Touring! (the town of Nantes)

Please forgive the awkward title. I'm open to suggestions :)

View of the city from l'île de Nantes

No class today. Trash bins crammed tightly in the doorway of my high school again.  So instead of grumbling about the strike, I've decided that a good use of my morning would be to tell you about all of the enjoyable things I did last weekend. Just in case you didn't think I was enjoying Nantes, here's the lighter side of French life.

Krista and her roommate, Melissa, decided to leave their charming little town of Les Herbiers last weekend for a taste of city life (read Krista's blog to see just how much she appreciates living in a village with more cows than people http://thesagaofone.blogspot.com/ ), and I was happy to oblige them!

We found a nice little bar called Au Chien Stupide ("At the Stupid Dog") and decided to make that our home for the weekend soirées. It has a cool dark art-deco theme that kind of reminds me of my favorite dive in La Crosse, Wisconsin (I don't remember the name, but if you ever randomly find yourself in that city, look for an off-kilter place downtown with neon murals painted on the walls of crazy tattoo-ish looking scenes. Plus they break every bottle as soon as they're done with it.). We also ventured over to what is fast becoming one of my favorite bars in Nantes, Buck Mulligan's, one of many Irish pubs scattered throughout the city. Did you know that there exists such a thing as Alcoholic Cider? It's divine. How have I never been aware of it before?

"Drinking in the street is chic." Melissa, Krista, and Gregory outside of Buck Mulligans

Journey to IKEA.

On Saturday, Krista, Melissa, my roommate Gregory, and I all decided to make the long journey to IKEA. It's about a 40 minute tram ride. As you leave downtown Nantes and head to the newer neighborhoods, the buildings spread out a bit more and you can see for a further distance. I think it more resembles the American suburban shopping centers with green lawns stretching around large, warehouse stores. I'm used to the structures in France being of smaller, narrower proportions than in the states, so when I first lay eyes on IKEA, I stared like a rustic-bumpkin at the gargantuan, blocky structure. A large blue monstrosity with the title IKEA emblazoned across it's sides, surrounded with acres of parking and parking garages, this shopping complex looks a little out of place in the Europe I'm used to  seeing.

Riding the tram is super!

We navigated the store successfully (if you've never been to IKEA, go, and take one of the maps they offer, you'll need it) and filled our arms with all the essentials for living in France (cinnamon candles that smell like kitchens in autumn, black decals to turn my mint-green walls into a jungle of designs, and big cups! Oh how I've missed properly sized mugs.)

On the way back from IKEA we had to get off a stop or two early because of the gigantic manifestation that was happening downtown. But like I mentioned in a previous post, the march was more like a parade, with balloons, music, and face paint.

At one point though, some brilliant demonstrators decided to use flares in their march, causing all of the spectators to cover their eyes and noses from the putrid smoke. However, the flares did make for great, urban battle-esque pictures.

For dinner, I attempted to treat my guests and roommates to a Nepali curry. Going mostly from memory of how Indra always made it, and with a little help from website recipes and my roommate, Peggy's, suggestions, I think I ended up with a potato/greens combination that Indra would have found acceptable. However, my liberal use of cumin and curry left a very distinct smell in the apartment, which lasted long after the employment of those IKEA cinnamon candles.

Sunday morning, Krista, Melissa, and I visited the Les Machines de L'île, a newer addition to Nantes' art/culture scene. They've built a really cool gallery/workshop in the warehouses of an old shipyard, the sight for many fantastical machines based on the imaginary worlds of Jules Verne. You can sit inside most of the machines (see the seat basket inside the scary tooth fish's stomach) and work the levers.

 

Effrayant!

My favorite structure is this mess of tangled wood and twisted steel, a tree prototype. 

I love this. How cool is this idea?! If there was a city designed out of gigantic trees like in the book Dinotopia (my fav as a kid, fyi), I would totally live there. Something about trees always appeals to me. Drawing them, painting them, talking about them... etc.

Standing on a branch of the tree that's actually been built.  It connects to the workshops.
Might have to rethink my whole tree city idea, it's really high up here!

This mechanical elephant likes to walk around the île and spray unlucky victims with water.
As you can probably also tell, it gives rides too.

After the Gallery of Machines, it was off to the Château des ducs de Bretagne located in the center of Nantes.  It dates back to the 13th century. This is only the second castle I've ever visited in Europe (the first was in Nice in 2007), so I was still so impressed by the feeling of history when I entered the courtyard. The immensity of the place just astounds me. The walls are so solid, the towers so huge. How were people capable of creating such gorgeous monstrosities out of heavy stone and mortar before modern machinery? The subject still amazes me. One thing I've been trying to convey to my students is how lucky they are to be surrounded by so much visible history. It's quite common place for Europeans, I think, to see and live and work in centuries old buildings everyday. But for an American newly arrived to Europe, it is an obvious and gratifying experience.

Courtyard, the interior of the chateau grounds.

Photo opportunity!

And after our grand adventure touring the spectacles of Nantes, we headed back to my apartment to create our own, very familiar American spectacle: BAKING COOKIES!!

Stylish!

I was being very helpful. 

After we figured out all of the conversions for baking, we replaced the curry odor in the apartment with the billowing warmth of freshly baking cookies.

Big mugs of tea and plenty of chocolate chip cookies, the perfect Sunday afternoon.

We all benefited immensely from the results, especially Melissa, who hails from Costa Rica. I couldn't convince her that eating the cookie dough was worth the risk of raw eggs, but she did hazard a taste of the baked product. I'm pretty sure it was a successful first bite.

Melissa's first fresh, homemade chocolate-chip cookie.

Melissa, Krista, Peggy, and Gregory about to dig in.

Afterward, we had a simple but totally satisfying dinner of hardy bread, stir fried vegetables, and cheese. A delicious (and nutritious, see the vegetables comment) ending to a fantastic weekend.

A great big thanks to Krista Schilling for letting me use all of her marvelous pictures in this blog!

Manifest-ing.

Days like these I really wish I had a working camera.

Demonstrators must get up pretty early. When I got to the lycée around 9 this morning, the entrance had been barricaded with trash cans and makeshift plastic rope.  Signs were taped up with the words “en grève” (on strike) scribbled over them. 

A crowd of teachers and students were standing outside of the mess, not protesting, but just sort of loitering as if deciding what to do.  I spoke with one of the school employees and he said that the teachers weren't on strike, but maybe the students were.  

Regardless of who starts it, when there's a grève you still  report to work until you’re told otherwise. So we ducked under the rope and sidled around the trash cans and through the front gate.

The schools in Nantes are built like fortresses. Besides most buildings being built of high, thick stone walls in the center of town, there is usually at least one set of doors and/or a gate that you have to get buzzed through to enter the premises. The windows to my school are double plated and have big interior wooden shutters pulled over them. After today, I think I know why. 

I had an hour before class to prepare my lessons and check my email. So maybe just 10 minutes after I'd gotten in the building and was in the professor’s lounge, there were loud bangs against the windows. It sounded like rocks cracking into the glass. After the first vault, a couple teachers pulled open the shutters just a bit to peek out.  After they closed them again there was another volley.

Fortunately, the rocks only broke the first pane of glass and never made it anywhere near those of us in the teachers' lounge. 

A few minutes later, there was smoke and some shouting outside by the entrance. Those trash cans that were barricading the entrance were now on fire.  

I wasn't scared because I wasn't exactly sure what was going on. Was this normal? I knew that strikes and demonstrations were common but this seemed pretty extreme at a high school. Plus, this wasn’t happening across the street, or across the courtyard, this was taking place on the other side of the wall of the room I currently occupied.  I probably looked more confused than frightened, as I was still just typing on the internet through the worst of it. But I also was just reading everyone else's energy, which was alarmed but still calm. The firefighters and police were called and the fires put out. 

One of my English professors, the only male teacher I happen to be working with who is a bit older and has a fondness of Ireland and Martin Scorsese films, kept chuckling every time he saw me, asking “Are you alright?” "Do you feel better?" as if this were no more than my first hazing into French culture.  Bienvenue.

After the firefighters came and put out everything, I still had my morning class to teach. For whatever reason, the school was closed because of the riot, except for the handicapped students. I think perhaps that's because school is the best place for them to be during the day? In any case, we had a pretty good class I think. What a difference Pictionary and candy make!  I was the artist and I drew pictures of Halloween related vocab (pumpkins, witches, ghosts, etc.) on the board and then tossed out chocolate to the all-of-a-sudden very enthusiastic students.  My teacher was impressed with my artistry skills and said I should involve that more in my lessons. Sweet!

Afterward, I had a two hour break before my next class so I decided to leave. Besides the huge wooden doors, now an extra exterior gate was up that needed another key to unlock it. Two barriers? Not a good sign.  

When I stepped through I was greeted by the sight of garbage and half melted trash bins strewn about the sidewalk.  After the fire and the subsequent putting out of fires, it was like a rainbow of offal scattered everywhere in front of the gates. The garbage-bags in Nantes are blue and yellow (trash and recyclables respectively) and make a cheerful combination when thrown haphazardly into the street. Amongst the grotesquely melted trash bins, it looked and smelt like the remnants of an urban battlefield. 

I carefully sidestepped the rubbish and headed for home.  I ran into at least two smaller manifestations happening at different parts of the city and knew it was pointless to wait for the tram.

When I went back to school later, it had been officially closed for the day. Dang. And I mean that. It made sense after the violent demonstration this morning, but it was still a disappointment not to get to teach this afternoon, especially after how well my first Halloween lesson went down. I was definitely looking forward to the others.

On the way home again, I saw that another high school close to my apartment was barricaded completely shut with trash cans. No fires set... yet, but plenty of high school students left to just sit or loiter in the street.

It doesn't really make sense to me why high schools are targeted so forcefully during the strikes. I understand that education is where most of the reactionary elements take place, and that it's usually the students who conduct the protests, but it seems a waste. Education ought to be the one thing besides the safety/health sector the government that should always be solid as a rock. I think it's an important thing to keep running in the face of uncertain circumstances, so that students can continue to benefit, not only from a good education and a good example, but also a safe atmosphere.

But, with all of these demonstrations and marches, it keeps the walk home interesting. Like little parties springing up at random places on a map, I'm getting used to seeing neon-vest wearing manifest-ers, young and old, jubilantly waving their little symbols of rectitude.

The strikes and protests are in reaction to the national retirement age going up to 62 years old from 60, but I think that in general, most French love any reason for a manifestation. I haven't had much experience with protests in America or anywhere else, but from what I've seen, the French have the art of protesting practiced to a tee.  The participants are usually wearing some sort of matching neon vest or wind jacket, and waving carefully printed or thoughtfully written signs. There is usually a vehicle decked out with festive banners, parked or leading the participants on their path, and someone chanting over the system or blaring loud dance music. And the balloons, oh the balloons.


There was a huge manifestation this weekend that seemed more like a parade, and my friends and I were just sort of hanging out on the side of it, waiting for a break in the crowd to pass through, whilst rocking out to the international rap. If this were America, the only thing missing would be hot-dog stands and someone selling glitter wands and "I Survived Manifestation 2010" t-shirts. 

Jogging?

This morning started out, quite literally, at a run.

At 9ish a.m., minding my own business, just taking the tram to work as usual, the conductor announces over the intercom, "Sorry everyone, but the tram is stopping at St. Felix because of the protest."

St. Felix is at least 2-3 miles from my school's stop.

Everyone in the tram grumbles in reply or shrugs their shoulders at the news. I'm just silently thankful that I understood exactly what was said. I suppose I should have readied myself for this situation, there have been strikes and demonstrations going on all week because of the retirement age going up.

I follow the rush of people as they empty into the street.  Like the contents of a bottle spilling out into the road, we all start a brisk march in the same direction. Most of the people are university students and although they walk quickly, they're also just laughing or joking about the inconvenience of the situation.

I propel myself forward with the faster ones.

A vision from last week's orientation flashes in my head, of the nice French woman at the podium saying to us "Si vous allez être en retard, il faut appeler votre école en avance."  (Fortunately for us, whenever a French person speaks in my memory, it's dubbed in English: "If you are going to be late you MUST call your school ahead of time.")

So, instead of just a brisk walk, now I'm doing a sort of half gallop/half skip, skirting around the slowpokes and dodging the random scooter who decides to zip through us. At this point, I'm trying not to panic. I still haven't got a French cell phone because I need a French debit card to get on a French plan and I've been having issues with my French bank releasing said French debit card to me. I also can't find my telecart, the prepaid phone card I use in the cabines (phone booths). Not that calling would actually achieve anything for me other than a show of good faith, as most likely whoever answers the school phone won't be able to understand a word of my French (I'm fairly certain of this because when Krista called her school, they hung up on her despite her speaking what was in my opinion, very understandable French, and when I answered the phone at the Maniere's house, the woman on the other line was utterly confused by my translation of "Just a moment.")

At 10:05 a.m. I begin to sprint. I've left the crowd behind me about a mile ago. I saw some people sprinting then, but now as I'm the only blond chick in the road running with my gigantic purse held awkwardly against my side, I'm the one getting stares. I soldier on, depositing my now unnecessary scarf into my gigantic (but very necessary) purse.

And then, one stop before my own, a tram car miraculously thunders up beside me and, wait, can it be? Yes, it is taking passengers! So I throw myself on board just before it jets off again. It's saved me four, maybe five hundred meters, hurray!

I run up to the school gate, red-faced from the exercise and crazy-haired from the sprint. Frank, the old man at the welcome desk, buzzes me through the gate.

"Bonjour Frawnk!" I call out as I hurry past.

"Oh wait, mademoiselle," (English dubbing), "can you close the front door? It's getting cold."

Oh sure, Frank. My pleasure. I double back to shut the front door (which is usually left open) and continue on my way, trying not to appear as if I'm running. They may be empty, but these are still the hallways of a school we're talking about.

And then, of course, I almost run right smack into the principal. As principal of this establishment always address him with "vous" and treat him with the utmost, perhaps a bit grovely, respect. He keeps that middle-school in tip-top shape. He's the type of person to always wears a suit when everyone else is in jeans, and despite me telling him when I first met him that, "No, I'm happy with the studio apartment that the other school found for me," he gets on the phone to that lodging agency, tells them (loudly) that I've found a better, cheaper apartment to live in, and demands that they release me from my contract.

He can be a bit intimidating at times, especially when you're the American assistant who doesn't speak much French and he's pelting rapid vous voulez vous at you, glowering up at you like he's Napoleon reincarnated. 

Luckily, though, because he's an important man, he's always sort of half running/half marching everywhere, so he probably doesn't have time to remark on my identical pace at this instance. We exchange cordial, hurried bonjours, and continue on our seperate missions.

I have to go to the teacher's lounge to search for the class schedule as I've of course forgotten the room number. But, two minutes later, a soft rap on door 5, and my English teacher's answering "Yes? Come in!" and I'm in class, only 10-15 minutes behind schedule, and perhaps still a little red from my run.

Despite my concern over being late, everything worked out just fine. The teacher didn't mind that I was tardy. In fact, she seemed rather amused by my self-righteousness as I explained the inconvenience this manifestation was causing. (Manifestation = demonstration, as in a protest. Memorize this word, I'll probably be using it a lot this year).  These things are like rainy days in France, overcast with a chance of protest, so you just pull out your umbrella and accept them as part of the weather. Sadly for me, I still have not purchased an umbrella.

So, thank you so much, protesters.  Yes, I could always use the motivation for a brisk 2 and a half mile walk/run in the morning, but I really don't appreciate being 15 minutes late to work. What's more, there were no demonstrators blocking the tramway as I ran alongside it to work. Grrrr.

Segue:

Speaking of jogging (you see I named it as the theme of this post) just thought I'd mention that I did go on a 4 mile run, by choice, the other day.  By some divine reasoning, Nantes had been blessed with a bout of sunshine and warm temperatures recently (today's morning dash to work coincided with the first cloudy, freezing day in over a week). It rained torrentially the week before that and, me with no umbrella, left me looking like a drowned sewer rat whenever I ventured outdoors.  Therefore, sunshine has been a wonderful gift.  Last Friday it even reached 70 degrees. So on my day off this week, Tuesday, I took my roommate's advice on a direction to go and started off.

It was my first time running in France, running in probably over a month actually, and it felt marvelous. I think the best way to experience a city is to run through it. I followed the gentle river Erdre through town and up to the local university. The water was sparkling in the sunshine, filled with little boats and boat houses, the banks lined by trees and old buildings. People were scattered alongside it on benches or on curbs, eating paninis on their lunch hour and gazing out across the water. I followed the cement path away from the river proper and then took a low wooden bridge through an overgrown, swampy forest. When I emerged, I hit le fac's campus and turned back around only when I started literally running into the tram riders. I almost ran into a couple of swans on the way back too, but they were too busy nosing through the grass to notice me. The air was a bit chilly that day, but the sun was out in full force, thus creating the perfect environment for a run.

I noticed a lot of interesting graffiti sprayed and hidden in different places along the way too (France has been spectacular for graffiti so far) so I'll have to go back and scribble it down for future reference (the crude stick-woman with labeled parts should be especially helpful for new vocab).

The beauty of nature (ie. trees, river, swans), the loveliness of the old-world (ie. crumbly buildings, elaborate ironwork, old boats), the variety of new voices rising (ie. graffiti, snatches of overhead music), and feeling the glory of overcoming the ache in your muscles to just keep running, that's my idea of a perfect mixed tape.

So as you might gather from my two stories, France is shaping up to be a grand adventure so far, filled with ups, downs, and surprises, but I'm loving the chance to be here. Till next time, adieu. (<-----My French instructor says this word is dead, so nevermind)

** Update: to be fair, I saw that the principal of my middle-school was wearing jeans today with his suit jacket and that he was joking around with teachers. So I guess he's not intimidating all of the time.

Enfranced! (entranced by France)

Three American girls in Paris. 

As I sit here munching on my pain au chocolate and dropping crumbs into my keyboard (souvenirs for a later date), the first thing I contemplate is what my parents will be thinking as they read this sentence.

"Don't ruin your laptop!"

Pfff, if my keyboard can recover from a latte then I think it can survive some measly bread crumbs. What else ya got?

"Our fears are confirmed!"

They had said to me, pleaded really, before I left, "Jennifer, we are concerned about your eating habits and what you call food.  Please eat something besides just bread and sugar while you're in France."

Well, be not afraid parents! Am I eating more bread in France than I ever ate in the states? Oui (achieveable? yes!) but try to remember that the two main food groups in France are 1) butter and 2) bread. It's imperative that I eat these things in order to avoid being beaten out of l'Hexagone with a crusty baguette.

But, in all seriousness, I spent my first five days in Nantes introduced to warm, wholesome meals made by a verified French family.  Every night the Manieres slaved in the kitchen to provide me with sufficient amounts of nourishment to turn any malnourished traveler into a well-fed member of society. I've consumed enough protein, calcium, and vitamins to last me through March. Turkey, potage, chicken, potatoes, fish, salad, chocolate cake, savory crepes, prune tarts, greens, etc, etc...every opportunity they had to feed me, they did, and still I've managed to fit into my American jeans. Hurrah!

Really, those Manieres spoiled me. What a wonderful introduction to France! I was completely coddled during my first few days here. Sure I was also bombarded with rapid French at every meal and had to share space with the army of spiders in their basement (more on that later), but they ensured that I was completely comfortable and that I had everything I needed when I finally moved out. They also had a very good sense of humor. As I struggled to form complete sentences in the correct tenses, they gently poked fun from across the table in a way that I could realize when I was the butt of the joke and gingerly poke back (sarcasm crosses language barriers BTW). Mme Maniere had a cold when I first arrived and so my favorite quote is her reply to my ensuing sniffles.  "My welcome gift to France," she smugly replied, en anglais for emphasis. Those sniffles quickly developed into a full blown nasal clogging, energy draining, lung hammering cold. Merci beaucoup Mme. Maniere.

I think the best part about my stay with the Manieres, though, was getting to know them on a personal level. Our mode of verbal communication might have been quite limited, but I got comfortable enough with them that I would forget that they spoke another language until they actually started speaking again. During my first few days in France, when my morale was at its most delicate state, this made France and the people who speak French a little less intimidating.  Par exemple: M. Maniere hates shopping at the huge Wal-mart-ish French super shopping center, kinda like other dads I know, and we were practically galloping through it, gathering items on his grocery list into our arms to save time. Mme Maniere was so pleasant and concerned with my day each time I came home. We even watched 'Julie and Julia' in French and she would look up words in their big French/English dictionary for me. Quentin, the teenager, was aloof in a nice way, ready to talk when I tried, and Vincent, the 12 year old, was shy but amusing, and stared at me like I was an alien from outer-space all through my first dinner.


In addition to this charming French family, I've also had an encouraging experience with my English teachers.  They've all been extremely helpful and patient, some even going out of their way to ensure that I had proper lodging and food. However, sometimes their aide seems a bit misplaced. No matter how much I assure them in French or in English that the other school has taken care of something for me, the teachers will roll their eyes, refuse to trust in the capabilities of the other school, ask "Why must I do everything," and attempt to completely re-do whatever was done for me by the other school. This makes them helpful in a competitive sort of way, which ends up being completely unhelpful at times. But more on that in another post. Right now, I'm still just focusing on how thankful I am that they are patient with me and so willing to help.

And then there are the students. Sure there were a handful of indifferent ones at the lycée (high school), but at the collège (middle school) alone, I've had at least three pairs of arms thrown into the air with celebratory "Yes!"s when I say that I'm American. Just yesterday as I was responding to questions from a room full of twelve-year-olds such as "What is your brothers and sisters?" and "Do you have stars?" (don't judge,YOU try learning the English language, it's crazy difficult) one young boy excitedly asked his teacher "Comment dit-on 'belle'?"  The teacher looked confused and tried to dissuade him with "But Mario, that's not a question..." But Mario, who looks like that kid in first grade who divides his time between declaring his love for every girl in school and stuffing worms up his nose, ignored Madame's advice and desperately shouted out above the other questions, "YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!" 

Fortunately, no one remarked on my reddening face because they were either too busy giggling or pointing out Mario's ensuing blush. The teacher looked flustered, Mario looked horrified, and I was trying to come up with some semblance of an appropriate response amid the roar of kissy noises. However, it all paid off later when I screwed up during an intense game of Simon Says and Mario discretely covered up my mistake. Props, Mario, glad you've got my back.

However, amid all of these heartwarming anecdotes, I mustn't let you think that my whole experience with France has left me entranced. My first couple of days left me quite the opposite. 

The first set back? Things are expensive here! Even if the dollar weren't weaker than the euro, the cost of living is high! 5.5 euros at IKEA for one plain white sheet? Sheesh! 3 euros for a kilo of apples? Eep! But, 1 euro for a baguette that will feed me for two days? Yes please!

The second set back, French administrative paperwork. It is loooong. And endless. And redundant. And boring. Plus, impossible to understand.

Third set back, arguably the worst: my comprehension of the French language is more terrible than I ever imagined. What happened to all of those years of studying vocab, past, present, and perfect tenses in high school and at Eastern? Oh yeah, I discarded all of that 'irritating' information as soon as I finished the test. I figured, if I really want to learn, I'll relearn when I go to France. Holy merde was I being irresponsible. 

I really feel like I've let that part of my brain die, or at least starved it almost to death over the last year and a half. And to top it off, the icing on the perpetual cake of my demise, my clumsy tongue can't even form the sounds properly. 

Do you know what's embarrassing? Being hired to teach someone how to speak a different language and then not even coming prepared enough to suitably speak your employer's language to their face. This was quite honestly the most frustrating set back. Even today, after being in France for close to two weeks, I could barely manage to express myself in the most simplistic terms. I sound like a well-meaning simpleton when I tell them that I'd like to teach French someday. 

Comprehension is easier when people are speaking slow and using enough familiar vocabulary. So that's encouraging. But when I try to speak? It's as if there's a wall around that portion of my brain. Or, better yet, I've found a door in that wall, but when I open it there's just a block of cement on the other side. 


Let me describe the French language for you. When native French speakers speak, it's as if a lovely silk tapestry is being spun into the air, complex and rich. Watercolor and textured oil paintings are being painted into existence. Busts of Roman emperors are being created. Masterpieces are being carved from solid rock. 

When a foreigner speaks good French it's like a smooth ice sculpture, not quite as refined as the other products, but equally as lovely to behold, perhaps even more gratifying when you consider how easily it could have been ruined by an unskilled hand. 

Now let me describe what happens when I open my mouth: play-dough. Garishly colored, easily misconstrued, and something one usually outgrows after childhood, my French is abysmal and totally embarrassing. Do you know how frustrating this is for someone who spent all of her money on a French Major? Who had to suffer the looks from well-meaning inquiries of, "What will you do with that?" 

I want to be constructing ice sculptures! Heck, I'd even settle for ice cubes.

The good news? Baby steps. Everyday I make minor improvements. The play-dough is maleable at least. When it has dried as hard as rocks then I'll be truly concerned. But until then, I've enrolled in a French class, which has been immensly comforting for me. I can speak/understand that level of French!


And I've gotten used to sounding like a complete idiot, meaning that it doesn't sting quite so much every time I mispronounce something basic. At least I must not look like one. I've had several people approach me for directions in the street (real French people, I asked!) or questions in the supermarket. These inquiries were of course followed by a mix of horrified or pitying looks as they heard my awkward French. 

"Oh sorry!" they respond "You don't speak French!" 

I then insist that, "Oui, je parle français." 

But they've already said their goodbyes with a sympathetic nod, more content to continue wandering around lost than wait as I stumble through my French vocabulary for "left," "right," and "far." 

Oh well, here's to minor successes.