Protesting puppets at the March 20th strike in Valence.

This morning, I woke up to find a scorpion lurking outside my door. I didn’t want to risk a scorpion in my room, so I’m sorry to say it was killed by my giant French dictionary. I hope that this will not happen often. As much as I love animals, I prefer it when the ones that could sting me in my sleep stay outside my living space.

Yesterday I spent a lovely day in Aix-en-Provence, but I will get to that in another post. This Thursday there was another strike in France, this one claiming to be bigger than the January 29th “grève.” I didn’t have to go into work due to the disruptions with the buses and the fact that only two of the teachers I usually work with would be there. So after running the errands that I could on a day when most public buildings were closed, I walked to the park to see the strikers gathering. The umbrella issue was the economic crisis, with most believing President Nicolas Sarkozy is not doing enough to slow the recession. Even though this strike had a little more of a serious vibe than the January strike, there were still people walking on stilts and the giant puppets in the photograph above. I’m going to assume they represent people in the DOM-TOMs, although they could just as easily be leftovers from Carnaval. They kind of scared me, because when they walked their giant hands reached in front of them like they were trying to grab people in the crowd and their necks bobbed up and down. They also danced to the music, which ranged from drum groups to solo bongo players to U2 blasted out of a car stereo to a guy with a megaphone doing a version of Gavroche’s song in Les Misérables. He just substituted “Sarko” (short for Sarkozy) for Rousseau, which I guess was clever. Ex: “Misère est mon trousseau/C’est la faute à Sarko.”

Strike going down the boulevard in Valence.

I saw a couple of my students who screamed “ALLEESOON.” The kids are always shocked that I actually live in France and don’t fly home to the States every night. I guess their spatial reasoning is still being formed. I also ran into some other assistants lounging in the park, and we enjoyed a couple bottles of Clairette while watching the strike pass by. I’m still not sure about the strike culture here. It’s fantastic that people are so attentive to what their government is doing and are willing to express their opinions. However, it happens so frequently that it seems like it would lose some of its effect.

I taught a short lesson on American music in my private lessons this week, introducing the five main genres of the 20th century: jazz, country, rock and roll, hip hop, and pop. I showed a short video for each, using Miles Davis, Johnny Cash, Jimi Hendrix, The Roots, and Feist (I know, technically Canadian) respectively. The least favorite for all the kids was The Roots, alas. Anyway, I bring this up because there was a moment when we were talking about other types of music related to these. One of the kids said punk, so I played a short clip of The Misfits and their grandma, who was in the other room, shouts: “What is going on? Is everything okay???” I guess the punks are still making the older generation uncomfortable.

Dead face garage sign in Valence.

You can tell with the assistants that we’re all aware that the end is near, because every time we encounter each other this question always comes up: “What are you doing after France?” And the response is almost a uniform “I don’t know.” Some people are going to graduate school, a few are still undergraduates, a handful have jobs waiting for them, but most are like me and are just hoping that something turns up when we get back home. Although home is so arbitrary. Is Oklahoma still my home if I don’t intend to move back there? What about my hometown, Bartlesville? My parents are moving away from there, so I’ll have no reason to go back. And the United States seems too large to call a home, although it might be my best answer. The fact is that in two months when I go back to the United States I’m going to have to find a new home, job, apartment, and life. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous, but then again I’m ready to see something new and, I’ll admit it, be in a country where I’m no longer a foreigner. I get tired of being an outsider and even when I’m not speaking and therefore hiding my accent, I feel like I have some cloud of otherness around me. Yet I’ve definitely felt like an other in the United States, especially in the awkwardness of high school or in rural towns that still have George W. Bush stickers on all the cars.

Buvez Choky! An advertisement for chocolate-flavored coffee.

Despite all that, I know I’m going to miss France terribly. I’ve met some wonderful people and have seen and done more things than I expected to do in my entire life. If I ever get depressed here, I’m only a 5 minute walk from what will undoubtedly be the most delicious pastry of my life. I’ll miss getting coffee at cafes with no worries about deadlines. I’m going to miss having so many friends. After graduation from college, most of my friends moved away and while I had a lot of acquaintances, there weren’t many people with whom I could have a casual yet meaningful conversation. Maybe it’s more of me being comfortable with myself, but I just feel like I know so many wonderful and open people here that it’s going to be sad to possibly not see some of them again. Although with the wonder that is the internet and Facebook, I’m sure that there will always be some contact. On the positive side, I will know people all over the States and the world and when traveling should never be far from a friend. And to those that I have met over here who might be reading this, know that you’re welcome to sleep on my couch or floor wherever I may be living. Even if it’s a closet-size apartment in New York.

Le GARAGE.

I find myself keeping an unofficial mental list in my head of the pros/cons of France versus the United States. For example, the teenage boys pushing in front of me and the man with a cane to get on the bus today would be a con. The spitting on the streets and people not cleaning up after their dogs are also negatives. However, I can see a crumbling castle on a hill when I walk through the center of town and can take a train to Provence whenever I want. Definitely pluses. In the end, France is not some sort of magical dreamland nor is it a slum, just like the United States.

As to where I want to live in the United States when I get back, my hope is a major city with New York, San Francisco, Washington D.C., Chicago, and Seattle all under consideration. I am honestly up for anything.

Strikers at the kiosque on the Champ de Mars in Valence.

Last Thursday, January 29, I didn’t have to work because the teachers, along with over a million other French citizens, were on strike. Despite having attended the Valence demonstration and having asked several French people about the strike, I still can’t name one thing as the cause. To the best of my understanding, the nationwide strike was aggravated by President Nicolas Sarkozy’s policies in regards to the economic crisis. However, the teachers I talked to were mostly concerned about jobs being cut in education and low wages. Reports showed that this strike was even bigger than the one against the CPE that took place while I was studying in Clermont-Ferrand in 2006.

Stilt ninjas at the Valence protest.

With all of this in mind, I was expecting to find an angry crowd at the Champ de Mars in Valence. But this was far from it. It was like being at a parade and I saw more smiling faces than raised fists. A French woman heard me speaking English and asked what I thought about the demonstration, and I said it was more of a “spectacle” than a “manifestation.” As you can see from the people on stilts above, there was even a carnival touch. Although the stilt ninja on the right was yelling at those people for some reason. So I guess someone was angry. But if Sarkozy watched the Valence protest on TV I would be surprised if he felt threatened by it. However, I’m coming at this from an American perspective and I realize that strikes are a big part of French politics. I’m still trying to understand how they bring about change. It seems like back in the States most protests concern big idea issues like abortion, the death penalty, the environment, or the war in Iraq. France is much more about protests and strikes in response to policies.

Strikers in Valence.

I watched the strike with the other Valence assistants. We’re from the USA, England, Australia, New Zealand, and Canada. I think it’s also hard for us to feel strongly about the strike because we all have our own economic crisis back home. The economy in the States worries me much more than that of France because that’s where my future is, at least for May and June. There were tons of children at the strike and it’s obvious that they grow up with this system of public demonstrating. It’s great that they are able to express themselves politically and even leave work without fear of losing their jobs, although I think it is sometimes overdone. But maybe it isn’t done enough in the States.

A guy in a white mask climbs on a sign at the strike in Valence.

I enjoyed the music blasting from the back of trucks and the enthusiastic flag wavers who managed to energetically dance for about an hour straight. However, I didn’t stay for the whole day as it was obvious that it was going to last until dusk. This is the second strike that has caused me to not work since I started being an assistant in France. If the government doesn’t please the unions, it may not be the last. I’m not sure if the union leaders can agree on any solution to the economic crisis or if they can only be unified against Sarkozy. I’ll be interested to see what happens in the coming months.

I thought I would do a short post on my home in France, if you’ve been curious. I live in a foyer for young workers, which means it’s nothing special. But I do have my own bathroom, which is a step up from the CROUS I stayed in when I studied in Clermont-Ferrand. The foyer is next to the center of town and has a bus stop right outside, so the location is great, even if, as you’ll see, it isn’t glamorous. The weirdest thing about the foyer is they allow smoking in the rooms because it’s “your right,” but they say they don’t have the ventilation for cooking. I can tell going into someone’s apartment whether they smoke, but I usually can’t tell what they cooked the night before. Oh well, c’est la France.

My desk, from which I am typing.

I have a desk, above which is a little bookshelf, a small cabinet, a stool, a chair, a night stand, a bed, and a closet. I’ve tried to decorate to get rid of the hospital feel, and if you’ve sent me a letter you might see it above my computer in this picture. I also have drawings from my students to the right and a newspaper from when Barack Obama was elected to the left (sent to me by Amanda in Texas). Some of the other foyer residents are a bit strange, but it’s very quiet so I can’t complain too much.

My bed and door. The bathroom is the white door you can barely see on the left.

I’m at the very end of my hallway and the room across from mine is used for administration. The cover to the bed I was given has a creepy circus vibe to it, with yellow and green polka dots. However, I get a clean one every month, so hopefully January will be less reminiscent of clowns. I’m not sure what they were going for with the purple, green, and yellow color scheme. I guess it’s more cheerful than the brown colors of most dorms and CROUS residents, but I would have stuck with two colors for less of a maternity-wing feel. Also, what is with France and carpet? No one has carpet! I have yet to go to visit house that has anything besides throw rugs. I guess it’s easier to keep clean, but it gets cold around here and the tile can feel like ice.

Window to the world (the parking lot).

And here is the last view in the 360 degree tour of my room. I decided to use my X-Ray as window art, although I’m still trying to think of something more creative than that. You can also see my snowboard in this picture. I’m going to attempt to go again next Sunday. My bruises from last time have almost faded. You can see on the window that I have the ubiquitous metal shutter (it’s pulled up in the picture). These are everywhere in France, even on really beautiful buildings. When it’s down, my room can be pitch dark any time of the day and keeps out the cold. However, they look very prison-like from the outside.

Okay, that was my brief tour of my home in Valence! Maybe not as fancy as my other apartments, although it beats the garage apartment I had that was slanted and had mice. And it’s way better than my freshman year dorm and CROUS place, by far.

X-Ray of my lungs to make sure I don't have tuberculosis. Although I've already been in France long enough to infect hundreds.

I finally had my medical visit this Wednesday, the one I sent in a request for at the beginning of October. I never got my official letter for it and the only reason that I even knew it was happening was another assistant sending me a text message about meeting at the train station. Apparently, Inspection knew that all the Valence primary assistants had their medicale on the same day, but didn’t actually bother to tell us individually and just assumed we would find out some how. Thanks! I guess mine got lost in the mail because I finally got a last-minute faxed copy at 5 pm on Tuesday.

On Wednesday, our group of five Valence assistants took the train to Lyon. The medical visit is necessary to get the Carte de Sejour, which will let me stay in France after my Visa runs out. You don’t have to get it if you’re a member of the European Union, so all the language assistants from Great Britain, Germany, Spain, Switzerland, etc. were all off the hook. The American, Australian, Canadian, and Argentinian assistants were not so lucky, so the five of us who fell into those categories got to experience one of the most bizarre and surreal of France moments. I was talking with a friend and we both agreed that the assistant experience in France would either make a brilliant reality show or a hilarious sitcom.

Christmas Lobsters at the Christmas Market in Lyon, reminiscent of Jeff Koons' installation at Versailles.

We got there early enough to find the place, which didn’t open until 1:30 pm, the exact time of our appointments. You couldn’t even go into the building until then. So we first got some coffee at a bar that had the aesthetics of both a funeral parlor and a bowling alley. It was covered in fake flowers and everything had that light teal color that you find on bowling shoes. The coffee was much needed, as it was snowing all day. However, it wasn’t cold enough for the snow to actually stick, so it was more like chunks of slush falling from the sky. After coffee, we got sandwiches and walked around the Christmas market. I’d been there during the Fête des Lumières, but so had everyone else, so this time we could actually look at things. We also got some vin chaud (mulled wine), which was delicious.

When the doors opened to the ANAEM (Agence nationale de l’accueil des étrangers et des migrations/National Agency for Foreigners and Immigration), we were all herded up to a small waiting room. There were some other assistants there from Saint-Etienne and around the Lyon area. Although I’m in the Academy of Grenoble, Valence is closer to Lyon so we had our appointments there. My name was the first to get called in its French pronunciation (May-aire, Aleesoon). This was part 1, the X-Ray. Either their X-Ray machine is incredibly week or they think we are going to wear lead shirts because you have to take everything off that is in front of your lungs and make sure your hair is above your head. All these instructions were given in rapid French. After that, they sent me back to the waiting room and I was called again for part 2, the eye exam. I had to read a couple of lines off the wall and carefully remember the French alphabet. They also asked me if I was pregnant. Then I went into an adjoining room for part 3, and a woman reading a newspaper told me to get on a scale and tell her the number. Then she stopped reading the comics and took my height and asked me about my family history. Then I went into another room for part 4, where a doctor asked about vaccinations and took my blood pressure and listened to my heart and lungs. Note: at no time was I asked to verify anything. I didn’t have to prove I wasn’t pregnant, prove my family history, prove my vaccinations. I guess they assume that if you’re coming from the States you must have everything, but it was still strange. After all that, the doctor stamped and signed a couple of papers, including the infamous Arrêté de Nomination, and I was told to go down to Office #10 on the first floor. However, when I went down there, not one was inside. I asked the man in the next office what to do and he said to go away because he was “cleaning his office.” Thanks. It turned out the office didn’t open until 2:30 pm, so we waited in yet another waiting room and got the last signature on our papers when the door opened. And we got souvenir X-Rays!

Marzipan fruit in Lyon.

The rest of the week wasn’t nearly as bizarre, unfortunately. I finished reading White Teeth by Zadie Smith, as part of my unintentional immigrants in London literature series. Without knowing what either books were about, I read White Teeth and The Satanic Prophecies by Salman Rushdie back-to-back  and they both feature similar characters, specifically immigrants from India and Bangladesh who struggle with their religious and cultural traditions as immigrants London. Also coincidentally, I started to read The Black Album by Hanif Kureishi yesterday and the focus is on immigrants in London, this time from Pakistan. Maybe I can teach a course. I feel like my reading in France has gone in themed stages like this, starting with the failed romances of old professors with young women (Disgrace by J. M. Coetzee and The Human Stain by Philip Roth), the past and current effects of slavery and prejudice for African Americans (The Color Purple by Alice Walker and Beloved by Toni Morrison), and now I’m in the midst of the immigrant experience. I’m also now reading Journal d’un fantôme by Nicolas de Crécy, a graphic novel that so far has been about admiring the godliness of Japanese advertising animals. I’m sure it’s going somewhere with that.

If you have any book recommendations, let me know. I’m currently working on a Christmas short story as a gift for friends and family. I think it will take place on a nuclear submarine in the future.

"Viral marketing" for the sheepherder protest. Translation: "Sheep, you are not alone!"

I’m back from Bordeaux! It was an epic adventure with a giant sand dune and what may or may not have been Roland’s grave, but that’s a story for another blog post. Here is the sheepherder protest post I promised. For a couple of weeks, I’d seen the above phrase spray painted around town. I thought it was an abstract statement, like the sheep are not alone because humans behave like sheep, or something like that. But no, it was more literal than I could ever have imagined.

400 sheep start their march through the center of Valence.

I was walking back from the bus stop after teaching on Thursday when I saw a herd of 400 sheep in the middle of town. There was one sheep dog on a leash to control them all, who was let loose a couple of times to round up wandering sheep. Apparently, it was a protest of the status of sheepherder jobs in this region. So most of the people marching were sheepherders, looking every bit the stereotype I have of that in my head. There are actually some videos of the protest on La Dauphine’s website that show the sheep in action. I, however, decided to follow the protest as it winded through the cobblestones because I had nothing better to do, rather than for any news value. I’m a writer, not a reporter! Not in France, at least.

The sheep and their people set off for the town.

I found this all to be hilarious, but the French reaction seemed to be to just stare blankly. Or take a camera phone picture. However, the man in the black jacket in this picture is mirroring my reaction. You can see that the sheep were marked with paint to keep them identified for the later round-up. For now, though, they moved as one great sheep herd, blending their sheep races into an indistinguishable white mob of protest.

The 400 sheep destroy the city's vegetation.

The sheep stopped cars, buses, and pedestrian traffic. They also devoured all plants and flowers in their path. And this being a “Ville Fleurie,” there was plenty to go around. The sheepherders made a half-hearted effort to stop them, but it seemed to just be for show for the police escorts (yes, the sheepherder protest had several police escorts). Good thing it’s freezing cold outside and the plants were going to be replaced anyway. There was one point where someone threw a leafy tree branch in front of the sheep and they all scrambled towards it, tearing it to shreds with their flat teeth. Like furry velociraptors.

The sheep in the corral, going round and round.

After about 45 minutes of walking through town, the sheep were all herded into a corral that had been built in the Place Belat near where I live. The corral blocked one street, and I was amazed that people were just pulling back part of the gate and walking nonchalantly past the sheep to the other side rather than walking around. When they first got in the corral, the sheep kept circling the fountain while the sheep dog whimpered from outside the corral, probably seeing a need for some leadership. However, they eventually stopped and stood silently while the sheepherders made speeches that I couldn’t really understand.

So that is what I did with one of my afternoons here in France. Bordeaux posts soon!

Go sheep, go!

I have to go catch a train to Bordeaux, but this Thursday I saw 400 sheep herded through the center of Valence as part of a protest of sheepherder’s work status. Or something like that. You can see more pictures on my flickr and I will make a proper post about it when I get back.

I am now actually in Valence, the city where I will be teaching. Sorry for the delay in posting, internet is still difficult but I should be fully “wired” by Monday. Who wants to Skype???

I just spent two and a half days at a Stage (orientation) in Autrans with the other 300 assistants in the Academie de Grenoble. The summer camp that we stayed in was quickly and separately (and tastelessly perhaps) nicknamed Auschwitz by the Anglophones. It must have been built during the war and everything was built at the level of a six year old. All of us were at least over 18, with most over 21, so this was inconvenient.

My lovely Autrans dorm

The rooms were in this long echoing buildings and each room had six beds. I was in a room with another American, an English girl, two Germans, and a Swiss girl. The room was probably only meant to hold four beds, but I guess 300 people are hard to accommodate. The surrounding mountains were beautiful. However, I pity the French child who has to spend their whole summer in the stark Bellecombe dormitory and eat the dining hall food.

Most things were "interdit" (forbidden) at camp. Including playing on the rocks. Running. Etc.

The food… I’ve never had such food in France. It was so bad that I actually got excited to see what bizarre concoction they would bring out next. Each meal was an inexplicable five courses, except for breakfast, which was giant boxes of cornflakes and coffee. No coffee cups though, so you had to either use your cereal bowl for coffee or the cornflakes and unpasteurized milk.  Back to lunch and dinner though. Luckily, there was always something that was free of meat and plenty of bread that you could retrieve from strategically positioned laundry baskets. The first night there was a mushy, salty vegetable mixture as an appetizer. Someone at my table declared it “tasted like seawater.” Other dinner and lunch highlights included the endless plates of cheese that came between the main course and dessert. One night dessert was a plate of chocolate éclairs, the next apples and processed cheese. Throughout the meals, the cooks would be standing with arms crossed in the dining hall. They were very strict about where you could sit and made you fill up an entire table before the next could be seated at.

I'm in Alaska and Oklahoma at the same time!

The reason we were actually at this place was to learn about what we would be doing. However, I mostly was told that I have to teach Queen’s English. My thoughts on this is if they wanted official British English, they shouldn’t have hired American, Canadian, Australian, South African, Jamaican, Taiwanese, and Irish assistants.  So I’ll do my best, but I’m not going to care very much about the difference between “coloring pencils” and “colored pencils.” They were also adamant about not touching the children. Thank god they cleared that up.

Despite all this, the Stage was amazing for meeting all the other assistants. I met a lot of fun and amazing people and I’m excited to meet up throughout the months. We’re kind of spread out, but it’s not a huge space. I’m going to spend this weekend and the following week in Valence and may head over to Grenoble again next weekend to sightsee. Or go to a bar that doesn’t require a mile walk in the cold mountain air like in Autrans. I guess crazy conditions are good bonding experiences though and I’m feeling good about the English-speaking safety net I have if things get stressful.