God Help the Girl

Hello again, dear readers. First off, I was mentioned on someone else's blog, after I mentioned her on mine while blogging about the same series of events, which is pretty fun: I'm hoping this will lead to the creation of a greater expanded bloggiverse, incorporating my blog, Naomi's, Emma's, Ella's and eventually leading to a giant clusterfuck of blog posts akin to The Avengers, wherein we fight Sir Laurence Olivier or Sarah Siddons or some other ridiculously overqualified thesp.
Also, note benne: I'm typing this on a French keyboard which I've modified to work like an English one, so I should be making fewer spelling errors, as long as I stare fixedly at the screen and don't think about what I'm doing or where the keys are or, God forbid, look down, at which point I get a form of vertigo and lose a few braincells.

So, after two false starts, I had my first class that was just me today. My mother told me that I'm not a real teacher and shouldn't refer to myself as such, but screw her, lecturing eleven nonplussed French teenagers about social mobility and an economy of scarcity qualifies me to call myself whatever the hell I like. It was awful and nervewracking and I have a new respect for teachers, because it is extremely difficult to try and communicate with teenagers at the best of times, let alone when they're in a situation they're predisposed to hate. I felt like I asked 'does everyone understand' a hundred times and recieved a chorus of indifferent 'yes'es but they still retained that glazed look of noncomprehension in their eyes afterward. However, at the end, they were all able to speak relatively eloquently about the topic at hand, so maybe that's just how they always look. Also, I did feel very self-important writing words on the board and underlining them and then turning dramatically, picking on someone random and making sure they were paying attention.
"But what were those false starts?" I hear you ask; well, you know how sometimes you can't read your timetable because it's not only in a language you don't understand but in a truncated form of said language so you have no chance in hell of knowing what's going on, but you don't want to seem like a moron or, worse, a nuisance, so you nod when you think they ask if you understand?
That.
In my defense, four students showed up at these various un-classes, and I taught them all half a lesson apiece until the secretary came and asked what I was doing. So, I'm not the only one who can't read the timetables and also those students are now ahead of their peers academically, and so will now be heroes in their eyes, right? That's how that works in school, I believe.

In other news, the incredibly convoluted web of lies I've been weaving when the students have been interviewing me for class has already started to unravel: they've evidently been talking about me to their peers outside of the lessons, because some classes come in anticipating my answers and asking ridiculously specific questions, for example 'do you know pamplemousse?' (no, it doesn't make anymore sense in context) without the preceding line of enquiry to lead them there. They also seemed puzzled by some of my answers to questions like 'do you like rugby' because they clearly were expecting the answer I gave to the last class, but they haven't counted on my cunning: to prevent them copying from other groups, I'm presenting a different persona to each set of students, Roger-Smith-style.

I save Rory Spanish for the really difficult classes.

I've also told the students I don't speak any french, so as to discourage them from talking to me in their native tongue (although it's also increased them insulting me in French and then laughing behind their hands at my supposed lack of comprehension). This blew up in my face when one of the teachers, upon hearing me engage in a conversation en Francais, shouted 'but you said you didn't speak French! You LIED!'

I'm also getting caught up in the face needs of French people: apparently, you're meant to say 'bonjour' to everyone in the room when you enter, even if you don't know them and you have no and never will have any business with them. Also, I've been referring to all my colleagues as 'vous' because they're older than me and I don't really know them, but apparently this comes across as me wanting to put distance between myself and them. This is really confusing.

On the plus side, I was asked in one class what my dreams were and I answered 'I want to win an Oscar', because I thought it would make the children laugh and it's also kind of true.This lead to the Head of English asking if I wanted to help out with the school play this year and maybe lead some readings of plays with the more advanced kids. So I guess what I'm saying is...look out for more info on the Rob and Roberta 2015 European Premiere! I swear to God, I'll do that play in every country on earth.

Amiens

Hello again, I'm writing to you on a French keyboard, which I can't change to English layout, so my apologies if this post is riddled with spelling errors: rest assured, I'm not losing my fabled pedantry.

Speaking of my fondness for correcting people, I thought this would be a boon in a job such as this; I'd pictured myself pointing out grammatical errors with gay abandon and being paid for the privilege. Not so. I don't feel confident when one of my colleagues makes an error that I'm high enough in the pecking order to say anything- I don't want to step on any toes; and, on the whole, the students' english is so bad that unless the sentiment is utterly incomprehensible, I just don't bother. It'd take too long.
So far, my only interaction with the students has been them 'interviewing' me for a profile: this led to some interesting questions being asked- my favourite was 'are you bald?' to which I responded by tugging my ponytail (it transpired he meant 'are you bold?' [see what I did there?], which didn't occur to me, not because it's ungrammatical but simply because it's such an odd thing to ask). My least favourite question, which all three classes asked, without fail, twice, and which was then repeated at the bank, was 'do you have a wife and children?'- I hope to God I don't look that old.

On Friday, I went to Amiens for a conference for Language Assistants, which I honestly hadn't imagined was the kind of job which needed a conference. I won't bore you with the details of the talks; suffice to say they didn't tell me anything I didn't know already and if they did it was in French and I couldn't understand it. But I met some wonderful people while there: Naomi and Nicole, both Scots with whom I had lunch and very consciously tried not to discuss the referendum (no such luck); John, a Chicago native with whom I spoke a weird kind of pidgin composed of French, English, Spanish and Italian, with me not speaking the latter and he not speaking the penultimate, but neither of us wanting to concede and just speak our shared native tongue.
I ended up spending the night on a former Italian assistant's sofa, as part of couchsurfers. He actually slept on the sofa with me- we'd been Gentlemen and given up the bed to a lady who was also staying the night- and I managed to share a bed with someone without physically injuring them! #Progress

On Saturday, I went to the bank to open an account and I... think I succeeded. They didn't speak any English (naturally), and there were a lot of words I hadn't looked up, like 'interest', 'savings' or 'bank'. Still, the teller handed me something at the end, and it has my name and a bunch of numbers on it, so it's either a bank statement or I'm in the Matrix now.
She also gave me her number and I really don't know why so...winning?

Midnight in Paris

I know you all want to hear about my trip and my first day at work and how I'm settling in, blah, blah, blah, but I don't want to talk about that: I want to tell you about my birthday!

I had just the best birthday this year, in part because it was so unexpected. I'd been planning to go and visit Dani, a friend from sixth form, for a while, but originally I was going to travel to Paris on the day of my birthday. However, upon finding the school completely abandoned during the weekends, and with an invitation from Dani to go meet her (and some lovely Americans) a day early, it was a hobson's choice. So, I stuffed some clothes in a bag and ran to the station and a stroke of luck: there was a bus going right to the station coming just around the corner! I flagged it down and arrived with eight minutes before the next (and, as it transpired, final) train to Paris, which was just enough time to buy a ticket and the French equivalent of young person's railcard and jump onto the train just before it set into motion.
The journey took an hour and a half- during which time I should really have investigated the address of where Dani works and looked into how to get there, but I'm an idiot and so I read my book. I arrived in Gare du Nord at 19.10, with no idea of where to go or how to get there. Naturally, I went to McDonalds and read some more. At 20.00, Dani contacted me and told me to meet her at Republique. I hopped on the metro and emerged in a grand square, with a huge column, ornate lights and a surprisingly underwhelming fountain. Dani arrived soon after and we made our way to the apartment owned by Dani's american friends with whom I would be staying, me not having managed to book a hostel behind the damn firewall on the school internet (more on this in another post). Dave and Matt, Dani's American friends, were warm and welcoming and their flat was bloody enormous and most opulent. Later, another American arrived named Elizabeth, with whom I had an unknown previous connection (more on this later). I was offered wine and pie, and then we discussed getting dinner, as nobody had eaten. We eventually decided to order a 'cheesey box' from a place called 'Burger 66', and this proved to be the Best. Decision. Ever. 8 cheese burgers, 12 onion rings and 24 chicken nuggets later, we were all full but then it was time for pie. It turned midnight just as the pie came out, making it my official birthday cake (complete with candle) and justifying the title of this blog post. I was completely stuffed, but it tasted so delicious and I was so happy not to be spending the first part of my birthday alone that I nearly cried for happiness. Dani had bought me some very lovely gifts from her place of work, and I opened these with a rictus grin of gratitude on my face; soon after, Dani and Elizabeth departed and I went to sleep on the sofa bed, thinking that the evening could not have gone better.

The next day, I woke up to my mother calling me. I don't normally transcribe conversations because that part of my life is over, but this one needs to be read in all its magnificence.

ME: 
Hello?

MUM (Fortissimo):
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HAPPY BIRTHDAY-

ME (Piannissimo):
Mum, please, I'm in someone else's house.

MUM (Massimo Fortissimo):
WHAT?!
  
ME (Piano):
I'm in someone else's house!

MUM (Indescribably Fortissimo):
YOU'RE IN CHURCH?! WHY?!

ME:
I'm in someone else's house!

MUM (World-shatteringly Fortissimo):
OH MY GOD, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?!

 Still, it's nice to remembered on your special day. After explaining things to mum, I went for a walk and got completely lost among the sidestreets- I ate breakfast in the only cafe I could find that was open (even in Paris, French establishments do not open on a Sunday) and then tried to figure out where the hell I was. Eventually, I found a metro and, having arranged to meet Matt and Dave for lunch, travelled to Odeon (I love that the Odeon metro stop opens right by a cinema) and ate some delicious Indian food with them. After this, I went to Luxembourg park where there is, no joke, a working indoor marionette theatre in the middle of the park. I paid for a ticket (the woman behind the till inquiring 'you know it's for four years olds?') and let the magic unfold before me: the show was Guignol and the Circus, and if there was a plot, I didn't follow it (although I think at some point a clown in search of a pay rise sicced a lion on the public). I didn't need to follow the dialogue, though; it was a joy just to watch the recreations of classic circus acts in puppet form.

After this delighftul diversion, I went to a tea party at Dani's place of work, the Shakespeare and Company bookshop, which helpfully provided another justification for this post's title:

Three guesses what film this is from.

The tea party is a weekly spoken word event run by Pamellys and once upon a time attended by Ernest Hemingway. I read a poem and was told that my voice was maginificent and that I was a fantastic actor and writer, and Pamellys even asked me to read a bit of Shakespeare just to hear how I'd pronounce it. I'm gonna be straight here: flattery always makes my day, and the fact it was my birthday just made it all the sweeter.

After this, Elizabeth and I went for a drink and she mentioned that she once went to Versailles with some friends. Now, I mention this because while she was there she met an old classmate who turned out to be...(dun dun dun)...FRANCES HEBERT, my one time Fresherling. Of course, I didn't learn that Frances and Elizabeth knew each other until I went on facebook later, and she didn't mention Frances by name when relating the Versailles story, but then Franny told me about meeting Elizabeth there, and I put two and two together. Truly, the world is a tiny place and the internet helps make it even smaller.

That evening, Dani and I ate crepes and reminisced about Sixth Form and then returned to Matt and David's to watch Kinky Boots. It was a lovely end to a lovely day and really I can't think how turning 23 (the age when my mum met my dad- eep!) could've gone any better. Let's hope this year continues in that vein.

COMING SOON: A post detailing my first days at work and moving to Laon. A bientot!