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.