I’m inviting you all to come along on a magic ride with me as I live, work, and love in France…
God, wouldn’t it be awful if I actually wrote like that? If I do ever become that saccharine, please come at me with all the wrath of YHWH.
A ton of things have hijacked my life in the past week, so I haven’t had much time to myself – all this kindness leaves me few private moments, and those I use as a siesta stopgap to my exhaustion. I’m going to recap as much as possible, starting with some first impressions. Names of my colleagues have been changed for the most part, or just shorted to an initial when I’ve run out of ideas. Apologies ahead of time for the frequent use of semi-colons – most of them are typos. I’m still getting used to the French keyboard.
I arrived in Soissons to nobody. That’s right. Cue western desert music. I yanked my clunky bags through the narrow door of the train station, stared at the nondescript buildings, then the train station sign, then finally fixated on the deserted parking lot. A couple of men on bikes registered my forlorn look and paused their chatting to ask jokingly if I needed a ride. One pointed to a small rack on the back of his bike. “I don’t think I’ll fit!” I replied in French. They laughed and peddled off, leaving just me and a couple of bag people wandering around aimlessly.
“Well, shit,” I thought, “What a welcome." I rifled through my backpack for my phone; but realized as I skimmed my contact list that I’d transcribed Mr; Lion’s number incorrectly. And by incorrectly, I mean that I had been so tired the night before that I’d typed in my own telephone number instead of his. And I didn’t really skim my contact list; I actually sent a text message, and when I received the same thing back as ‘one new text message,’ I realized I was indeed a fucking moron.
So I called Annie, Rory’s motherly friend, and she found my e-mail correspondence despite my broken instructions in French. The moment I was done, the man himself called and swooped by ten minutes later to load my baggage into his car. He’s an august sort of fellow, all stiff collared shirts, crisp syllables, with a removed air of benevolence. We zoomed to his office, full of pleasant people (one of whom recruited me to row at the local club), then to the high school I’m living at, where Mr. Lion fiercely defended my right to stay out late and go to the cinema if I so chose; “I’m sorry it’s such a dump,” he told me in the car afterwards, “I of course couldn’t say anything in front of the woman there, but if you want to find something else, I understand completely." I laughed. It’s pretty clear that the man has an appreciation for fine living, and my dorm room does not qualify. The hallway I live on is dirty and dilapidated, but the rooms themselves are clean and almost horrifyingly modern. There’s a fairly nice communal shower, but the kitchen is in a sorry state. It does, however, have a revolting hotpot, which as you know is all I care about. A little elbow grease and I’ll be having tea parties in no time.
My current room is a miraculous mix of kindergarten chic and juvie detention centre. (I’m supposed to move into my permanent room later this week) It’s large with impersonal white walls and a cold, grey tile floor, but the owners attempted to jazz up the minimal furnishings by ordering them in brightly colored plastic. My red plastic bed demands My Little Pony sheets. Alas I have none.
Décor aside, I’m actually pretty ecstatic to have my own space. By pretty ecstatic, I mean I jumped up and down on the bed and squealed a few times. It’s amazing to have a spot where I can just exist. I can throw my clothes around, yell and scream, dance obnoxiously to mu music at all hours, and I don’t have to answer to anyone. It’s a freedom I was absolutely denied when the last time I was in France, and it’s one I’m truly grateful for now.
I’m going to give a better description of the people I’ve met in some later posts, but I think my impressions will be more digestible in smaller chunks; The gist of it all is that everyone I’ve met has been overwhelmingly kind, or at the very least, highly engaging. I went and ate dinner the first two nights with the principal of one of the schools and his family, then spent the next two nights with one, then the other of the two youngest teachers. I love all the people at the school I’ve been visiting, but it’s looking more and more like I won’t actually work there. The administration is a bit disorganised, so I haven’t actually done an official day’s work yet (beyond a day or two of shadowing), or received my schedule, nor have any idea what schools I’m actually going to be working in. Normally I’d be frustrated, but I’ve bee having such a good time hanging out with some of the teachers, I find I don’t much mind. It’s my new Zen perspective.
I know things will get difficult once I start teaching, but so far I want you all to know that I am very; very happy to be here. Thanks to all of you who convinced me I ought to give it another shot.
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