Find the Fun

I've envisaged this blog as many things at one point or another: a balm for those suffering from Post-Year-Abroad blues; a very public diary; the thing which finally catapults me to stardom and allows me to rub elbows with the finest; but today it's going to serve as an advice column for others teaching English abroad.
I had a moment of teaching triumph last week. One of my fellow profs asked me to prepare a lesson on Britain/British stereotypes, and I didn't spend long enough on it: what I'd prepared was dull and staid and mainly revolved watching this news report on French stereotypes of the British vs. British stereotypes of the French:

If you watch the above video, you may notice that it'd be very difficult to understand if you were a second language English speaker. Also, that it's not really news and that it contains Gyles Brandreth and so is terrible. My colleague rightly called me up on it, and said that this wasn't what he wanted or, more importantly, had asked for. He told me that I was being too much like a lecturer and not a teacher (and certainly not an assistant): I was just planning to talk and expecting the students to take notes. "The assistant is meant to be fun," he told me, "They only get to see you once every three weeks and it's meant to be a treat. You're supposed to be a break from the teachers."

He didn't mean it cruelly, but I felt chastened and he was right: it was a long time since I'd been in a classroom, not a lecture theatre, and I'd forgotten what I used to enjoy doing when I was a student. I sat in on a couple of his lessons and then went home and thought about what I could do that was different and fun but still educational.
The next day, I came in and asked the teacher if I could take his next class. He was recalcitrant, especially since he'd not been expecting me that day, but I wanted to make up for the class I'd missed. He eventually acquiesced but said he'd take over again if it looked like the class was bored or confused and took his place at the back with, I believe, some trepidation. I stood up before the class and told them that I was thinking of a British celebriry and they had twenty questions to guess their identity, but I'd only answer 'yes' or 'no'.
They loved it.
We played it four time, covering forty minutes, and for the final fifteen, we played a competitive game of Telephone, which is what you have to call Chinese Whispers in schools now- the kids all called it Arab Telephone anyway, which is the French name, cos they're all racists. Yet again, they really enjoyed it and I was vindicated.
The teacher congratulated me on putting together a much better lesson, and said that this was what he wanted to see more of in future. (He asked me to come back and play it with them again later today). And so I learnt an important lesson about teaching children which I'm pretty sure they already taught me at the TEFL conference I attended: Find the Fun. The fact that this lesson, for me at least, was first professed by Faith from Buffy does not lessen its impact.

She always Finds the Fun. (Spoilers/ In Killing people/Spoilers)

However, next week I've been asked to give another class on slavery, so I might be unlearning this lesson pretty quick.

Auld Lang 'Ockey

Guess what, friends: I attended a sporting event this weekend. Despite my illustrious sporting history, it may shock you to learn that I don't actually attend all that many organised athletic occasions, just as you'll be disappointed to hear that I haven't been to Mass in a while. Anyway, the last time I went to a game or match or throw-down or whatever was when my father forced me to sit through a match between Liverpool and some people who weren't Liverpool. After that two hours of my life that I will never get back, I swore that I would live each minute to the fullest and thus never watch a bunch of fully-grown adults chase an arbitrary object in pursuit of points that have no effect ever again after that game is finished.
So what tempted me back? All the cool kids were doing it.
The cool kids in question happened to be these guys:

Colm the column is really the glue who holds us together.

That's (from left to right): Naomi, Nicole and John. I first encountered (and blogged about) them at the conference in Amiens but as far as I know this is the first time they've actually been documented on camera and so, naturally, the picture's pretty blurry and we can't be certain it's not just a grizzly standing on its hindlegs.
The above photo was taken in Amiens, where the Ice Hockey match was, at the ferris wheel of the Christmas Market, for which you pay four euros and boy, do you get your money's worth: by the third go-round, we were starting to get sick of each other; by the fifth, factions had formed; by the eigth, there was an actual murder scene. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

After that, we did some exploring of Amiens and its various Christmas wonders, which included but were not limited to, a christmas display with some questionable upside-down cookie on fairy action:

In this much clearer photo, you can clearly see that they're actually just a weather balloon.

Another with some horrible racial politics:

The brown bear is being hidden from view in the box, while the white bear is allowed to frolic free.

And some really freakish animatronic Christmas trees which, when photographed, were not there. I'm pretty sure one of them followed me home.

Then it was time for the hockey game. It was actually very fun: they fight more than in football and this is awesome they're always carrying potential weapons in the form of massive bladed clubs. Plus, they can practically teleport from one end of the rink to the other using the power of physics and ice, so it felt like they moved much faster. Honestly, the most difficult part was trying to decipher what the yobs-cum-cheerleaders to our left were chanting: at one point, it was 'I love you baby' with what I presume were midly-altered lyrics; at another they seemed to be singing 'Auld Lang Syne' and I have no idea what they think that song's about; then, they moved onto just chanting what sounded like 'hockeys!'. Plural. We eventually deciphered that the goalie's name was the incredibly French 'O'Keith', which is basically homonymous with 'hockeys' said in a French accent.

After this, we went for drinks with Alberto, with whom John and I had stayed last time we were in Amiens, and who was very graciously putting us all up, even if it meant he had to sleep on the floor (I promise, mother, I offered to take this bullet, but he insisted). While drinking, I discovered two new cocktails which I just adore: the first is a brass monkey, which is just a banana milkshake with kahlua and the second is a strawberry daiquiri which is like grenardine but alcoholic. The next morning, I wasn't so much hungover as I was having sugar withdrawal symptoms.
After this, we retired to bed and I was sharing with John and yet again I didn't sleep-punch him. I think we can now safely say I'm cured and can see my teddy bear again. Oh, Snowy, how I've missed you.

Toddlers and Lighting Technicians

I'm applying for jobs, because there's now only five months until my current one ends and it took much longer than that to get this position. It's annoying, because the time elapsed between applying to work for the British Council and starting the work far, far outstretches the amount of time I will be working for them. I'd kind of like to be paid in retrospect.
That's not going to happen.
Anyway, job applications mean not only updating the old Curriculum Vitae but also writing personal statements, cover letters and just general boilerplate. I actually have to admit a slight passion for writing about myself (imagine that); especially when I get to make it sound like my own Wikipedia article. Case in point:

I am an active dramatist, humorist, journalist and poet.

I actually wrote that in an application yesterday. I guess what I enjoy about writing such things is the opportunity it affords me to pomp myself up: in certain circumstances in social interactions, we are allowed to admit to a particular strength or flourish that we believe we possess. However, more than one at a time and what was once confidence begins to feel like boasting or, worse, arrogance. I'm not saying I want a society where everyone is suddenly allowed to go around declaring themself God's gift or even just a particularly adept human being- I've spent too much time around toddlers and lighting technicians to know how irritating that gets- but I do wish that my parents hadn't instilled in me such a disdain for pomp. I wish I knew how to take a compliment, which is not something I was ever taught, despite doubtless being praised far too much as a child. See? I don't feel like I can even write about this subject without throwing in a healthy dose of self-deprecation just to show that I'm not arrogant.
I think arrogance and dullness were the two things I was raised to be most vigilant for: I remember very clearly my mother telling me I was being boring and to stop talking if no one wanted to listen to what I had to say. And I can recall word for word Mrs. Sharpe berating me for boasting. The thing is, I know that a lot of contemporary acquaintances will be rolling their eyes as they read this, and muttering how I've never seemed too bothered about being tedious or concieted, and I feel I have to acknowledge this because otherwise I'm not admitting the flaws that I have.
I feel I'd be a lot happier if I didn't care about such things. Certainly, I'd be less self-conscious and that could only be a good thing (yet again, I feel compelled to acknowledge the folks who would say I've never been conscious of anything in my life and to simultaneously acknowledge that constantly acknowledging these things is boring for you to read). I spend almost all my social interactions, except those with the people around whom I'm absolutely, completely comfortable wondering if I'm holding up my end of the conversation, if I'm coming across as too self-interested or banal and if the other person has picked up on the fact that only half my brain is dedicated to this conversation because the other half is desperately monitoring my even action.
I don't know why I'm writing about this, other than writing my personal statement made me pensive and I haven't updated this thing in a while. I don't believe there's an answer to this, other than alcohol- although that doesn't really silence my self-conscious side so much as take its hands away from the reins of my body and mouth. I also now feel that I must mention that I don't dare think I'm unique in this situation: although, like a lot of middle-class children, I was always told that I was special, I was somehow also simultaneously discouraged from believing this.
How does that even work?

Honey Badger

I can't sleep. A fire alarm just went off, but honestly I was awake before: naturally, this sleepless night before a full day of work follows a whole fortnight when I didn't have to work and therefore could sleep a full ten hours with no preparation or prevarication. I imagine this is no coincidence: the knowledge that I have to be up in the morning for some reason makes me wary to sleep now, as though I fear that, like Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and a Funeral, I might overshoot the mark and might as well go round the horn, the long way around.
Is it worry that's preventing restfulness? That seems ridiculous. Honestly, this insomnia far outweighs in seriousness any other niggle that might prey on my mind. I think back to a documentary I watched at the beginning of the holiday that has now come to a rather damp squib of a close with this bout of listlessness about Honey Badgers and how they tackle all their problems head on with a grand display of insouciance and casual violence. Were I a Honey Badger, I'd use this extra night alloted to me to go piss off some snakes, steal some food from a pride of lions or have weird, hurty sex in a hole I dug. Instead, I'm an omphaloskeptic narcissist, so I shall blog my time away.

I never made it to Berlin this halfterm, as was my original plan, but I did go to Paris, Amsterdam and Brussels.

PARIS

I spent two days in Gay Paris, as it was Dani's birthday and I wanted to repay her for the marvellous celebration she gave me. The theme for the party was 'Glam Rock Pirates', so naturally I dressed like this:

It was while in Paris, staying with Dani's friends Matt and Dave, that I watched the documentary which gave us the title for this post as well as the incredibly unnecessary opening paragraph.
After the party, Matt and I, as well as a new acquaintance named Cordelia, and two Italians whose names I sadly never caught, went for drinks. The reason I never got their names was that the bar we went to was so loud that we couldn't hear each other talk. This lead to Matt proposing a rather novel form of conversation wherein we wrote to each other while seated at the same table: interestingly, this elevated the talk above the level of idle chittero chattero that one would expect from such loose acquaintanceships and meant we learnt quite intimate, fascinating details about each other (our greatest non-physical fears, when we stopped considering our parents' house home) in a very short time. I don't know why physically writing our thoughts made us more prone to divulge information, but the effect was palpable and incredibly liberating.

The next day, I looked around Notre Dame

Through the rooves and gables I can see them!

Naturally singing 'Hellfire' to myself all the while. This bought home to me something I had suspected for a while: my appreciation of aesthetic beauty has become much greater as I've grown older. I used to disdain looking around churches or my parents' frequent suggestion of simply strolling around and looking at what was around me. But that's exactly what I did, and I was so overwhelmed I even tried my incredibly inexperienced hand at some photography:

Admittedly, very few locations on earth offer up such levels of aesthetic pleasure as Paris, but it definitely contrasts to the first time I visited the city when I was disgusted that the plan was to just look around.
After this, I returned to the same poetry-reading tea party that I attended on my birthday and then caught the train home. It was a great weekend.

AMSTERDAM

On a whim, realising I would be all alone with killer clowns in Laon, I decided to soujourn for a week in 'The Dammage' as Anna calls it. Booking my train twelve hours before it left,  I naturally was left with Slim Pickin's for accommodation and decided to go with a hostel on the beach, an hour outside the city limits.
It proved to be the right choice: I met so many cool people, it made the week so much less lonely and allowed me to relax about trying to see everything- if I was spending time with others, I didn't have to find something for myself to do. I'm not gonna detail everything that happened in that city, because I genuinely don't have words for some of the experiences and also I want to find gainful employment in the future (hint: 'special' cake was involved). Here is just some general life advice for you all: don't go through Daylights Savings time while high. It hurts. And here's some pictures I took, just so this paragraph doesn't feel left out:

The fact that they still had C&A there blew my mind more than any substances I ingested.

BRUSSELS

I spent a couple of days in Brussels because the delightful Grace was visiting there and I wanted my life to be the kind where I meet my friends in capital cities of countries where neither of us live. Also, Grace is tout sweet and I hadn't seen her in too long. We went to the Brussels Comic Strip museum where we learned how Smurfs live:

And also about their depictions in times gone by:

While there, I also met up with Jonathan, whom I hadn't seen or spoken to in three years. Catching up with someone after such an amount of time is inevitably a strange experience, as you're reminded simultaneously how much and how little you've done in that amount of time. Jonathan took me to the Delirium Cafe, which boasts over 3000 beers, and so I finally found a brew that I actually enjoy, and so now I only have to journey 100 miles to drink 'a real man's drink' in the words of my father and every other macho douchebag I've ever encountered.

Apart from the above journeying, I spent the rest of the holiday watching films and writing creatively. It was a lovely break and I only wish it hadn't come so early after I started my job: oh well, only 50 days to Christmas.

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!