The Sound of Music

Here's a video of the ladies singing for the Christmas party. The videography isn't so good, but oh well, the sound is the important part anyway, right?

A Very Merry Asnieres Christmas

Today was our Christmas party at Asnieres. Everything was planned. Jan and I would arrive early, we'd set the room up--make it look Christmas-y and festive--, the women would come at 14h00 with their couscous, Jan would tell the Christmas story, and we'd all have a lovely Christmas party.

However, as you can see from the picture on the left, today was also the first snow of the season, and the city shut down. The buses weren't running. The RER A was, unrelatedly, on strike, along with several of the metros, buses, and trams. But pas de soucis. I rode the ever-faithful E line. My train cut right through the snow. My metro pulled up right on time. And I walked into class an hour early as planned.

What wasn't planned was that there was not one bus that drove through Satrouville to pick up Jan...who had the images for the story, the Christmas CDs, and the altogether "know how". She called at 13h00 and let me know that she likely wasn't going to make it.

And so started my panic, because I'm a planner. I need everything that's been planned to work out just right. I don't like change. I don't like surprises unless they come in the form of gifts. And there, surprise, I was standing in the freezing cold room alone with a pile of wrapping paper and tinsel in the corner. Despite the panic, I got the room set up.

And one by one, the women trickled in with their cakes and cookies and couscous. I tried to make everything as normal as possible. I told the Christmas story, put their food on a variety of colorful plates and set them around the tables. One of the women helped me make the Moroccan tea, but something was very obviously missing.

"Where's the music?" they asked.

"Well," I said, with an apologetic shrug, "I don't have any CDs here in France, so..."

"Oh," one said. Their faces fell.

Eventually, one said, "Aren't you going to dance?"

"Well," I said, hating that I was the stick in the mud. "I don't know how."

"And anyway, there isn't any music," another one reminded her.

Finally, one of the women suggested, "Why don't we make music?"

And so, she pulled out a jembe that was sitting in the corner. Another woman took a silver tray of drinks, set the empty cups on the table, turned over the tray and started beating it with two spoons. Several others took their forks and banged them against their glasses. And all the sudden, they were playing their music and singing these high pitched call and response songs in Arabic and Berber.

We continued that way all afternoon--singing between snacking and snacking between singing. And, despite all the plans that never quite ripened, it turned out to be a great Christmas party.

(That is, until I was walking to the metro, slipped on a patch of ice, and face planted into the ground, losing my mittens in the process. But you know what they say? C'est la vie...)

The Search for a Husband

There are very few women who come to my French class in Asnieres who aren't married (or haven't, at some point, been married). A few have been married for papers. A few have had husbands who've left them. A few stay with cruel husbands. A few are in happy marriages.
But that's what they do: they marry.
Well, Jan (the other teacher at Asnieres) and I are not married. The women often try to pawn off their unmarried sons on us. ("You could use a husband," they'll say, nudging a picture toward us like a Yenta. "He's handsome...intelligent...will be rich!")
However, since I'm still in my 20s, the women haven't started panicking about my marital status yet, but Jan, who is in her late 30s, is the object of their constant matchmaking.
The other day, one of the women told Jan, "This Christmas, I'll pray that Santa brings you a husband under your Christmas tree."
"What if I reject him?" Jan asked.
"You're going to have to stop doing what you want all the time," the woman said. "It's time to settle down."
Jan continued, in her usual fashion, explaining that she's picky, that she doesn't want to marry just anyone.
The woman looked at her, halfway joking, halfway serious, and said, "After 50, the market is closed." When Jan didn't immediately respond, she added, "They won't let you in."

Oh my. We had a good laugh about that, and now, I try to throw it into my conversation as often as possible.

So, now let me say to you: "Sorry. After 50, the market is closed."

A Tunisian Adventure

So, everything is going well--chugging along as usual. In my newly acquired street French, you might say "ca roule."
Lately, (seeing as it's December), I've been trying to fit in some Christmas shopping from time to time. Tuesday morning, classes were cancelled, because the church where we meet was using our room for a Christmas play. So, Tuesday morning found me in the middle of such a Christmas shopping activity.
I took the bus out to Pontault's centre commercial, and I picked up a few odds and ends. Fifteen minutes before my bus was to leave to take me to the train station (I had a visit to make to one of the ladies from class), I headed back to the bus stop. The 12:11 bus pulled up, and I walked inside, but the driver said, "This bus isn't taking any passengers."
Completely dumbfounded, I asked, "Why?"
The driver said, "Listen. We're just not, okay?"
Still not quite wrapping my mind around this, I persisted, "But if the 12:11 bus doesn't run, I can't get to the train station and I'll miss my train."
He shrugged and said, "Dommage." Too bad.
Apparently, the distress of one person isn't quite enough to force the bus to the train station.
So, I stepped off the bus, and almost ran into another man who looked just about as distraught as I felt.
"You'll miss your train too?" he asked.
I nodded.
"I can go home and get my car," he said. "I'll drive you to the station."
But even though he seemed like a nice man, I've seen enough episodes of Criminal Minds to know that you don't hop into the car of any old stranger, so I replied, "Thanks, but I think I'll just try and catch the next train."
He must have heard my accent, because he said to me, "Norway has really contributed to the world in the last few years."
I looked at him, confused, and he added, "They've been providing a lot in the way of agriculture."
I still really had no idea why he was telling me this.
He then put his hands together and clapped as he walked away.
I realized, with a smile, that he thought I was Norwegian. Secretly, this always makes me happy when people confuse me for a German or a Brit or a Norwegian. I like knowing that I don't have a twangy American accent. I like being just a little mysterious.
What I don't like is waiting at bus stops for buses that never come.
So, I walked around the centre commerical, licking the windows (the French expression for window shopping...) Finally, a half hour later, another bus showed up. Incidentally, it was the same man who'd refused to take me to the station earlier.
He waved at me, indicating that I could now mount the bus.
"You're going to the station?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
I got on the bus, walked to the back, sat down, and was reading a novel I found called The Boy Who Loved Anne Frank, and the driver walked back to sit beside me.
"Do you work here?" he asked, meaning the centre commercial.
I put my finger inside my book, and said, "No."
"In Paris?" he asked.
"Yes."
"What do you do?" he asked.
"I teach immigrants to read and write," I replied.
"Oh?" he asked, his face registering surprise. "But you aren't French."
"No," I said, stating the obvious.
"Do you have any Tunisians in your class?" he asked.
This made me smile. I was, in fact, sitting on that bus, waiting to be taken to the station so I could take my train to meet with one of my Tunisian woman. "Yes," I said. "That's where I'm trying to go right now. To a Tunisian's house."
"Oh?" he asked.
I nodded. "Really."
"Well, in that case," he said, walking back to the front of the bus, "we'd better get going."
(I so wish that buses followed their appointed departure and arrival times...)
But in any case, he took me straight to the station, flying past all the stops with people smothered in their winter hats and scarves, shivering as they hailed the bus. The bus that flew past.
He wished me luck as I ran out of the bus. He blocked the pedestrian path from all the other cars, allowing me to pass first.
And then, an hour later, I showed up at the woman's house. Then, of course, I had to explain that I would have been much later if she hadn't been a Tunisian. We had a good laugh out of that.

National Novel Writing Month

Well, after one long month of novel writing, I've finally done it. I've written a 50,000 word novel (mine is about 150 pages...)
The month was definitely full of blood, sweat, and tears, but it was worth it.
Long live November.

Just My Novel and Me

It's been a while since I've updated, and I think it might be quite a while more before I'm back in full force. This change is not permanent by any means...
By way of explanation, November is National Novel Writing Month, and so, because of this, during these 30 days of November, I'm frantically trying to write a novel. There's actually a whole online movement devoted to this common goal (see nanowrimo.org), and people all over the world are taking the month of November to write complete 50,000 word novels.
I'll let you know how it goes, but for the meantime...
Wish me the best, and see you in December!

...and then there were 7

On Wednesdays, we've started a literacy class in the middle of Paris. Every other day, we're in the banlieue with groups of 20 or 30 women flooding in. In Paris, it's more of a trickle. Usually, we have 1 or 2, on a big day, 4 women, who attend these Paris classes. I always say to the woman I work with, "Well, we're only just starting out..." implying that I want more women to come, and I want the classes to grow. In fact, I think even yesterday I wanted more women to come, and I wanted the classes to grow. I was thinking 20-30 women would be nice. A few more people to form relationships with. Today, well...
But then, that's jumping ahead. Let's start at the beginning.
I have a Moroccan woman and an Algerian woman in my class. Both are on the verge of being fluent in French. Neither can read or write very well, so I've been having a grand old time doing reading comprehension exercises with them. Today, I had a great lesson. We would study the letter L, study a few verbs, but then, I had this cute story of a cat that walks into a cafe to order lunch. It was a joke written in the form of a dialogue with true and false questions at the end.
But at 2:00, I had only one student ("Grace"). She explained that the other student ("Hope) would be over in 15 minutes--she was still in her apartment finishing her ablutions. Grace explained that Hope was really strict in her faith--when Grace had left their apartment buildling, Hope had the arms of her robe rolled up and was rubbing the water all over. "Give her a few more minutes," Grace said.
So, I did, and finally, Hope wandered in, and we got started.
But then, at 2:30, we had what I can only term as an invasion.
The three of us were reading the dialogue, and then, noise. Footsteps, shouting, whining, screaming--noise.
5 women marched in, each one with an infant tied in colorful cloth on her back. The last woman walked in, steering 3 children in front of her.
"We don't know a thing," the one, whose name is Baby, said. "Start from scratch."
I was standing there with my mouth hanging wide open, and my fingers still clutching that cat story that suddenly seemed completely irrelevant.
I gathered up 5 more chairs and squeezed them around the table, telling them, "Well, let's keep working on what we've started, and if it's too hard, just tell me."
We got through one line of the story when Baby said, "Too hard."
So, I attempted to have two groups. One with Grace and Hope, and one with Baby and Company.
I started Baby and Company on an exercise where they'd practice copying the letter L. Meanwhile, I went to check on Grace and Hope who were working on something else. When I was with Grace and Hope, Baby and Company started chatting and laughing and altogether forgetting to work.
So, I hurried back over to them, checked their progress, and discovered that one had drawn circles all over the paper where she was supposed to be practicing her Ls.
"Is this good?" she asked. "Is this what you wanted?"
"Well..." I said, and mumbled something that I hoped didn't sound too discouraging. And then, as I was helping her try to hold the pencil (which it seems she hadn't done before), she told me to wait a second, and she proceeded to slip her shirt off to nurse her baby.
I stood there a minute, completely bewildered, got one look at the milk slopping out of the sides of that baby's mouth, got a whif of the sour smell of breastmilk, and started dry heaving.
"Go on," she said. "I'm listening."
I had to walk away and take a sip of water first. And as I was standing there with my water cup, completely frazzled and worn out and speaking some exhausted language that no longer resembled French, I thought, "Maybe 7 is enough. We're only just starting, but I think 7 is enough."
Of course, we'll have to see what happens next Wednesday, but for now, is it so bad to wish that we stay at 7 for a while?
I hope not, because I'm busy wishing.

And they were all colors

I've recently been reading a book by Margaret Atwood called The Blind Assassin. In the book, the narrator, Iris, talks about her sister, Laura, who tints black and white photographs the colors that she sees people. For example, Laura found a picture of Iris and herself at a special dinner, wearing their matching velvet dresses, smiling for the camera. Laura tinted Iris blue. Iris asked why, and Laura replied, "Because you were asleep."
I thought this was a really interesting concept--this coloring people idea.
Tonight, I went to dinner at a friend's house, and she mentioned that she has a friend who claims that everyone has a color: green, yellow, blue, that kind of thing.
Again, I felt intrigued. I label people, but never by colors.
For example, of the 6 women who come to class regularly, 4 are called Fatima. So, since they often don't know enough French to be able to provide me with their last names, I always write a little description next to their names. Fatima--small head. Fatima--two moles on the bridge of her nose. Fatima--single. Fatima--glasses.
I was sitting around tonight, getting ready for bed, thinking about what colors my students would be. Fatima--the red one. Fatima--the green one. Fatima--the yellow.
How to determine that?
But then I thought of one student, and I knew immediately her color. She's orange. I'm completely sure of that. First off (and most obviously), her hands are tinged in henna 100% of the time. Furthermore, when she gives me the bise, her cheeks are always a little balmy, hot and sticky like little boiled raisins. And you can tell she's a riot. She barely speaks a word of French, although she's lived in France 18 years, so I can never understand her jokes, but during tea time, she'll utter just a few words in Tachlhit, and immediately, all the other women will burst into giggles. And while she's always covered head to toe in long skirts and robes, there's something different about her dress--red lining on her coat, sparkles on her shoes, a ring that looks so shiny, it had to have dropped out of a restaurant toy ring machine.
She's orange. So very orange. J'en suis sure.
As for the others, I'm not sure. I'll watch them and smell them and figure it out. Afterall, it seems nicer to write Fatima -- purple than Fatima--small head.
So, you see? There are perks to everything.

Atonement

There's this woman in one of my classes...
She looks just like all the other women--head scarf, ankle length robe, dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. She acts like all the other in class (Me: the word is "Boite". Does that start with "B" or "P"? The woman: Yes! Me: "B" or "P"? The Woman: Yes!) She even has the most popular name--shares it with probably 2/3 of the class.
But here's something new: she's in her 40s and is single. That's very, very uncommon among our women.
I've noticed that she doesn't ever really socialize with the others. She sits on the the edges, only talks when I call on her, and usually is one of the first to leave as soon as we've had our after-class tea. I assumed that she doesn't associate much with the others because they talk about husbands and kids and issues that don't really concern her--obviously, she doesn't have much to contribute to that type of a conversation--, but today, I found out otherwise.
When she left this afternoon, two other women in the class started talking to one another in Tachlhit. Eventually one of the women said in French, "I don't like her." Jan, another teacher, tried to break that train of thought and said something to the effect of, "You really shouldn't say mean things about other people," but the women kept talking and gossiping anyway. They said, "I wouldn't want to be seen anywhere with that woman. She has a bad reputation." And from what they were saying, it seems she's sort of a "slut" in their community.
As a side note, comments like this never cease to amaze me. The woman is bound up head to toe in clothes, clothes, clothes. Not quite the image of slut I have in my head. But anyway...
It turns out, the woman from my class maybe or maybe not had an affair with a married man from Morocco, expecting him to leave his wife for her. He didn't. She's alone. And now, she's in a horrible situation that she can never live down.
If she did what they say she did, it's wrong. I don't condone it. But I hurt for her, and I keep thinking about what they've said and how they looked at her and how they whispered about her after she left. And it breaks my heart, because she's brave enough to keep coming to class even though she doesn't fit in. And every day when she leaves, she leans in to give me the bise, and she says, "You're so very nice."
And in any other culture, I think you'd eventually be able to atone for this type of fault. Maybe you'd have a bit of a stigma, but you'd get past it. And people would eventually get caught up in other gossip and other issues, and you'd become yesterday's news.
But she's stuck. She'll never live this down, and she'll continue to sit in those corners and play with them hem of her skirt and stare at her hands in her lap.
I don't know what words to offer her. Are there any? But I just keep thinking about her.

Glamour in the Garbage

Last week, I was walking to the train after church, and I passed a trash can where something out of the ordinary happened. The trash can was stacked full of magazines, so, of course, I weaved closer to see what was there.
And guess what?
There were probably close to 300 Glamour magazines (the new October 2009 edition) still stacked and bound up in twine.
I worked one magazine out, and took it home with me. I showed it to my housemate, Dominique, whose response was: "How many did you take?"
Later, I showed it to a friend, Madeleine, whose response was also: "How many did you take?"
Our town was having a city-wide garage sale that day, and Dominique and Madeleine were really disappointed that I hadn't taken all of those still twined together magazines so we could sell them at a reduced price.
As Dominique said, "Even if we only made a euro, it's one euro that we didn't have before!"

Well, now I've learned my lesson.

The Tiny Triumph, My New Calling in Life, and A Fun Monday

As I've promised in this long, drawn out title, I'll tell you about all three of these exciting things that have happened so far this week (...and we haven't even gotten to Friday! --DISCLAIMER: I'm really oddly excited with life right now, so I think there will probably be tons of exclamation marks here, so I apologize in advance!)
However, to start out with, I thought I'd post a picture of my computer screen as it looked this morning.





It's not too easy to read--what with a photograph of the computer screen and all--but essentially, it's an announcement that I won a contest! One of my favorite writers, Gayle Roper, posted an online contest where she asked participants to describe the interior of a cafe that would appear in her next novel. If you won, she would use the design you'd described in your submission, would mention you in the acknowledgements, and would get you a copy of her new book. And what do you know? She chose my design! As I'm sure you can imagine, I was pretty much jumping for joy when I saw that I'd won this. I told everyone I ran into about it. So, watch for Gayle Roper's book Death by the Numbers.

Secondly, I wanted to tell you about a sudden burst of inspiration I've had this week.

An American team came to help us with our literacy classes for a while. They don't really speak much French, but they decided to do a craft with the women instead of having typical classes. (That's always fine with me...) So, the ladies brought along plain canvas bags, ribbons, buttons, tassles, etc., and in place of our literacy classes, we decorated these bags. I had the most fun gluing buttons and ribbons on the canvas (above, you'll see three of the bags I made), and have decided that designing bags is my calling in life. I was strutting around my room, in front of the mirror, saying, "Yes! This is a Katie Fleetwood bag!" and it felt so nice that I thought I'd like to do it forever. Maybe one day, I'll branch out into leather bags or something, but for now, I'm pretty pleased with the new Katie Fleetwood Collection.

And lastly, A Fun Monday.

This Monday, another teacher asked me if I'd like to join her when she went over to one of our students houses for tea. I was quick to agree, because I've heard rumors of this woman's good cooking, and plus, it's so fun visiting other people's houses. You can see their decorating style and meet their families and see their baby pictures and be all-around nosey without seeming out of the ordinary.

Anyway, so I went along...

When we walked in, the woman clapped her henna covered hands together and said to the my friend (who'd just spent the past year in Morocco, learning the language), "Praise Allah! You've gotten fat!" My friend looked at me, and said, "I'm going to believe she's saying that as a compliment."

We all sat down in the sitting room, which really didn't seem like it was in Paris at all. There were these benches lining three walls, all covered in red and gold fabrics. The walls were papered in ivory and red peeling wall-paper that looked like it came straight from Morocco. There were bright red and black rugs on the floor, and one enormous picture of the family's oldest son on the wall above a wooden cupboard.

The woman made Arabic crepes flavored with honey and butter. She placed little bowls of nuts all around the table that she'd set up in her sitting room. We had Moroccan tea and bits of chicken scewered on sticks, loaves of bread and cookies dipped in chocolate. All for a tea! She barely sat, though. She had on her long, brown house dress and her hair tied up in a scarf and was scuttling back and forth between the kitchen and sitting room.

Her daughter-in-law came over to visit after a bit, and I was so impressed with her. First of all, she had really great taste in clothes. She wore these classy black pants underneath a silk knee-length dress covered in lime green, orange, and red flowers. And she spoke three languages, which I find really impressive when I'm still struggling through my second language. Although, humble as she was, she complained that barely anyone nowdays speaks Arabic, so she's forgetting it despite the face that she speaks it daily with her six-year old daughter (whom she'll soon send to Arabic Saturday school), so that the little girl will learn the language too. And besides all this, she's starting up a computer company, all while mothering her two little girls.

So, we sat around and talked for over three hours before we realized how late it was and hurried off to catch our respective metros home. But as I was riding back to Ponto, I just couldn't help smiling, because sometimes I really love the immigrant community in France. Where else could you consecutively be in Paris, France and then Rabat, Morocco?

Well, anyway, this was kind of a rambling, not quite connected hodpodge of thoughts here, but here it is. And I'll leave you with that.

Good night, world.

That Tower of Babel

The Romanians were back today. Or probably more accurately, the Romanians had never left, and I returned to find them still there.
As usual, I got to class early, and when I walked in, I heard voices, fans buzzing, people running around, and in a matter of seconds, complete silence. I didn't think much of it--mostly, because I suspected that they would still be there (homelessness usually isn't a brief problem)--, and I started setting up the downstairs classroom. When I'd finished, I went upstairs to prepare my classroom, and what did I find? Underwear of all shapes and sizes was lying out to dry all over my tables and chairs. I stood there probably a full minute, wondering what to do. I did not want to touch strange underwear. So, for lack of a better idea, I left the underwear, and went into the nursery to find toys that I could set out for the children to play with during class. When I walked into the nursery, there the Romanian family was...all of them, huddled together on two lumpy mattresses. I noticed several of their eyes flutter and then clamp closed suddenly. I whispered an apology and stepped out. I then had no idea what to do. I couldn't set up my classroom because of the underwear. I couldn't get the kids' area ready because of the sleepers. So, I sat down at one of the tables, underwear all around me, lacking inspiration.
About a half hour later, I decided that my best course of action would begin with picking up the underwear. So, I used the thumb and pointer finger approach--barely touching the fabric with just those two fingers--and I piled up their "unmentionables" in another room.
About then, the mother walked in, and started looking around the room with these really panicked eyes.
"Are you looking for your...erm...your underwear?" I asked. No response. I tried again, this time in French. No response.
I started miming the question, "Are you (pointing at the women) looking (hand over eyes, head moving back and forth) for your underwear (this is where it gets tricky: I started stepping into "something" and pulling it up like pants)?"
She started nodding.
I pointed to the other room. "I put them (setting make believe panties on the table) in that room (pointing to the room in question)."
She nodded again, and walked in to get them.
She returned with her things draped over one arm, and pointed down to the floor. "Cours?"
"Cours....yes....there is a French class here today."
She then pointed to her wrist and said something that sounded like "hora?"
"It starts at 2 (holding up two fingers) until 4 (holding up 4 fingers)."
Clearly, this didn't make sense to her. So, I walked out of the classroom and held up one hand as if to say, "Just wait a minute."
I closed the door, opened it, and then entered again, and said "Two", holding out my two fingers. In one hand, I held an imaginary suitcase. I closed the door behind me, and made a huge production of opening the suitcase and placing things arbitrarily around the room. Then, I said, "Four", holding up the four fingers, and walked back around the room, collecting my imaginary objects and placing them inside the imaginary suitcase, which I locked before walking out and closing the door behind me.
"Comprende?" I asked. I have this theory that, whenever someone is speaking a language other than English or French, everything they say and everything I reply somehow morphs into badly pronounced, not quite grammatically correct Spanish. It's hard to say why.
Still, she nodded that she did understand, pointed at her chest and motioned at the door.
"No, No!" I said. "You don't have to leave." I pointed to the nursery where she was staying and said, "No one" (I waving my pointer finger back and forth) is having class in here (indicating the room.) You can stay."
However, she seemed to take this as, "No one should stay in this room. You should go," and rounded her family up and had them out the front door in minutes.
I stood at the door, watching their rapid retreat, and thought, "That wretched Tour of Babel--if it weren't for that, we wouldn't be having these problems."
However, they were back at 4 o'clock, with a new television. (Yeah, that seemed a little weird to me too.) But they were all smiles and graciousness, despite me having touched all their underwear, so I have that to be thankful for.
And we can always look at the bright side: with constant language barriers, life becomes like one big game of Charades.

Back to School

So, it is officially Back to School week. Unfortunately, Back to School week coincides with the last week of Ramadan, so that makes for a very interesting combination.
Interesting. -- That's the word of the week.
Yesterday, I arrived at Asnieres about an hour early to make sure that the tables and chairs were set up and that everything was in order for classes. As I was unlocking the door, I smelled some really strong cologne. When I walked in, I could hear lot of footsteps and several different voices upstairs in my classroom. I was kind of on the fence about being brave, so I just sat downstairs in the corner--not brave enough to go upstairs and see who was there, but not quite sure I wanted to leave either. So, I waited. After about a half hour, a little girl, about six, came downstairs. She wore bright purple leg warmers, a blue mini-skirt, and one of those thin sweatbands around her pigtails. She looked like a mini 80's work-out star. She was immediately followed by a younger boy in overalls. Not sure what to do, I just said, "Bonjour." They both giggled, and ran back upstairs. A few minutes later, a man came downstairs. I started to introduce myself in French, and he said, "English?" So, I continued in English.
He explained that he, his wife, and their five children had fled Romania and had been living on the streets. The pastor of the church (where we hold our classes) gave them permission to live in the church until they could go to the prefecture and see about getting papers. He called his whole family down, and one by one, they all greeted me.
After explaining that about 40 women were on the way for French classes, they agreed to disappear for a few hours.
So, then, I sat down to wait for the women. And one came. Just one. She told me that everyone else was sleeping or preparing for nightfall. Apparently, during Ramandan, the idea is not to swallow anything while the sun is up--this means, obviously, no food or drink, but also no teeth brushing or gum. And then, at nighttime, the party arrives. They eat and drink and make up for the daytime fasting. Because of this, the women are absolutely exhausted during the daytime, and not likely to trek over to French class.
And today, we had classes at St. Denis and ran into more or less the same problem. Two or three women trickled over, but said they couldn't stay as they had to hurry home and prepare the nighttime meal. But thankfully, we have a pretty big group of Sri Lankan women who come to class at St. Denis, so of the 20 women who ended up coming, about half were Sri Lankan. The rest came from Bangladesh, India, and a variety of other (non-Muslim, mostly Hindu) backgrounds. So, even with the few faithful, we started. I'm subbing for another teacher who's at home in South Africa for two more weeks, so I had the chance to lead her converation class where we learned all sorts of helpful phrases like, "I'm so busy!" and "I'm not busy. I'm on vacation." It was so nice to be back in class. I've missed going somewhere.
All summer, I've been writing articles for the newsletters or helping out in the office. However, since the "office" is also my house, walking upstairs doesn't exactly consistitute as "going somewhere."
But anyway, we've now completed Day 1 and Day 2 of the Back to School Extravaganza.
As for tomorrow: Telegraphe, here we come. It'll be the first day ever over there. I'm really excited to see if any of the women we invited in the market place come.
So, anyway, hasta luego for now.

And as a teaser, I can't wait to post a picture and talk about the newest sensation in the Muslim world (or rather, just a restaurant I happened across in St. Denis): Mak D'Hal which is the Hallal version of Mc Do (McDonald's).

My One and Only Chance at Soloist

One part of adapting to France is adapting to an altogether new set of church songs. Sure, some of the songs are translations of our English favorites--The Heart of Worship, Before the Throne, In Christ Alone--, but there are quite a few completely new French praise songs.
This Sunday, I was playing in the worship band. Generally, "worship band" consists of me and a guitarist or pianist. But today, the whole world put in an appearance. We had two flutes, a cello, a violin, a classical guitar, regular guitar, piano, drums, and probably someone else that I'm forgetting. But sadly, despite the good attendance, we could not keep ourselves together had our lives depended on it.
Anyway, we somehow managed to stumble through our first four songs in relative harmony (by that, I mean, we at least managed to be playing the same song at the same time) until it was time to play "Tu n'as pas attendu"-- a song I'd never heard before. I'd practiced at home, worked out some basic harmony on the song, and thought, 'Oh, it'll be fine. I'll just follow everyone else.'
The cello and violin were supposed to be playing the introduction to the song, but the violinist had a sudden bout of something (stage fright? sickness?) and ran out of the church. So, the pianist who was leading our ramshackle band of non-musicians whispered, "Flutes. You've got the introduction."
The flutist next to me said, "I don't know this song. I guess it's a solo for you."
My knees almost buckled.
I couldn't think of a French response fast enough to tell her that, the very fact she was French and I was not ensured that she knew the song better than me. Also, a microphone in front of your face discourages any real argument, so I just raised my flute and started playing something. I had the rhythm completely wrong. I don't know if I even looked at the key signature first, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see people looking around like, "Is she playing Tu n'as pas attendu?"
But somehow it came together, and somehow, when it was over, I managed to pull together whatever dignity I had left and walk to the bus station. And somehow I made it home.
But now, critic that I am, all I can think about is my disappointing one and only appearance as the flute soloist at Noisy le Grand.

Moral or the story: I should have practiced more in high school.

Quick Salute to Victor Hugo

And on a lighter note... I also made a visit to Victor Hugo's house in Place des Vosges. I thought I'd upload a few pictures of his townhouse.

ABC, Easy as 1-2-3

After what seemed like a very long summer, I'm done with the summer campaigns and summer camps and back to work.
Classes officially start September 14th, but these past two weeks, we've been canvassing the neighborhood where we'll be starting our newest group of alphebetization classes. It's been quite an experience.
We're already working in two locations--La Courneuve and Asnieres. La Courneuve is a little (or rather, A LOT) like a walk into Algeria or Morocco. The women walking around tend to be decked out in head scarves and long skirts, if not burkas. The shops all have signs in French and Arabic. Most restaurants and grocery stores boast hallal meats.
But now, we're starting in Telegraphe too, which is right in the heart of Paris--the 20th arrondissement. It's nothing like La Courneuve or even the more Westernized Asnieres. It's plain and simply Paris. So, trying to drum up interest has been challenging.
By canvassing, what I mean is that we're walking through the markets and in the parks and handing out invitations to our classes. We hand them off and say something like, "There'll be a class starting on the 14th where you can learn to read and write in French." And in La Courneuve and Asnieres, that would work. In Telegraphe, it's trickier. Usually the goal is to try and find the North Africans, because often (especially among the older generation) they haven't been to school and they jump at the chance to learn to read and write. But targeting and only walking up to people in head scarves is a little weird too. So, I've adopted the "invite everyone" tactic. I walk up to anyone, hand out an invitation, and say, "I don't know if you know anyone who's in need of literary classes, but we're starting some classes on the 14th." Usually, I get a raised eyebrow and a, "You know, I'm fine" in response. Questioning someone's literacy seems to be an offensive thing.
But despite how difficult this has proven to be, we've still had several people who have been really interested and promised to come.
Yesterday, we ran into a Kabyle woman on a park bench who had moved here with her husband several years ago. A mother of 9, she said she spends nearly all of her days on that park bench. "There's nothing else to do, and I don't want to sit at home and listen to my husband complain all day." She said they barely speak anymore and whatever he does say comes in one ear and goes out the other. In fact, she's become so bored with him that she travels between her 6 living children, staying a few weeks with each of them. In any case, despite how sad I find this situation, she said she'd be really interested in coming to the classes. She speaks French really well, but doesn't yet know how to read or write French.
So less than a week now. I'm ready for fall, I think. As sad as I am to see the summer go, I'm ready to get back to work.

And a few pictures for your viewing entertainment...

This is the Chateau and the surrounding countryside.

Not the most horrible place in the world to be stranded in a gypsy camp. :) (By the way, I should probably mention that there were no actual gypsies at the camp. Just look alike caravans. Sorry about the confusion.)

Down to Business

Ever since I arrived, I've been wanting to take French classes. I hate having broken French, and I'd felt like a few courses at the Sourbonne could iron those kinks right out. But as I mentioned in a previous post, classes weren't an option financially speaking, so my team leader here in Paris suggested that I work at a summer camp with all native French people, and after a few weeks, she promised that I'd feel more comfortable with the language. She sent out a few inquiries, and a week later, I signed up to work at one of these such places.
So, August 15th, I headed off to what I believed was a children's camp. I'd emailed the camp's director a few times regarding when I'd arrive and what train I'd be taking, but I'd never heard anything back. I had sort of worried about this lack of communication, but using the "no news is good news" mentality, I decided not to over-think the issue. Days before I left, I received a preparation packet in the mail, and it was all really vague--you can use our washing machines for 5 euros, you can eat our food, you have to bring your own pillow and sheets--stuff like that. So, I brought along all the phone numbers I'd found, and reasoned that, if worst came to worst, I'd just call from the station, and wait for someone to pick me up.
Still, I felt really stressed out the whole way down--what if I got lost? What if I had the wrong train? What if camp was cancelled and that's why no one had responded to my emails?
I started feeling even worse about things when I reached Bordeaux. First of all, it was 116 degrees, and I was still wearing my Paris in the Summer clothes--jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, and a cardigan sweater over top. I was burning up, and all the girls walking past were wearing these flowery dresses and skirts. I hadn't brought anything like that! And second of all, they were all speaking in this weird, Southern twang that I could barely understand--"main" sounded like "mang", "demain" sounded like "demang", that kind of thing.
But there was no turning back, so I took the final train into Tonneins, and let me tell you, that station was absolutely deserted. There was an outdoor toilet with a hole in the wall so huge that all the world could see you doing your business. There was really no inside-the-station. Tonneins was basically just two railway tracks and a roof.
Thankfully, there was a bus sitting by the door and several people were packing their luggage inside. The side of the bus read Agape Village, and while I was staying at a place called Chateau Peyreguilhot, from what I'd understood from reading the pamphlet, it was owned by this Agape Village. So, I boarded.
We drove down this narrow, windy roads, and everyone around me was chattering away like they'd known each other for years. I was still shaking, thinking about how heading to camp at 24 was somewhat less of a dream come true than heading to camp at 8. But finally, I got my nerve up, got the French worked out in my head, and asked the woman next to me, "So, is this your first time working at this summer camp?"
She looked at me really confused, and said, "This isn't a summer camp." She whispered something to the woman next to her, and all the sudden, they were both looking at me with the strangest expressions on their faces.
I felt cold all over. I'd probably hopped into the wrong bus. I was headed to the wrong place. Who knew if I was even in the right city? There hadn't been any conductor on the train checking tickets, and they hadn't announced the name of the station when I'd arrived. What if I hadn't gone to Tonneins afterall?
But we pulled up in front of this large house, and I ran up to tell the driver, "I think I shouldn't be here."
He asked me why, and I replied, "Because I'm supposed to be working at a summer camp called the Chateau Peyreguilhot."
He laughed and said, "You're here."
I looked at the big house, which, upon inspection, did look rather like a small chateau, and I said, "This isn't a children's summer camp?"
"No," he said. "This week, it's a spiritual retreat center for singles 25-40."
Looking around me, they all did look like singles ages 25-40.
I walked into the castle and asked for the director who, of course, couldn't see me, because she was helping the new arrivals settle into their rooms. So, instead, a tiny woman with frizzy brown hair came out and said, "Come with me."
I smiled and tried to act really genial about the whole situation, until I realized that we were leaving the chateay and headed out into the woods.
I tried to ask, really casually, "Where are we going?"
"To the caravan camp," she said.
And I started panicking when I saw the caravan camp. It looked just like the gypsy caravan camps in Pontault-Combault.
"I think I'm staying in the castle," I said to her. "I got something in the mail that said I'd be in the castle."
"No," she said, and she showed me a piece of paper that said, "Katie Fleetwood--Caravan 4."
So, we arrived at this tiny caravan, and I stood at the foot of the steps while the frizzy haired woman walked off. I was not sure at all what I should do. When she was out of sight, I finally went in, but unwilling to believe I'd actually be staying there--exiled to the back woods of the chateau--, I just stood in the doorway, holding my suitcase so tightly my hands went numb. And that's when I started crying. Because I was so panicked and surprised and unhappy and miserable. And then, I started looking around the caravan with it's neon pink curtains and gaping hole where a refrigerator had once been, and I started laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. I think this is the first time I'd ever really laughed and cried at the same time. Maybe not. I remember doing that while I watched Steel Magnolias, but that's beside the point.
Anyway, not having any idea what to do, I sat on the bed, put my head on the suitcase, and slept. For three hours.
When I woke up, I looked at my watch and realized I'd way overslept. I ran back to the castle, and tracked down the director. Who still didn't have time to talk to me.
So, I went off to meet my fellow campers, and was inundated with questions such as "What would you say is your gift in life?", "Who do you admire most in the world?", "What kind of family would you like to have?", and "What age is the prime age to be married at?"

But to condense the rest, after one day, I was allowed to move into the attic of the castle, which was a blessing. I ended up not doing dishes and housekeeping as I'd originally thought--I, instead, was given the task of co-leading the kids' program. (There was a family camp that was going on at the same time, so plenty of children were there after all...) And though it was awfully hard, there were plenty of nice volunteers who encouraged me. (One woman said, "You know what the Cht'is say about coming up North? They say, "You'll cry two times...when you arrive and when you leave." She said, "I'll tell you the same thing about this camp." Incidentally, however, I didn't cry when I left.)

And to leave you with, I thought I'd write down two funny things that one of my boys said:
1) Boy: So, is everyone in heaven dead?
Me: No, they have eternal life.
Boy: But they had to die first to get there, right?
Me: Usually, but there's Enoch in heaven who never died. And Elijah. He never died either. God took him to heaven in a chariot of fire.
Boy: Well, here's the thing: I don't want to die. Do you think God could take me to heaven in a chariot of fire?
Me: Ummmm....he could. God can do anything. But I don't think that's likely.
Boy: I'm still going to pray that he'll take me to heaven in a chariot of fire.
And sure enough, every day when he prayed before kid's church, he prayed that God would take him to heaven in a chariot of fire, so he wouldn't have to die.

2) Same Boy: Why is this Jesus crying all the time?
Me: What?
Boy: Everytime you mention Jesus, you say Jesus Cries.
Me: No I don't.
Boy: Yes, you do!
Me: I'm sorry, but I don't think I do.
And then, I started thinking. Jesus. Jesus Christ. Ohhhh....
Me: Do you mean Jesus Christ?
Boy: Yes! You said it again!
Me: No, I said "Jesus Christ."
Boy: What's a Christ?
Me: It's part of his name.
Boy: Ohhhh....

Anyway, it was a half great/half miserable time, and while I had a lot of fun moments, I'm so glad to be home. And now, even though I hate to see summer end, I think I'm ready for fall classes to begin at Asnieres. I can't wait to get back to work.

Brief "Camp" Teaser

As it turned out, "summer camp" was actually nothing of the kind. It was, in fact, a spiritual retreat center for singles looking for spouses.

Here I am with a few friends I made at the Chateau Peyreguilhot where I spent all but one night in a castle that once belonged to a vineyard owner. That other night, one I'd like to forget, I stayed in a gypsy caravan in the woods.

But more of that later....

Summer Camp, here I come...

Today's the big day. I'm headed off to summer camp in the south of France for two weeks..
I know that may seem strange. It seems strange even to me, because August 15th seems like it should be the END of summer camps, not the beginning. But no, I leave today and will be there until August 30th.
About 4 or 5 months ago, I was looking into taking some French courses to improve my French. I felt like I was learning French, but picking up bad habits from speaking primarily to immigrants all the time. After a little while, I started seeing that classes were out of my price range. So, instead, I got grammar texts from the library and looked through those instead. I tried using CDs to improve my oral skills. But nothing really works as well as speaking to actual French people, so someone suggested summer camp. A great place to meet real French people, right? Yes.
Well now, my insides are all shaky. I never like change, but change in France is somehow worse. I barely know anyone in France, but I don't know anyone at all at camp. Everyone tells me that people who volunteer their summers to work at camp tend to be really nice people, and while I believe that, I just keep thinking "What if I don't make friends?" and then, even worse, "Everyone will be speaking French...will I be able to keep up with the rest of them?" I'm really nervous about being that really awkward giggler who sits in the corner, pretending to understand conversations, but never really getting them.
I had to have a medical test a few days ago in order to go to camp. I had to prove that I wasn't going to spread any infectious diseases. But this exam made me even a little more nervous about this camp experience. I told Stephan, who went with me, that I'd feel better if the doctor would wear a lab coat. Instead, she wore a short floral skirt, heels, and a flower in her hair. And, she had a book on her shelf called "How to Diagnose your Patients." That seemed particularly discouraging, but I'm trying not to let myself think that this means that camp is off to a rough start. The good news: I did get a form saying I am not diseased. That's a step in the right direction.
I'm leaving today. I'm leaving in ten minutes. So, pray for me. Pray that I make friends and understand conversations and end up liking camp. Pray that I turn into a camp addict--might as well hope for the best, right?

The Paris Blues

This summer, several girls came to stay at the house with Dominique and me. One came from Barbados, one from France, three from America, and one by one, they've all gone home. The last, an American, left this morning. I got up to say goodbye to her at about 7, and went back to sleep. When I woke up "for real" at about 10, I went downstairs to see if she'd left anything behind. She did what they all do--left her leftover shampoo and conditioner, those personal products that didn't fit in the bag. In the kitchen, she'd left her granola bars and spaghetti and rice and she'd written my name on all of them.
I went back to my room, and I started missing all those girls who came through here this summer. None of us really had spent very much time together or become those best friend forever types, but all of them meant a lot to me.
One of the girls, Lexi, had lived with us for several weeks and then moved into Paris for a language study. Even though she wasn't at the house, we had the chance to meet up in Luxembourg Gardens or go to lunch and a movie. We met for the last time about a week ago, and then, the day after, she flew home. I miss being able to take the train into the city to see her.
Another, the girl from Barbados, kept a lot to herself, but every night, she'd come into my room to say "Hi-ya"--something I've never heard people actually say--and she'd ask if I'd watched any more episodes of our mutual TV show. We'd bicker about who was acting ridiculous and get excited about the lives of other characters. I'm still watching an occasional episode, but it's always bittersweet with her gone.
It's suddenly hit me that summer is more or less over. And now that everyone is gone, I feel really alone. Being left behind is hard.
Maybe it's because the day is rainy and cold and this house feels really big now, but I feel homesick.

General merriment in Bruay and Auchel and Berck

So, I thought I'd take a moment to quickly recap the events of the past little-more-than-week. Saturday, the 18th, we headed off to Bruay-la-Buissiere, where I ended up staying. In the above block of pictures, you'll see that Bruay is the really old looking church at the bottom.

While we were there, we led kids' clubs and hosted an international night, a concert, and a theater night. During all of these evenings, the city was invited, and we had quite a few people passing through. It was really a great time, and a great opportunity to meet a lot of very interesting people in the north of France.

We also had a free day. Along with 4 friends, I headed off to see the English Channel at Berck Plage. It was absolutely freezing and rainy the whole time, but very, very fun. I ordered a Gaufre (waffle) while I was there, because, being so close to Belgium, I thought I'd better seize the opportunity.

All in all, I found that the North is a really interesting place--like nowhere I've ever been before. The people were really incredibly nice--constantly offering food and drink and anything they could offer. The weather was horrendous--it rained nearly everyday, and seemed cold as winter (In fact, there was a man from Brazil there, who mentioned that summer in the north of France is colder than winter in Brazil...) Of course, the down side is that the people there are Cht'is who have been made famous by the French film Bienvenue Chez les Cht'is. As a result of this, I barely ever had any idea of what was going on, and so, perfected my nodding and "Oh yes," skills. At first, I though, "Has my French really deteriorated this much?" but over the next few days, I realized that, in fact, what was happening was that they were pronouncing any word with a "c" or "s" sound with a "sh" Instead of "Ainsi", they said, "Ainshi." And instead of "Merci"; "Mershi." It was interesting adapting to the "new language."

Highlights:

1) I can now say "Over there is a chair" in Cht'i

2) I have visited the site where Bienvenue Chez les Cht'is was filmed

3) I met Michael Jordan (who happened to be a very, very small, German man. Not quite the basketball champion I was hoping for)

4)I ate at least 10 different types of cheese...not many of which I'd like to eat again. :)

As a short anecdote, we had a concert at church (as I mentioned) on Friday night. The singer was an ex-cabaret singer. You would have been able to guess that upon hearing the first few measures of his first song. He was very flamboyant--huge, toothy grin, the shuffly walk, the showman's voice. In any case, there was a man who came in late and sat next to me. From the minute he walked in, I knew he was drunk. He just reeked of alcohol. Somewhere during the concert, the singer said, "Next I'll sing 'Oh Uppy Day'" (which I later found was in fact "Oh Happy Day") and as he sang, the drunk man next to me grabbed my hand and said, "Let's dance." Everyone was standing and clapping, but no one was dancing. I said, "Well, I don't think anyone else is dancing." But he urged me, and me, having no idea how to dance or even what to do in this situation, started awkwardly jumping around. The drunk man let go of my hand after a few minutes of this and said, "I didn't mean dancing like that." And he started jiving away--rolling his head around, shaking his hips, clapping his hands. But when the song ended, he sat, and said, "I think I'm going to throw up."

So, interesting concert all around. It was definitely a highlight when the singer walked down the aisle, singing, and the drunk man beside me reached out and grabbed his rear-end. I can't say anything like this has ever happened to me before, but wow. Memories of the north. I'll treasure these forever.

Until the Next time...

Hello from rainy Pontault-Combault (I took this light pole picture about an hour ago. I'm starting a new goal to take more photos while I'm here. When I'm old and can't remember anything else, I want to be able to look through my France years).

In any case, although I find it hard to believe that anyone would find it surprising if I didn't write for a week, I still thought I'd officially point out that I'm headed off to a campaign in Bruay-la-Bussiere for the next 8 days. We're working alongside two local churches in B-l-B and its sister city, Auchel--kids clubs, international soirees for the community, miming, and such. So, keep us in your prayers while we're there. We're a small team--only 4 of us from the office, and I think only 11 total.


And guess who I'm driving over with?


Yes, that's right: Michael Jordan.


I'm very pleased with this. Although he claims to be a caucasian, 27-year-old German, I have my doubts. I'm pretty sure he'll be wearing red, will have an exceptionally intimate knowledge of Chicago, and will be very adept with basketballs. Let's cross our fingers.

And, by the way, speaking of sports, I thought I'd also mention that if any of you are Tour de France fans, be sure to watch the race during its final stage (the 26th, I think). They'll be riding through my town, Pontault-Combault, on the way to the finish in Paris. The one time something exciting happens here, I miss it... Oh well. I'm comforting myself with the thought that I'll meet Michael Jordan. He's got to be more exciting than Lance Armstrong, right?

I Joined the Bank!

Today I had an appointment at the bank.
I didn't want this appointment. In fact, I'd been dreading this appointment, but in order to get health insurance, I was required to show a form that stated that I, Katie, had a French bank account. Hence the appointment at the bank.
Last night, I could barely sleep thinking about it. Everyone at the office assured me that I'd be fine going on my own, but I had my reservations. I don't really have a broad banking vocabulary--I know the French word for "money", and that's kind of where my knowledge ends. But despite my protests, everyone assured me I'd be fine. (Plus, I'd been there on Saturday to make an appointment, and the teller spoke so painfully slowly that it would have been impossible NOT to understand her. I've never seen someone's lips move that particularly over words.)
Anyway, I walked in at 11:00 for my 11:15 appointment, and the woman at the counter took one glance at my rendez-vous card, and said, "He'll be right out."
So, I stood and waited...
...and waited...
...and waited...
A half hour later, a young, skinny man dressed in a very small suit came out of his office and said, "Come with me." Even from just thse few words, I could tell he talked fast. I started praying then that I'd be able to understand him.
But he put me at ease really quickly--asked if I felt homesick, if I liked France, if I was allowed to use the cars at the office. We joked around a while as he typed my information into the computer.
Then, he turned to the page that listed my monthly salary, and said, "Good God! How do you live on this?"
I didn't say anything at first, because I couldn't believe he'd just said that. I just looked at him, a little bug-eyed, and he repeated, more politely this time, "Do you find it hard to live on this salary?"
I smiled and replied very diplomatically, "It can be difficult...especially when the stores have sales."
We both made those awkward, obligatory laughs.
But I couldn't believe it! I would think that in banking school, the first thing you'd learn is not to comment on someone's monthly salary...especially not to say, "How do you live on this?"
Oh well. I don't hold it against him. He was nice.
But then, he started scribbling all these things on different pieces of paper, and asking me to sign inside several boxes. As he wrote, he began telling me that people normally put 500 euros in their account to start off with.
I don't have 500 euros. Nothing near it, in fact. Not even in my Jane Austen Tour savings account. So I just nodded and said, "Oh, really? 500 euros?"
He asked how much money I had.
I replied. "I have 20 euros with me."
I think he wanted to laugh right then, but he had the dignity to keep it in. I handed the money over, and only had a little difficulty easing my grip on it. He then stuffed it in something that looked like a freezer bag, and asked me to sign the bag. I did. And then, he mentioned again something about needing 500 euros. I gave him a shrug that I hoped said that would be no problem.
At that point, he started talking...a lot. About what? I'm not sure. I understood maybe a fourth of what he said, but just kept nodding and saying "Ok," despite the fact that I really had no idea what he was talking about. I only noticed he kept saying "500 euros."
After our meeting, he walked me to the door of the bank, saying, "Have a nice day."
I said, "You too!" over my shoulder, but I was so humiliated, I couldn't even look behind me.
I got home, and Simon, the accountant here, asked if I'd opened my account. I said, "You know. I'm not sure."
"How can you not be sure?" he asked, and I told him about my lack of 480 euros.
"You shouldn't be required to have 500 euros in the bank," Simon said. "Let's look through your papers. Let's see what you've signed up for."
So, I pulled out the packet of papers that the man had signed, and turns out, I not only opened a regular, run of the mill bank account, but he also signed me up for a savings account.
Turns out the man gets comission off of how many savings accounts he opens.
Interesting coincidence.
So, now, tail between my legs, I have to make another appointment with him tomorrow to cancel my savings account. This is probably the shortest lived savings account in world history.
I was feeling pretty bad about this day, and my level of French, and my banking skills in general.
However, Simon sat down with me today and said, "Would you have gotten this far 6 months ago?"
"No," I said. And I wouldn't have. I wouldn't have had the courage to walk in the door of the bank, let alone talk to the banker.
"See?" Simon told me. "Every day gets better."
And I guess that's true. Despite all the flops and failures, today I did something that I couldn't have done before. I joined the bank. Hooray for me.

Happy Bastille Day!

It's 2:23 in the morning on France's national holiday, Bastille Day. I don't have much to say, but just wanted to take the chance welcome in the day.
Though I've spent a July 14th in France previously (4 years ago for a language study abroad), I can't say that I remember anything exceptional happening on this day. But this year is already different. Tonight at 11:00, the city of Pontault had the kick-off with a half-hour fire works show at Hotel de Ville. Tomorrow is another day to brag about, as there will be a huge fireworks display at the Eiffel Tower. Pretty exciting.
I'm not going to lie: I'm pleased about these developments, because the July 4th activity was non-existent (not surprising, I guess, since we're in France and not the US). I can't help loving national holidays...

So, as anti-climactic as this post is, that's that.

Vive la France!

A Bird in the Bathroom

So, as always, it's been a while since I last wrote. If only good intentions wrote blogs, huh?
In the last month since I've written, there's been one major occurance in my life: a bird in the bathroom.

The windows here don't have screens, and we don't have much in the way of air conditioning (or maybe it just isn't turned on. Who can say?), so I often leave just my bathroom window open. The bathroom is connected to the bedroom, but while the bedroom window is huge and completely open, the bathroom window is smaller and has iron bars curling over the window. It's always seemed much safer to me to leave the bathroom open.

However, I left it open all of one Sunday afternoon, and I headed out to church. I then spent the afternoon with Stephan, and when I came home at night, I went into the bathroom (which I'd left closed), and I closed the door behind me. I was getting ready to wash my face, when I heard something flapping around over head. I screamed and screamed without really looking at it. I was so afraid it would be a bat. But anyway, after a while, I calmed down, looked up, and saw that it was just a tiny bird--a swallow maybe. By this time, I wasn't so scared anymore--just frustrated. I opened the bathroom windows as wide as they could be opened, and started yelling, "Get out! Get out!" Dominique and Lexi who were both asleep downstairs (did I mention this all happened at midnight?) rushed upstairs to see if there was an intruder attacking me and eliciting these types of screams.

But soon enough, they saw the bird, and Dominique went out in the hallway and said, "Flip me. I can't do a thing. I just can't--birds--I just can't--"

Lexi was standing at the door laughing, but also unable to help.

So, Dominique did the only thing she could think of. She called her dad in London to figure out how we could rectify the situation. He suggested we try and catch it inside a garbage bag and then free it from the window. I didn't think this sounded too easy. His second suggestion was to try and guide it out the window with something else--a bat, a broom, something with a long handle. This sounded more up my alley. So, I found a co-worker's suit coat that she'd left at our office/house, and I tied it under my chin, grabbed the broom, and went running after the bird. I tried guiding it, but it didn't seem to want to be guided, so after a few discouraging attempts, the guiding turned more into batting, and next thing I knew, I'd hit the bird and it fell flat on the ground.

I felt horrible!

I grabbed a garbage bag, scooped the bird up, and tossed both the bird and the bag out the window. I felt so bad all night, thinking about how I'd killed the bird. And his feathers were still sort of stuck to the ceiling and walls where he'd flapped against the room.

So, the next morning, I got up, and went outside the bury the bird.

Guess what?

There was just an empty bag and no bird. So, I conclude that, in fact, the bird lived, and had only been stunned when I'd hit him with the broom. Great news, huh?

Vive la paix

This car was sitting outside the church where we have classes at Asnieres sur Seine. I was 1) amazed at how parked-in it was and 2) in love with the paint job.
Peace. Love. France.

The Professor on the E

Today, I carried my camera around all day, looking at every minute as a possible "picture of the day" opportunity. And, rather than post one single picture, I have a few for your viewing pleasure...
After I got home from work, I was walking through the park, and the sky started rumbling and the air smelled heavy with rain, and I looked up at the sky. It was a beautiful gray, blue and the clouds almost faded right in, except the edges of each cloud were tinged yellow, and quite frankly, glowed. My first thought (as always) was "Christ is coming back right now!" My second thought was, "Picture of the day!" And so, I snapped a few pictures of the sky. The first one wasn't quite to my liking, and neither was the second, so I'm posting both in the hopes that, with this combined effort, you'll feel at least a little amazed at how lovely the sky was.

And now, another unrelated picture...

As I got off the train today, I thought, "Not everyone in Indiana would quite know what this feels like--getting off a train." While we Hoosiers do have the People Mover between our Indianapolis hospitals, we're not quite European in our transportation. So, camera firmly in hand (what a benefit to these Picture of the Days!), I took a picture of getting off the train. A little banal, but what else could Picture of the Day imply?

I spend a lot of my life on these train platforms. When I first came here, I was really intrigued to see what particular trash littered the tracks at each station. In fact, one day, I took a list. Here's what I wrore:

Pontault-Combault--bottle caps, cigarette butts, Coke can presumably filled with urine.

Noisy le Grand- glass bottles, candy wrappers

Noisy le Sec- boxer shorts

Val de Fontenay- Evian bottles, Orangina, deflated lotion bottles, Starbucks stir (richer area?)

After taking these notes, I got it in my head that I'd write a story about a girl who moved to France and chose her home based on the type of garbage on the train tracks at each station. I talked to my roommate, my coworkers, and friends about the story line, and overtalked the story line so much that I never got around to writing the piece. Not really a shocker.

So, above is the station at Villiers.

But anyway, speaking of trains, I think I saw my French professor from Olivet Nazarene University on the E today. I boarded the train at Val de Fontenay, and immediately sat down and pulled out a book. My eyes were focused down, and I saw her feet, which seemed oddly familiar for feet. At Rosny Bois Perrier, I looked out the window, and got a better look of her...or rather, her neon pink spandex leggings. At Noisy Le Sec, I was very curious, and as I stood to get off the train, I looked at all of her--the faded mumu-type shirt, her leggings, her orthapaedic shoes. I was way too surprised to say anthing, and I was still in the process of deciding whether this really was my professor from French 101. But after thinking about it, I feel pretty sure it was her. I'm sure that was the woman who told my class about her summers in France and watching old men play something akin to cornhold and most definitely, i remember her tirades on the dangers of dieting.

"You don't ever want to look like this!" she'd say, wagging her belly at us. "If you diet in your youth, you'll look like this when you're old."

That's when I decided never to diet.

So, an Illinois professor on the E. What are the odds?

Our weekend at the retirement home

So, Chuck had a really great idea. He suggested that rather than try and write a complete entry everyday, I should take a photo and post that photo every day. I'm not sure if the "every day" part of this will work out so well (see last post for more details) but I'll definitely do my best.

So, to begin with, I thought I'd post a picture of my bedroom. Nothing like hanging your dirty laundry out on the internet, huh?
And next, the lovely city of Pontault Combault. I took this picture from the upstairs bathroom window, so it's mostly just rooftops, but still, it gives you an idea of what my city looks like.

This past weekend, we had to go on a team-building weekend, and we stayed at this retreat center (I'll have to add a story about that later.) But here's the room I shared with two other ladies.

Another view of the retreat center, from my bedroom window.

And now for the good part: the retreat.

This past weekend was a holiday weekend in France. If you've ever taken any metro, any tramway, really any transportation in France, you start getting the idea that May 8th is an important day here. Seriously, everywhere you turn, there's a stop called 8 mai 1945. It's Victory in Europe day, or according to the very reliable Wikipedia, "the date when the World War II Allies formally accepted the unconditional surrender of the armed forces of Germany and the end of Adolf Hitler's Third Reich." Anyway, all this to say, it was a long weekend in France.

So, we had a mandatory "Get to Know your Coworkers" weekend. I wasn't really very excited about the weekend, because I had about a million things I wanted to do, and spending a weekend with people I see everyday wasn't at the top of my list. But before you think this will be a complaining post, let me just say that the weekend went really well, and I had a lot of fun. But that isn't what I want to talk either...

Friday morning, we were supposed to meet at the offce (not hard for me since I live here) at 9 in the morning, and we'd drive to Le Mans directly. So, four of us--Carolyn, Jennifer, Dominique, and I--were all in the car together, counting how many McDonald's we passed, singing along with the radio, and altogether trying to pass the long three hours.

We were a few miles within Le Mans when Carolyn asked Jennifer where exactly we'd be staying in Le Mans. Jennifer seemed hesitant at first to share any sort of information, and after a very awkward silence said, "Well, it's a place where some...aged people stay and there are...interesting things to do...and food and beds and..."

Carolyn interupted after this, and said, "I KNOW we're not staying at a retirement home." Jennifer started blushing (she'd been involved in the planning of this whole event) and said, "You know, it isn't JUST a retirment home. I think there'll be plenty of fun things to do there."

Carolyn groaned, and Jennifer quickly added, "There are ponies and walking trails and..." she continued to describe the place, and Dominique, Carolyn, and I looked at each other a little helplessly--a required "fun" weekend at a retirement home.

We arrived at noon and entered Les Terebines, a retreat center/retirment home. Conference rooms on one side, physical therapy rooms on the other. Very interesting combination.

One day, we were sitting in the dining room, eating lunch, and the servers had left the kitchen door open, and after a few minutes, a heavy, white headed woman in a walker meandered through the kitchen into the dining room. One of the servers quickly ran over to her, grabbed her elbow, and said, "Madame, your dining room is just down this hall." The woman looked at us all, certainly confused, and turned to head in the other direction.

In any case, I found this combination funny, and that's really what I wanted to write about.

As far as the weekend, it was packed with name games, human pyramids, talents shows and song competitions.

We were all ready to be home again by Sunday afternoon. As a side note, when we first arrived, Dominique, a distinct London city girl, opened her car door, propped her sunglasses on the edge of her nose and demanded, "What is that smell?"

Jennifer said, "I think it's the countryside."

Sure enough, we were surrounded by farm life.

When we packed up at the end of the weekend, one of our French collegues walked us to the car, helped us pack up, and as we were shutting the car doors, said to Dominique, "Now, you can get back to the wonderful smells of the Paris banlieue."

Dominique smiled and said, "Thank goodness."

Now, we're back in Pontault for the week, and this weekend, home will be coming to me. A team of girls from the US are coming to work with the alphabetization classes this week. I'm excited to take my tour guide skills out for a test drive, and on a selfish level, I've asked for Cookie Dough Pop Tarts, Cherry Cheese Danish Pop Tarts, and Shopaholic Books. Let's cross our fingers and hope for the best.

So...
Not the best I've ever done after having made a resolution.

As of late...

So, I've been reading this book lately about this aspiring writer who's spent her whole life saying she'll get to England one day and follow in the steps of Jane Austen. Her dad one day asks (in reference to another dream of hers), "What are you doing to accomplish that goal?", and she realizes she's been doing nothing to accomplish any of her life dreams. So, she saves up her money and spends a year in England, visiting all the Jane Austen "sights." Anyway, this book originated as a blog, was apparently well-received by its readers, and eventually turned into a book format. All this made me think, "When I finish these two years with France, what will I have to look back on?" Certainly not my blogs, since I've turned into a "once a month" type of blogger.
But honestly, I've become the world's most inconsistent blogger, my journal has fallen by the wayside, and my self-discipline in general is nothing to brag about. The good news is that tonight I've decided to be a new me. I've decided to really start consistently DOING all those things I intend to do and never do--practice my flute daily, write, update my blog, write, learn how to cook something other than couscous and chicken, and WRITE! Of course, I make this resolution all the time, so there's nothing to say that tonight's new-found resolve is anything different.
However, rather than getting flustered by this, I've decided to start small and just record what happened today.
So today...

The building at La Courneuve has become really unliveable, and quite honestly, needs to be quarantined. I opened the closet to turn on the lights yesterday morning, and a mouse sprang out at me. Now, I say it "sprang", when in reality, it just stood still for a moment and then scurried back into the shadows. I'm aware that this isn't precisely "springing" in the technical sense of the word, and yet, my story is much more popular when I say "sprung." So, the mouse sprung at me, and I stood there and screamed and screamed. I finally realized that it would do no good screaming, so I locked the mouse in the closet. I should have shooed it out or done something that responsible people do, but I didn't. As far as I know, the mouse is still in the closet.
I didn't see it there this morning when I turned on the lights, but none-the-less, I was very careful as I put my finger inside the door.
In other news, I went home with one of the women today for lunch. I'd gone with her a few weeks ago, and we'd spent the afternoon watching Tunisian soap operas and drinking Arabic coffee out of these ridiculously small mugs. Today was almost the same, although, in place of the Tunisian soap operas, she wanted to watch Patrick Swayze's Ghost together. But there were still the ridiculously small mugs filled with little, tiny portions of heavily sugared coffee. So, you know, about the same...
As I was leaving this evening, I had my travel pass in one hand and a book in the other. I swiped my pass across the card reader, but as I was stepping into the tramway, I dropped my pass in the space between the tramway and the wall. Now, this pass isn't that easily replaceable. I'd just reloaded the pass for the month of May, and had spent about 100 euros for the month. I couldn't just let the thing go. Behind me, I heard a man say, "Oh la la. That's not good." And he was right: it wasn't good at all. So, I dropped to my hands and knees, and tried to jamb my arm down inside the crack. I twisted and turned and started getting very nervous as the tram filled with people and prepared to leave. Just before the final bell rang, I fished the card out, jumped up and started waving it triumphantly in the air. A few people were grinning at me from inside the tram, so I yelled, "I have it! I have it!" And just as the doors started to slide closed, I hopped inside.
Certainly, the day ended on a high note.

I'm off to bed now. Along with attempting to be a more consistent blogger, I'd also like to be a "before-midnight" kind of sleeper. I'm really reaching for the stars here. So, I hope I'll be updating again tomorrow, but we'll see how life-changing this resolution really is.
A demain!