things here in Pertuis. It’s a small town, and since we work so few hours during the week, it’s really become necessary to find hobbies. I got a library card and have started reading French books, and I went to La Maison de la Culture et des Associations, where I picked up a list of the clubs and classes offered in Pertuis. I think I’ll eventually sign up for an art class, and I’ll hopefully find a low-commitment volunteering gig, too. My life today stands in stark contrast to my years immersed in the perpetual busy-ness of college life and then the scheduled insanity of corporate life at Target. While it’s sometimes tough to live without much structure in a foreign country, it’s a good lesson in self-reliance and the importance of being able to make yourself happy. I’ve decided that while I’m here in France, I’m going to pursue my art more consistently in addition to writing more often and reading French books with regularity. It’s good to have projects and goals, despite having broken the shackles of life according to an Outlook calendar!

It was my 23rd birthday on Friday the 14th, right in the middle of a low spot. Receiving all the great emails, packages, and letters wishing me a joyeux anniversaire was the best antidote, so thanks to that and Whitney’s wonderfulness, I had a great birthday! I spent almost the whole sunny day with Whitney: we went for a run in the morning, went to the weekly outdoor market in Pertuis, and then we made dinner together at her house (roasted chicken and winter vegetables, sheep’s-milk cheese, a whole bottle of wine, and fancy French pastries for dessert!) and went to a “jam session” at a café/bistro called Hakuna Matata. It was a quiet and relaxing birthday, and now I’m old.

Other than that, I’ve spent the past couple weeks actually working and staying busy! There are no more vacations until Christmas, when I’m planning to go home for a week and after which I will be returning to France to welcome visitors for a few weeks. For the moment, though, I’m getting settled into a routine and appreciating the quietness of life here. The weather has been getting progressively cooler, with the temperature getting down to freezing at night. For the past few days, we’ve also been getting a taste of the infamous Mistral winds of Provence, which blow with a strong regularity for periods of 3, 6, or 9 days at a time during the winter months. Walking through town, I’ve often been startled as the usual quiet has been broken by the noise of shutters slapping houses and laundry flapping like rabid birds on the line. But the good ol’ southern sun still shines every day, working its magic and making people happy.

Dinner in Jouques

On Monday night, Pascale invited Whitney and me to her family’s house in the nearby village of Jouques. Pascale lives with her brother, sister-in-law, and their three kids in a spacious house near the center of town but still far enough away that they have a terrace and a little garden. Because of her transient lifestyle, Pascale explained to us that she doesn’t own a home but rather, during her time in France, has lived with either her mother or her brother and his family. She picked us up from La Poste around 7:00 pm, and we drove the half-hour through the dark countryside to Jouques. I enjoy these little car trips, because not only is it a good opportunity to speak French with someone who understands our language barriers, it’s a great way to see the villages around Pertuis. We passed through several small, quiet towns en route to Jouques, and Pascale explained to us that we were in true lavender country. During the summer, the fields surrounding us are full of lavender, and you can smell the flowers wherever you go. Particularly in her town, lavender is a part of life, and one can buy very inexpensive lavender oil at the tourism office since it’s made just a short promenade away.

When we arrived at Pascale’s brother’s house, we were greeted on the terrace by a jovial black lab named Lilou, whose tail couldn’t whip around fast enough and whose tongue couldn’t give us enough kisses. Pascale led the way into the house, where we were greeted with bisous and bienvenues from Mirelle (her sister-in-law), Thierry (her brother), Sonny and Robin (her 12- and 11-year-old nephews), and one little bisou from Julie, her 4-year-old niece. >>>Before we begin, I must say that these children are strikingly cute, all of them, and they get along really well with each other. It was a little overwhelming. <<< We were invited into the living room, where the boys were watching a huge TV and Julie was playing with her princess dolls. Thierry offered us a choice of whiskey or vodka, and both Whitney and I chose whiskeys (he gave us a lot! Even with the addition of three whole ice cubes, I was a little unsteady on my feet when I stood up later for dinner.). While we chatted with the boys, Mirelle brought out baked cheese puffs, chips, and cornichons as an appetizer. She retreated to the kitchen with Pascale to talk and finish preparing dinner.

Back in the living room, Thierry was very interested in hearing about our impressions of France, as he had spent several years working in recycling factories in bother Louisiana and Texas about 20 years ago. We told him how shocking we found it that perfect strangers in the street regularly ask us about our political views and religious inclinations, how French women appear to be colder than American women, and about our hometowns in America. Sonny, the blond 12-year-old brother, had just gotten back from a week in New York City with a community group from France. He had had a wonderful time and wants desperately to go back, so we enjoyed talking to him about America. Robin, the dark-haired, bambi-eyed 11-year-old brother, loves learning English and has skipped a grade because of his hard work and intelligence. He talked about his frustration with how, in school, his teacher ignores his raised hand because he often knows the answers. When we spoke English later at the dinner table, I discovered that he really does have a gift for language learning, as his accent was excellent and didn’t include the typical French-sounding vowels. I excused myself for a while to chat with Julie about her adoration for all things “Disney princess”; while it’s difficult to clearly understand the gurgling, bubbly French of little kids, when I just smiled and asked her little questions, we bonded without a problem. Julie’s room brims with pink, princesses, and all things that shout “little girl!” Some things, including Disney princesses, are an international language, I guess.

After a half-hour of chatting, bonding, and whiskey-drinking, dinner was announced. We all marched into the warm kitchen, where I was instructed to sit on a bench between the two boys and Whitney directly across the table so that we could all easily speak English together after dinner. Dinner consisted of a first course of soup and two choices of bread, a second course of the most delicious oyster-stuffed-salmon I have ever tasted and steamed green beans, a cheese course of Camembert and a few types of chevre, an apple tarte and a raspberry tarte with whipped cream for dessert, and the obligatory espresso at the end of the meal. We also drank a sweet rose wine from the Bordeaux region throughout dinner; Pascale had picked it up on her drive back from Dordogne, where she had been visiting her mother a few weeks ago. Even the boys were poured generous glasses of the wine - so French! I wished I had had four stomachs to eat truckloads of everything, but alas, I was forced to settle with taking a little bit of everything. Sonny was so kind as to finish the remains of the fish that had been heaped upon my plate by the ever-generous Pascale.

While we sat at the big wooden table in the kitchen over coffee, Thierry and Mirelle decided that the time had come for a little bit of English. Thierry had wanted to speak English to see if he still had a knack for it after 20-some years, and both parents wanted their sons to practice the language. At this point, Julie had spread out across the table her dozens of Disney-princess refrigerator magnets and her Disney-princess telephone through which you could speak to Blanche Neige (Snow White) or Cendrillon (Cinderella).When we switched to English, her hazel eyes got big and she looked at us with surprise. What on earth were we doing with our mouths?? Thierry’s English was good but a little rusty after so many years, but Pascale was impressive with her language skills. She’s nearly fluent! Having lived and been steeped in the rich culture of Provence and Marseille, Mirelle knew less English, but even the boys were excited to try out their language skills. While Whitney discussed French social security and unemployment pay (in France, the government pays too much for both, believe it or not) with Thierry and Pascale, the boys pulled out their English workbooks and we made fun of the stuffy, strange English taught in their school. They thought it was a riot when I read the dialogue aloud, doing voices and accents, and then they tried, too. We spent a few hours at this informal English lesson, with intermissions of princess play with Julie and refills of espresso, and Mirelle videotaped and took many pictures. By the time the boys put their English books away and turned to finding American points-of-interest on Google Earth, it was nearly midnight. Whitney and I had offered to teach private English lessons to the boys once a week, and it was decided that Mirelle would drive the boys to Pertuis on Wednesdays for English conversation.

After a little while, we all ended up back in the living room while Pascale showed the family where she had lived in Mexico using Google Earth, Thierry found CNN on their satellite TV, and I played a sock-tossing game with Julie. Despite the late hour, Julie wasn’t slowing down and was just getting more giggly. While we alternated throwing her little pink socks over the back of the sofa, she nearly fell down laughing and kept slapping her forehead with the fun of the flying socks. :) When Lilou got involved and decided that she, too, wanted some pink-sock action, things really got exciting. I tried telling Lilou to drop Julie’s sock and to sit, but it turned out the dog doesn’t understand English so I had to settle for chasing and lunging at her instead (to no avail). I eventually collapsed on the couch with Whitney to watch CNN’s coverage of Obama’s transition, while Julie brought us a parade of butterfly wall decorations, her Minnie Mouse princess doll, and an Alice in Wonderland dress her brother bought for her in New York. By the time we said our “merci”s, gave our bisous, and left their house around 1:00 am, we were completely exhausted and happy. Like Disney princesses and the appreciation of good wine, families, too, are an international language.

Whitney, Pascale, and me during our weekend at Pascale's house in Frejus.

A view of the hill town of Bonnieux, France at twilight.

The results are in...

The election results are in and Barack Obama has been voted as the 44th President of the United States. Nearly all of France is overjoyed, and the French have adopted Obama's triumph over McCain as an international victory for everyone to celebrate. On Wednesday morning, I finally found one working station on my radio (besides the station called “Nostalgia”, which doesn’t count as a working station), and so I was able to listen to the French interviews and perspectives of this momentous election. They interviewed Kenyans in Obama’s father’s old village, who were rejoicing (all of Kenya has a national holiday tomorrow in Obama’s honor), and they interviewed many people in Paris who are of African descent, many of whom were crying tears of happiness.

It’s interesting to note that this particular radio station focused almost exclusively on Obama’s race and the fact that he is America’s first black to be voted into the White House. Does the media focus on this issue as much in the United States? When Whitney and I were in Flunch on Wednesday evening, a Frenchman of Arab descent approached us to discuss the outcome of the elections. He told us that he thought that nothing much was going to change, but that he’s heard that Americans’ lives have changed a lot since Bush has been in the White House, particularly in that we are now more afraid to travel internationally than ever before. He also said that whatever happens in America, the rest of the world feels, so he hopes fervently that good change will come from the new president. Whitney had been at Flunch for a few hours longer than I had, and apparently, two older French gentlemen had approached her as well to talk about American politics. People are very interested and are, for the most part, very pleased that Obama has been elected President.

Many of my co-teachers have also struck up conversations about the new American president. One teacher in particular was eager to discuss the politics of the moment. He told me that Europe has been granted the gift of hope thanks to the Americans electing Obama; Europeans now see that it is possible for a people pull themselves out of the muck of stagnant politics and unholy wars. Again, the teacher iterated the recurring theme: the French are pleased as punch that Americans have gotten past the worst of the civil rights battle and have elected an African American as president.

La Toussaint vacation

It's raining again in Provence today--that makes 3 days in a row now--and finding motivation to get up and move on a rainy afternoon is difficult no matter where you are living.

On Thursday evening, Pascale called me because I was missing some paperwork that is necessary in order to obtain my carte de sejour, my French residency card. Since Whitney and I already had plans to go to our "office" at Flunch, Pascale said she would stop by the restaurant on her way home to get the papers. I should note that Pascale is sort of our advisor for our assistant jobs, helping us with paperwork and appointments. She often goes above and beyond her job title, though, by inviting us out for meals and offering household goods that we're missing (Whitney didn't have any dishes, so Pascale gave her a whole set of her extras). Anyway, Pascale came to Flunch, we were making small talk when she asked us if we were still planning to drive down to the coast with her this weekend. After a few seconds of silence, we remembered that on the first day that we had met her in early October, Pascale had mentioned something about taking us with her to the coast. We hadn't really understood what she had been taling about beyond the fact that she was extending an invitation (something about a motorhome or a motorcycle?), but we had nodded and smiled agreeably. Apparently, that's all it took to make plans for this vacation, even though a month had passed without any mention of it. Different communication styles are a tricky thing sometimes! It was a good thing that I had decided to nix Italy or Northern France after all.

On Saturday morning, Pascale picked us up from our usual meeting point, La Poste (the post office), to take us with her to Frejus, where she goes every weekend to stay at her trailer by the sea. She took the long, scenic route through vineyards near the edge of the Alps, and we got stuck behind a huge truck tilting with bales of straw that allowed us to soak in the countryside even longer. This past summer, Pascale had purchased her own trailer in a park primarily occupied by vacationers and retirees. The trailer was small, comfortable, and even had a real oven that worked. :) She was incredibly generous the whole weekend, driving us to to see many coastal cities and feeding us good food. We went to Cannes multiple times to gawk at les gens riches, visited the perfume capital of Grasse, went to the outdoor markets in Frejus and St. Raphael, and chilled in the trailer park a la francaise. It was a wonderful and very relaxing weekend.

We also learned a lot about Pascale, which was perhaps the best part of the trip. At the age of 41, she has lived in Seychelles, Mexico, Romania, and of course, France, for various jobs in education. She has been in a relationship with a Mexican man for twelve years; they had met in Aix-en-Provence when she was going back to school for her second Master's and have been together since, although job-related, cultural, and oceanic barriers have prevented them from living in the same country for more than 3 years at a time. Her stories are amazing and range from being spied on in her Romanian apartment to buying black-market cigars in Cuba (another important thing about this interesting woman: she chain smokes fancy cigars most of the day). What a life!

On Monday, Pascale dropped us off at the train station where we hopped a train to Nice. Whitney and I had reserved beds for two nights in my favorite Nice hostel, where we were planning to meet Raine, an American teaching assistant in Bollene. I had been looking forward to returning to the hostel where I had had so much fun last year as a student (free breakfast and clean rooms!), but this time around, the hostel was horrible. I called from the train station to find that they didn't have our reservations, and so rather than putting us in a dorm room with 3-5 beds, we were placed in the 14-bed female dorm that was adjacent to the dining/social rooms at the hostel. The hostel blasted dance music in the gathering space until 2:00 am the first night and until 5:00 am the second night. I thus slept for a total of about 5 hours of our stay in Nice. It was painful. We met many interesting people at the hostel, but having to listen to them party until 5:00 am was very uninteresting. The second night, I had to change beds because they had accidentally given another traveller my bed, and in the middle of the second night, two girls were ready to kick me out of that bed because one of them had been assigned to it as well (I stalwartly refused to move). When we were finally checking out on Wednesday, the hostel workers tried to tell us that we checked in a day before we arrived and were therefore supposed to check out on Tuesday. Hoo boy, were we glad to leave!

Other than the messy hostel situation, Nice was fabulous and we had a lot of fun. You can't go wrong with the Mediterranean Sea, so we spent a lot of time walking through the old town near the beach. We visited the flower market on Sunday morning, walked up to the city's Roman ruins, ate gelato, went out for drinks, and even ate lunch at Subway (it was raining and the food was nearby and cheap - give me a break!). We had a great little vacation on the Riviera, and by the time it was time to return to Pertuis, I was happy to return home again. C'etait parfait.

Today, it's back to real life, which includes exciting tasks like doing laundry, cleaning my studio, sending in more French paperwork, and again tackling the internet situation (ugh...I will not address this topic in today's post as the plot has again thickened in the search for technology in France). This morning, I met Vivian, the American partie of the FrancoAmerican couple that I'm renting my apartment from. She just returned from a few months spent visiting family in Detroit. She's invited me to spend Thanksgiving with them and also to spend time with them when her Minnesotan brother and his wife come to visit next week. Small world!

**Check out the new photos on my Picasa site.

P.S. Thanks to the diligent research of Becky Kraft, we finally have the definition of "Flunch"! It means "French lunch". Finally, one of myriad French mysteries has been solved. ;)

Random Comments About Life

*I almost went to Italy for the upcoming vacation (yes, a vacation already. We get 1.5 weeks off for All Saints’ Day…), but the costs got out-of-control before the train tickets were even booked, so I canceled all plans for Italian Getaway 2008. Instead, I’m going with Whitney and our Conseil Pedagogique woman, Pascale, to Frejus for the weekend. Then Whitney, another English assistant named Raine, and I are going hang out in Nice for a few days. Even though I went to the Riviera many times when I was studying abroad in 2007, you just can’t go wrong with the Cote d’Azur, n’est-ce pas?

*People across France wait in a way that’s very different from the way that Americans wait. Whether waiting in line at the post office, waiting in line at a movie theatre, or waiting at a bus stop, the French stand there very quietly, very patiently, and very close to one another. It never fails to unnerve me when I’m in line at a bakery and find that the grisly old man in line behind me has deposited himself four inches from the back of my neck. Spacious personal bubble destroyed, I force myself to plant my feet and get used to it, because individual private space is expensive real estate in this country.

*The chainsaw men are now going wild on all the trees in the centre-ville of Pertuis; it’s very fitting for Halloween, I suppose. And Whitney says that their maniacal tree-trimming is simply for aesthetic purposes and not, in fact, to protect the sewers. Humph.

*I have limited skills and experience in the kitchen. “Limited” means microwaving a sweet potato for 6 short minutes and baking cookies simply so I can eat the dough. In my humble opinion, chocolate chip cookies are the only reward worth spending that much time in the kitchen. For everything else, there’s the priceless microwave and its swift ability to cook almost anything. In my Pertuis apartment, however, I am the lucky renter of a kitchenette with just 2 burners, a sink, and a refrigerator….no microwave. Thus I have been eating a lot of Fruit et Fibre cereal, bread of many different varieties (I’ve ventured beyond the bonne baguette, oh yes I have), canned ratatouille, lentil soup, apples, and lots of yogurt. Please note that the only one of those items requiring real preparation is the soup, for which I have become an expert at heating in a saucepan and even adding a pinch of provencal spices. Oh la la, aren‘t we all impressed. Needless to say, I am getting bored of these foods and have also been craving real protein. I bought eggs yesterday and plan to create delicious omelettes upon my return from the Riviera next week. Anyway, this is a cry of help to the universe: PLEASE send me your favorite easy recipes for any food that I can cook using just a stovetop. Please!! Merci beaucoup.

*On Tuesday, I taught one of my classes to say, “I am French,” and guess what their accent makes it sound like they’re saying? “I am Flunch”! No joke. When I have the internet chez moi, I’m going to conduct some deep linguistic research and get to the bottom of this mystery. What does “flunch” mean, anyway?

A Tree-Hugger

This rainy Wednesday morning, I woke up much earlier than I planned to hear loud noises right outside of my window. I opened my shutters to find that there was a whole team of men with neon vests and chainsaws in the square out front. Normally, waking up to a whole team of spicy Latin men outside my window would be a treat, but these guys had their sights--and their chainsaws--set on my only view of nature from my studio. What's more is that this great tree was just beginning to change from its summer-wear into its flashier autumnal suit of leaves. Sitting with my coffee, I watched the army of chainsaw-bearing men from behind my curtain as they filled their guns with gas and revved them to a growl. Inserting the telling metallic ladder into the mass of leaves, one of them climbed up and the massacre began.

I'd always wondered why French trees are so hideous in the winter, with their gnarly and malformed branches reaching up like skeletal hands to the sky. There's nothing soft or gentle about them, nothing like the wintry trees I'm used to seeing in Minnesota. Now I understand that the French "groom" the rows of plane trees so they're nothing but stumpy, twisted nests of tree trunk. Logically, I'm sure that these teams of tree-cutters are sent out with the mission of preventing the fallen leaves from clogging fragile French sewage systems, but I was so mad at those chainsaw men for stealing autumn from me! I kept hoping that the grey clouds would open, transforming the light drizzle into a thunderstorm to send the chainsaws home. But alas, my pretty tree is now gnawed down to a sad cadaver of what it was yesterday. Boo on French tree-trimming theory and practices.

**The first picture is of the tree pre-guerre. The second is of the skeleton tree post-guerre.

English Lessons at l'École

It’s now my second week of teaching English in French elementary schools, and since the official reason I’m living in France is to teach, I feel compelled to discuss my experiences in the schools. I’m teaching a total of 11 classes per week (they may add a 12th later), and I meet with each class just once a week. My primary school--the one in charge of my paperwork--is called Georges Brassens. Georges Brassens is located in the old centre-ville of Pertuis, just a four-minute walk from my apartment, and is the smaller of the two with about 200 students aged from six-years-old to eleven-years-old. Each Monday, I teach four classes at Georges Brassens, two at the CM2 level (fifth-grade equivalent) and two at the CM1 level (fourth-grade equivalent). My second school is called Pierre Augier and is located farther away--about a 20-minute walk--from my place. There are about 500 students at this school, which makes it one of two big elementary schools in Pertuis (for being a small city, Pertuis astounds by having five elementary schools, all within walking distance from each other). I teach a total of seven classes at Augier, three on Tuesday and four on Thursday. The students’ level vary more at this school, starting with three classes of CE1/CM2 (second/third-grade equivalent), two classes of CM1 (third-grade level), and two classes of CM2 (fifth-grade equivalent). I haven’t begun real teaching at Augier yet, but after briefly meeting with all of the teachers, I have learned a bit about the students’ levels.

Quick note on the French education system: in 2002, the French government and the parents of elementary students voted in favor of a decision to make English and German instruction obligatory in elementary schools across France. That seems like a great plan, except for the little problem that the government doesn’t train these instructors to teach foreign languages at the elementary level. Many of the teachers have told me that because they don’t feel comfortable with their own English skills, they either haven’t started English lessons this year or they put in a CD of the English alphabet to fulfill their requirements. Most of these teachers haven’t even used English since they were in high school! Thus my students’ language levels depend heavily on the personal aptitudes and experiences of their primary instructor’s English, which of course varies dramatically depending on the person. *Interesting.*

Each class runs for 45 minutes (however, CE1 and CE2 last just 30 minutes to accommodate shorter attention spans), and I am solely in charge of the lesson and structure of the class. I speak almost exclusively in English for the older kids, but for many of the youngest students, this is their first encounter with English so I instruct in both languages. The classroom teacher is supposed to stay in the classroom at all times to deal with discipline (whoo, another topic in itself!), but they don’t always follow this rule. I’ve found that the level of teacher-involvement in my lessons varies dramatically, from a teacher who tells me what will be doing during today’s class to teachers who just let me go and don’t get involved at all. I’m finding that teachers of the youngest students usually don’t get involved, but the CM2 teachers would like to have a plan for the coming weeks. My favorite teacher is one who meets briefly with me each day and discusses what she is doing to complement my lessons during the rest of the week’s English classes, and my least favorite is, without a doubt, the teacher who tells me last-minute what we’re doing during today’s lesson (mind you, this plan had changed dramatically from the exacting plan for today she had told me the week before).

One of my least attentive classes meets for English right after recess and a half hour before dismissal, and believe me, we all would rather be elsewhere. This particular class is at the CM1 level, comparable to the American 4th grade, but their English skills are limited to “Mah name eez Margot/Lucas/Hugo” and “Ahh em neuf (“nine”) yerss hold.” They can also count to 10, but that’s only with me in front, chanting it along with them. We’ll be moving slowly in that class. One of my classes at the CM2 level, however, can string whole sentences together in English and actually understands my questions without me needing to make wild hand gestures, noises, or facial expressions. I’m learning to be creative!

The best part is by far being with the kids and hearing them try to pronounce difficult words (“thirteen” may be the most difficult word in the English language for a French person). Today, a boy in my CM1 class rushed up to me as I was leaving the classroom to ask me what “treat”, “friend”, and “happy” meant, all in quick succession. When I gave him the translation in French, he had such a look of relief on his face. :) I’ve run into two of my students around Pertuis so far, and they both have gotten big smiles on their faces and said, “Hello, Jennifer!” The chaotic French education academy is a lot easier to swallow when you get great little paybacks like that.

Approaching the schools for the first time was a daunting experience, thanks to the foreboding walls and gates that surround every school I’ve ever seen in France. How do you even get in?? The first trick is finding the door or gate with a doorbell (and the keypad to enter the secret code once you’ve been initiated…France is all about secret codes). Once you successfully ring the bell and the vague, muffled voice responds (you understand nothing but hope that someone’s coming to find you), you enter the courtyard and the world of French Education (which, for me, falls into the same category as Church, Supreme Court, and Grandmother and thus deserves to be in caps). Once inside the actual building, you realize that although people speak different languages and partake in different cultures, schools all around the world are still decorated with messy finger-paintings à la Picasso, and naughty kids still have the privilege of cooling their behinds on the hallway floors. Teachers still jam up in impatient lines waiting for the photocopier, and staircases still have worn grooves where generations of students have slid down in an effort to impress their comrades (the grooves are just deeper in France - these buildings are really ancient). There are always teachers’ lounges, where the instructors collapse during recesses; the only difference is that in France, some teachers drink pastis (yes, real alcohol) during recess rather than a fourth cup of coffee.

French kids need their recess time just as much as French teachers need their recess time, an international concept. French kids get several recesses of 30 minutes throughout the day, in addition to an hour-and-a-half lunchtime, during which their families either opt for them to eat at the cantine (lunchroom where the food is disgusting but dirt-cheap--another common ground for America and France) or for them to go home for lunch. As a side note, the school does keep close control of their children during this lunchtime. Today at Georges Brassens, the director made multiple phone calls regarding one student who was signed up to eat at the cantine but had ridden his bike off the school grounds during two lunchtimes last week. (I haven’t yet figured out how it’s possible for students to escape from the walled grounds in the first place (stowaway with validated students?), but I will start watching more closely, I promise.) I go home every day for lunch, since I live so close and would rather eat the good French food not found in the cantine; so far, my mother hasn’t received a call yet about my absence at lunchtime, so I think I’m in the clear. You never do know here. ;)

This post ended up being about 3x as long as I planned…I guess I have more to say about school than I thought! Love from me and all the great people at Flunch. xox

Je m’appelle Jennifer et je suis Flunchaholique

When I was studying abroad in Avignon, several other students and I spotted a local restaurant called “Flunch” down a quiet street lined with stately plane trees. We were fascinated by its funny Franglais name and vowed that we would go there one day to sample its delicacies. Of course, time eventually ran away from us and we never made it Flunch. When I arrived in Aix-en-Provence at the end of September, I spotted another Flunch and noticed that they advertised Wifi Gratuit - free WiFi. Since I was staying in a dirty and expensive hostel without internet access, I started walking to Flunch daily to buy a café au lait and more importantly, to use my laptop to search for housing and keep in touch with people at home. After eating lunch at Flunch once, I noted to myself to never repeat that mistake, as the buffet-style food is tasteless and expensive. I would leave when my computer battery eventually tuckered out after a couple of hours and then return the next day for the same routine. After a week of Flunching, I met a couple of other assistants, both of whom knew and loved the restaurant for its wifi gratuit; they taught me that this Mecca of Modern Technology and French buffet food also has power outlets so we could potentially plug our computers into the wall, glue our fesses to the chair, and remain in Flunch indefinitely. Shortly thereafter, I moved to Pertuis where I discovered another Flunch, and since then, I have claimed its internet access as my own.

I showed Whitney my discovery of Flunch’s wifi gratuit on the first night that she arrived. Since then, we have nightly Flunch dates to check our email, find out what’s happened in the world since the previous night, and try to figure out our French paperwork and accounts. The workers at Flunch recognize us now, the pair of American redheads addicted to the Internet, since we unfailingly make the 15-minute trek each night despite rain or fatigue. Last night, a tall male Flunchman with one hazy blue eye continued to smirk at us throughout the evening, and when we left (as usual, the last customers in the place, all the chairs already placed upside-down on the tables around us), he said, “A demain?”, meaning “See you tomorrow?” Haha. We chuckled good-naturedly as we rushed out the door, bien sur, but remain rather embarrassing to have such an un-classy reputation as Flunch’s special Internet Americans. They probably have Flunchworker meetings about us during which they discuss strategies to politely ignore the fact that we use them for their technology, refusing to purchase anything other than a carafe of wine, a can of Pepsi Max, or a cheap bottle of Vittel water. Someday, though, I may actually get consistent internet access in my apartment, and then what will the Flunchteam do? They will miss our presence dreadfully, I’m sure!

Internetschminternet

After spending 2 hours at the bank on Tuesday afternoon, all my account problems should now be fixed. They were very apologetic, and Sebastien, the banker helping me, even threw in some "merde!"s and "putain!"s to make me feel better. ;) It worked and I am appeased.

The newest French challenge to take centerstage is the Internet Fiasco. It turns out that in order to get an internet connection in France, your fixed telephone line needs to be "open". My internet box arrived from the company Neuf on Wednesday, and I miraculously set it all up without any problems. Unfortunately and unsurprisingly, the internet connection didn't work! While calling Neuf for the second time that day (the first time was to correct my bank account information), I was told that my line was "closed" and I would need to call France Telecom to open the line. Forty-five minutes and 110 euros later, the distracted operator at France Telecom informed me that my phone line is indeed "open" but it needs to be "recreated" in order for it to work. *Berk* I also will need to pay a 15 euro monthly subscription fee in order to continue using the line, which, he kindly informed me, will be automatically withdrawn from my bank account. Merci beaucoup!

Last night, my internet started working, out of the blue, at about 11:00pm. I spent hours last night and this morning catching up on e-mail, reading the news, searching for options for my upcoming vacation (okay, so France isn't that bad...they do know how to work their vacations.), and watching online TV. It was a Christmas miracle in October! This afternoon, however, my internet abruptly stopped working and I was again left staring at the dead wifi box on my desk. Instead of reaching for the cheap wine as I should have done, I went to a nearby phone/internet boutique and asked for clarification on the phone line issue. It turns out that if I call Neuf (again) and ask them to "degroup" my line, I can get reimbursed for my monthly fee from France Telecom, minus the charges for the first two months of usage. Wha-?? This whole process of technology in France is tremendously illogical, but I've come to realize that life here goes much more smoothly if I play their game and do what I'm told (lately, this means shelling out many euros). Ahhh.

France is indeed a difficult country to adjust to, especially when dealing with already-complicated issues like the internet and banking. The good news is that they provide an inexpensive and enjoyable antidote: cheap wine. Vive la France!

My Personal Financial Crisis

My bank problems have compounded manifold. After realizing on Sunday that my housing insurance forms from the bank didn’t have my name on them, I looked through all my bank documents and realized that while I do have a bank account under my name at the Credit Agricole, the all-important RIBs (account reference forms used frequently in France for deposits and payments) that they gave me are those of someone else. I have deposited 100 euros into this account, used the account to sign up for internet service, and what’s more disastrous is that I gave the academy the wrong RIBs for the direct deposit of my salary and for the obtainment of my residence card. I tried to go to the bank today in between classes at Pierre Augier, but of course they’re closed from 12:15 pm to 2:45 pm for lunch. I just called the secretary to the Director of the Aix-Marseille academy, and it sounds like she’s going to try calling the bank in Avignon to sort it out, but in the meantime, I am going to go to the Pertuis branch after my 3:30 pm class to do what I can. If they make me go back to Avignon for their mistakes, I will light my hair on fire (or theirs instead!).

Yesterday was my first day of teaching at Georges Brassens. In my imagination, I was going to have a few days of observation to see how it’s done, but I was thrown into the pit immediately, teaching four full 45-minute periods! For having had zero experience in front of a classroom as an instructor, it was an overwhelming success, but I will certainly need to take a lot of initiative and be creative this year, as we have no supplies or resources to work with in either school. Thank goodness for the internet (and once I have it chez moi, can you imagine how great life will be?)! The teachers and their desire to work together varies dramatically, with some teachers telling me exactly what I’ll be doing, some sincerely wanting to work on a program for the year’s classes, and some basically ignoring me other than to open the door. The directors at both schools are both very welcoming and willing to help, interested in what I have to offer and also concerned for my overall well-being in Pertuis. What I have discovered about this region is that the administrative organization is laughably disorganized, chaotic, deeply entrenched in bureaucracy, but the individuals are incredibly generous and kind, more than willing to go out of their ways to help where they can.

I’ll be spending today and Thursday at my second school, Pierre Augier. I’ll keep you posted on how it goes!

Le Quotidien

Since most businesses and stores (read: all except McDonald's and Flunch) are closed on Sundays, life in Pertuis is very calm and quiet today. Last night, Whitney and I decided to go to a bar, but to our chagrin, nothing was open. It was 11:00pm on a Saturday night! I might need to take up embroidery or sock-darning to keep myself occupied; please send me your mending. ;)

I spent a lot of last week in Avignon doing various training things and meetings and appointments. I now own my own personal copy of an x-ray of my lungs, which will serve as unique artwork for the bare walls of my studio. Another interesting thing happened today: I realized that the name on my bank account is not my own. In fact, the wrong name is printed on ALL of my important documents from the bank: my deposit slips (which I've already sent in to apply for my residency card and salary deposit), my apartment insurance papers, and basically all crucial documents. I also used this bank account number to sign up for the internet, which is also a treacherous and complicated process with a wait-time of four weeks. Nothing is easy here!

All of this excitement makes me appreciate the relative simplicity and straightforward-ness of American life. I'm planning to go to the bank tomorrow to try to sort this out; I expect they will try to make me go to Avignon to fix it since I opened my account there, but I refuse to travel an hour and a half to make it easier for them when they've already made everything so difficult. Whitney and I have decided that the banks should post their apparent motto behind the counters in gold letters: "We are here to serve you by complicating your life and making everything more difficult." A comment box large enough for my comments does not exist! But let's be honest, even small, normal-sized comment boxes are unheard of in this country. Ah, France.

On Friday, Sylvain came down to visit me from Paris. We toured around Aix-en-Provence and Pertuis, and then he left Saturday night due to the complications of traveling in the South of France on Sundays. When he was young and his grandparents were alive, they had lived in Aix, so he showed me where they lived and the places he remembered visiting as a child. It was enjoyable to see the city--so new to me--through the eyes of someone's distant memory. For lunch, we ate at a nice restaurant in the middle of the old part of Aix before taking the bus to Pertuis. After we spent a few hours spent wandering around, the Pertuisienne said, "Au revoir" to the Parisien as he hopped on the bus to Aix in order to make his return train to Paris. Even though Pertuis and my studio may be small, I so much enjoy showing it to visitors - it's an accomplishment just to be here.

Tomorrow is my first day at the schools, so this afternoon, I need to plan some sort of introductory English lesson in case they want me to start teaching on the first day. Because of the little communication we have received from the schools regarding their expectations of us, I need to be ready for anything! Also on the agenda today is a trip to the laundromat, as my supply of wearable clothes is rapidly dwindling. Although there are definite challenges involved in moving to France, I thoroughly appreciate such quotidien activities and interactions; the friendly, quirky people and the charm of life here make the struggle overwhelmingly worth it.

A Rainy Wednesday

It’s raining today, just the second day it’s rained--or even been cloudy--since I’ve been in Pertuis. I like the rain because it’s soothing and comfortable, the same everywhere around the world. I’m starting to get settled into my home here and enjoy regularly going to the store to pick up everyday items like cleaning products and light bulbs (although of course, even this can be confusing sometimes…who knew that light bulbs could follow such different size and wattage rules in Europe) and am slowly becoming accustomed to the slower pace of life here. My favorite moments of each day are the little ones, like opening my shutters in the morning to this little French town, picking up a head of lettuce and a baguette on my way home in the evening, and lighting the candles on my kitchen table; even washing all my dishes by hand has some magic here simply because I’ve never needed to wash everything by hand before (my family will be able to appreciate the significance of this change!). My new Provencal life still holds some shimmery charm that has me enchanted.

Whitney, my fellow Pertuis elementary school assistant, has found a chez elle! While searching for housing, she’s been staying with me since she arrived a week ago. We compare it to American dorm life: sharing a small room and bathroom, eating all meals together, and learning our way around the streets and habitudes of life in this small town. One of the best parts is that we are both redheads--a special thing in France!--and so when we walk around together (with our accidentally matching purses and computer bags), we attract more attention than we normally would. Anyway, Whitney’s been an Olympian apartment-searcher, calling and making appointments with agencies and individuals in both Aix-en-Provence and Pertuis every day; finally, she’s nearly a the finish line! The final decision should be made this evening, and if she ends up choosing the studio, which is also located in Pertuis centre-ville, she’ll be moving in next Monday and we’ll be close neighbors.

Today, we were invited to a lunch au restaurant with Pascale, our primary contact for our jobs, the directeur of Pierre Augier, one of my two schools, and the Inspecteur of the lower Luberon valley schools. We’ve heard negative comments about the Inspecteur from several people now, and thus I had been rather looking forward to meeting this rather powerful man with the notorious reputation. We arrived at Le Gout du Jour right at 12:30 this afternoon, where Pascale and the directeur, Jacques, were waiting for us outside, sans the Inspecteur. With a shrug, Pascale informed us that the Inspecteur was unable to attend the lunch. We ate very well and had a very interesting conversation about the region, our responsibilities as assistants, and the education system in France. In typical French fashion, it lasted almost 3 hours! It’s exhausting to participate in French conversations for hours on end, so I didn’t get much else accomplished for the rest of the day.

**Photo of me, Whitney, and secretary of Academic Inspector is from a welcome lunch we were invited to in Pertuis.

Le Debut

I finally came up with a relevant name for my blog, so I'll begin my France story here! On September 15th, I flew out of Minneapolis-St. Paul international airport and started my journey to France, where I'll be an English Teaching Assistant for a 9-month contract in Pertuis, a small town in Provence. After spending a wonderful and acclimating week in Paris, I hopped on the TGV (high-speed train) south to Aix-en-Provence to begin "real life": finding an apartment, meeting the people at the two elementary schools where I'll be teaching, starting to climb the mountains of paperwork required by this bureaucratic republic, and basically establishing a new life for myself in France.

After unsuccessfully searching for a home in Aix, I headed up to Pertuis (30 minutes away) to search for un logement. After just a few hours in town, I found a reletively inexpensive studio in the centre-ville. I'm renting from a middle-aged FrancoAmerican couple (he's French & she's American) who couldn't be nicer and more welcoming. I've now been in Pertuis for almost two weeks, have participated in assistant orientation in the nearby cities of Marseille and Avignon, and have welcomed my first American visitors--my parents!--in Provence. I've met many other assistants, including Whitney and Andrew, the other American assistants in Pertuis.

Now, real life has begun, and along with it, real frustrations and challenges. I've finally signed up to have internet access chez moi, but now they tell me it won't actually work for another 3 or 4 weeks. The bureaucratic chaos of the Aix-Marseille Academy--the academy overseeing our positions as international teaching assistants--has been a confusing void of information. Apparently, communication among the academy's colleagues is minimal, which has been an interesting introduction to the reality of southern France. Another cultural acclimation quoi! I've decided it's best to just show up for the appointments and meetings with few expectations, and then when something actually gets accomplished, it's pareil to stumbling upon a delicious and inexpensive bottle of red wine.

That's all for today...off to another appointment with the people from the Circonscription.