Poisson d'avril

In France, the first of April (April Fool's Day) is called the "April Fish." Bakeries sell fish-shaped brioche and chocolate shops sell fish-shaped chocolate. People play tricks on each other, just like in the United States. The tradition in France comes from the Middle Ages, when Europe was switching over from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar. Before, the first of the year began in April (or the beginning of spring at least); but with the Gregorian calendar, the year started on January 1; those who were left out of the loop were called "poissons," the fish being considered the stupidest animal conceivable by medieval peasants.

I thought the perfect Poission d'avril joke would be to stay home from school, since none of the students would show up anyway, so no one would miss me. Unfortunately, since it's Easter, everyone's on vacation anyway, so it's a moot point. I have no one to play my trick on!

Salon Nautique

Because La Ciotat is right on the Mediterranean, and since there is normally not much to do here, their annual boat show, or salon nautique was a big draw this weekend. I went with the other assistants, and although I am not much of a boat/ship/sea person, mostly because my life has never occasioned long ocean voyages, I found it interesting. I would have found it more interesting if, for example, I were purchasing a boat, scuba gear or other sea paraphernalia.

There was also an educational pavilion, which had facts on the Mediterranean: historical accounts of sailors, merchants and pirates; animal and plant species particular to the marine ecosystem (you could pet a sting ray!) as well as an environmentally-conscious poster stating how long it takes certain pieces of trash to disintegrate in the ocean. How long? Too damn, long people: stop throwing your trash in the ocean!!!!

A Coke can takes between 300 and 500 years, for example.

There was also a lighthearted presentation/remix of the medieval fair from the fall (because Marseilles is the European Capital of Culture this year, they're doing it again in the summer). The band circled around the pavilion and played us a few songs. It was raining, so the place was pretty packed. Then, there was a sword fight between two rival pirates. I was "kidnapped" by one of them--wrong place, wrong time--but he let me go pretty quickly. I didn't have enough for a decent ransom price. ;)

A Brief Moment of Heimweh

I just got home from my little kids class I teach at an association in La Ciotat, and I have a new perspective on life than I did just an hour ago.

I'd like to say it's the little kids that jump-started my brain, but it was actually a couple of winos outside the Lidl in the center of town. It started when I was talking to Christine, my "boss" at the association. We were talking in English about my mom coming to visit (she'll be here April 18) and this bum overheard us. I feel bad even calling him a bum, since I talked to him for over an hour...but was he a...gentleman? A homeless dude? A shelter-disabled individual? Linguistic nuance and political correctness is probably not particularly important to anyone but me.

Anyway, the reason we started talking is because he was German. He asked us, in German, if we were holidaymakers and I responded, "No, we aren't. We live here." He was drunk, I think, or in some sort of stupor that alcoholics get into when they're constantly drinking. His name was Stefan. He was difficult to understand because of that. He thought I was Swiss. I explained I wasn't, but he forgot halfway through our conversation. He had a rolling monologue of mantra, philosophy, confusion. He quoted the Bible. He sang Alpine folk songs. He asked me about myself.

I told him I had lived in Vienna...his friend was from Vienna! His friend--Fritz--came over and quizzed me on Vienna. (I think I passed.) He told me about his life. He was a legionnaire. He was honorably discharged, has a son and did have a girlfriend, but she kicked him out, and now he's homeless. Same with Stefan. They've been living on the streets for 17  and 19 years, respectively.

The rain came down in faint sprinkles and the longer we talked, the worse I felt for them. Other Lidl customers came to give them money or talk to them. Stefan's French is not so good, but Fritz has a good command of the language, albeit in a thick Viennese accent. Fritz told me about how the doctors want to operate on his leg, but he doesn't want any of it. He said it wouldn't do any good. Today, tomorrow, ten years from now, he was going to die anyway. He asked Stefan to pass the wine.

What amazed me most--and why I think I talked to them for so long--was that my German came back to me really fast. The words just rolled off my tongue. If they had been completely sober, I think my non-native German-ness would have been quite obvious. However, it didn't seem like they noticed at all.  It was a profound and bizarre feeling; and, even after living in France for six months, speaking French still feels sometimes like setting my mouth up in a wrestling match against marbles.

Stefan told me I have eyes like Cleopatra. He made a dirty joke. I figured that was my cue to leave, but then he said something profound. "Always think positively," he started. "God is in everything, after all." My horoscope said something today about meeting new people who would greatly impact the way I think. Chalk one up to astrology? Or coincidence.

Then Fritz said living in France, it wasn't like Vienna. The people were stranger, antiquated, bureaucratic and unfriendly. They didn't see the humanity in others--what was all this about the French being so Cartesian, so adept at philosophy and deciphering human nature? Perhaps all that logic made them unfeeling. The mayor of La Ciotat would rather get them off the street to bring in more tourism than to see Fritz and Stefan working, in a home, in rehab. There's no humanity, just dollar signs down here. "And it's useless," he continued, "because La Ciotat is never going to be able to compete with Saint Tropez. He's defeated before he's started, and we're the ones who suffer."

Fritz continued, "Ich habe Heimweh. Du auch?" (I'm homesick, aren't you?) I nodded. It's strange to think, in my own foreign-ness, last year in Austria, I would have described Vienna the same way Fritz described La Ciotat. It's amazing what a change of perspective can do.

Suddenly, there was a row on the street, because someone was double parked, and seeing as this is France, the owner of the double-parked car threw a hissy fit along with his wife, who threw a bigger hissy fit, since being double parked was his fault. Obviously.

I said my goodbyes to Stefan and Fritz, who both replied: "Man trifft sich immer zweimal im Leben."

You always meet twice in life. There's always an opportunity for a second chance.

Computer Problems, or, La télé française

So...my computer stopped working. It was bound to happen sooner or later, since the poor thing is nearing five year old--gotta love planned obsolescence, right? *sarcasm*

 Without my little old HP Pavilion, I lost all motivation. Sad but true. And since it was during the winter holidays (February 21), I had ABSOLUTELY NO WAY of getting internet. Thus, poor little bloggy-blog suffered. At least I have my writing saved on a USB. Thank goodness for that!

To fill the void, I stared watching a lot of French TV. I have since discovered that the French have shamelessly imported all of the trashy and disgusting American reality TV programs I would never deign to watch at home. Plus, they've created their own: notably, Les Ch'tis à Las Vegas, which is basically the French Jersey Shore. A group of young people go on (often drunken) adventures in Las Vegas and experience various forms of culture shock--mostly not being able to understand English while being in the United States. I had a hard time watching a full episode, since the "stars" remind me a little too much of my students (especially the poor English skills).

"Ch'ti," for those unfamiliar, is the term for the inhabitants of the region Nord-Pas-de-Calais, near the Franco-Belgian border. The Ch'ti accent is very thick, as many Ch'ti traditionally spoke Picard, a romance language closely related to French, also spoken by the Belgian Walloon population.

Mostly I just watched the news and movies on TV, but I happened upon a show I really liked one night on France 2: Nicolas Le Floch, which is a period police drama based on novels by Jean-François Parot. The story revolves around the marquis and police commissioner Nicolas Le Floch, who works for Louis XV during the Ancien Regime (roughly 1761-1789) and swashbuckles his way into the hearts and minds of the people of Paris, including several lovely ladies. It's so fabulous--an excellent stand-in for Downton Abbey.

Nicolas Le Floch, as portrayed by Jérôme Robart

On the computer front: obviously, it is working again. I had to order a new battery and a new power adapter, which is all I can afford right now--no new computer (I wish!)--and were sent from Hong Kong in a relatively timely manner. Gotta love Amazon.com!

*Crossing fingers my computer problems are resolved*

Anna Karenina

I started Tolstoy's masterpiece about three months ago, and just finished with it yesterday. I loved it, but it is a bit overwhelming. All of the characters get confusing, until you're about one hundred pages in. I do enjoy a good Russian family drama, though!

My one point of concern is the ending. Neither the "original" ending of Anna's train "misadventure" (don't want to ruin it for those who have not read the book) nor the musings of Levin really did it for me. I would say the ending is Anna Karenina's weakness. It actually makes me feel better about my writing that even a master like Tolstoy had trouble with his endings! And, actually that might be the greatest critique of all, and why his tomes are dangerously large.

Anna is so wonderfully characterized that I can see her, touch her, even smell her perfume as she wafts from room to room. The same with Vronsky, Oblonsky, Levin, Kitty, Dolly and the rest. I felt like I was a part of the family by the time I put the book down, satisfied but still in doubt. I wanted more.

Needless to say, the new film with Keira Knightly was not my cup of tea. I found it horrible and pretentious and should have left the theater when Tom Stoppard's name appeared as the screen writer. It was so self-conscious, and so British that I just couldn't stomach it. I don't even feel the movie deserves its own review, to be honest. Keira is too much of an acting lightweight to do justice to the role of ANNA but at least he costumes were fabulous!

If you really want to see a good screen version of Anna Karenina, I suggest the 1935 one with Greta Garbo. Now there is a femme fatale! Otherwise the 1948 Vivien Leigh version is also good, but a little melodramatic, as is par for the course with Leigh.

Les Femmes du Bus 678

I went to see this film on International Women's Day with my fellow teaching assistants. The film is Egyptian and quite a good one. Maria suggested it, and seeing as she is such a film buff (and our tastes are so similar) I have a hard time ignoring her suggestions!

The film revolves around three women, one who keeps getting harassed on the bus on her way to work, another who was assaulted just outside her home by a man in a car, and a third who was gang raped during protests in Cairo. They all meet randomly and decide to take revenge on the male population of Cairo who has made them feel bad--dirty--worthless--second-class citizens. 

It may or may not matter that the director is a man. It matters somewhat that the film is fictional, not a documentary. It matters a great deal that the story is fresh, that it tackles an insidious problem that  plagues Egypt today. Sexual harassment in Cairo is not only accepted, it is encouraged by the state, by a "boys will be boys" cultural mentality, and most importantly by women who say nothing about it.

The film was laugh out loud funny at some points, melancholy at others and even painful to watch during certain scenes, but I recommend everyone go see it: it will change the way you see Egypt, public transport, and even what looks back at you in the mirror.

To Catch a Thief

I'm in an Alfred Hitchcock mood. That is, somewhat catty and melodramatic, but also well-composed and ironic.

Someone stole my picnic table two nights ago and played kick ball with a potted plant. I cleaned up the plant and talked to my landlords about the table. Their little son said, with a worried look on his face,"Mais comme il y a des gens méchants!" ("Some people are just not very nice!")

They--possibly the thieves, or some other wise guy in the neighborhood-- also defaced my window shutters with a bad word. I found the permanent marker "F---" so ghastly I took to it last night with nail polish remover. It mostly came off, but there is some residual marker, and I didn't want to scrub too hard and ruin the green paint.

I don't know how things are done in France: if my landlords will chalk it up to a loss and forget it, or if they will press charges. There were a bunch of rowdy young men (that I heard--there could have been women too) outside my flat that night. I was in bed already and assumed they would just go away on their own. Well, they did and took the table with them! They must have been strong, or had a car, or disassembled it, because that was a big-ass wooden table. 

I feel terrible about it, though I know it's not my fault. The gate to my garden is not very secure--about four and a half feet tall with just a bitty lock anyone can reach over and unlock:

The sad thing is, petty crime seems to run rampant around here, in and around Marseilles. I've heard horror stories about three guys in Marseilles (also teaching assistants--from last year) who were in their kitchen on the third floor of an apartment building, when some thugs came in through the front door (with guns) and robbed them; I believe it was mostly computers and electronic equipment they stole. The guys moved out the next week.

But still! If someone stole my computer, I know at the moment I don't have the means to replace it! Then again, who would steal this computer? They'd have to be desperate: it's five years old and needs a new battery.

Then, there was a girl who's another teaching assistant this year who had large amounts of money stolen from her twice. I can't remember the first amount, but it was one of her first days in Marseilles, the money stolen by a pickpocket.. She came with her parents and they thought Marseilles (by reputation) was far too dangerous, so they asked the Academie  to give her a new placement outside the city. She still comes in to Marseilles on the weekends (don't we all, who live in neighboring small towns?) and had 300 Euros in cash on her, which was stolen from her purse at a club.

Needless to say, things could have been much worse, and I am unsettled, but hopefully things will be set straight. At least the thieves did not steal my canvas chairs, which went with the table--they didn't think enough of making a matching set!

Le Castellet

Le Castellet is a tiny medieval town about a half-hour from La Ciotat. One of the teachers I work with took me there this weekend. It was very lovely, and reminded me of a Provencal Door County, in a way: lots of little boutiques, gift shops, restaurants, etc., cashing in on the ancient aspect of the town. 

According to Wikipedia, 111 people live there as of 2009. It wasn't exactly crowded when we went, but I can imagine how crazy it might get in the summer. There is also a medieval festival/Renaissance fair each year. I think they do some sort of Knights Templar re-enactment in front of the church.

Eglise St. Anne

 The Mayor's office is particularly cute, being made out of stone, and the view is amazing: Le Castellet is perched on a hill, all the better to see your enemies coming from miles away, I suppose. I'm sure the ramparts are not particularly useful anymore, except to keep tourists from falling down the hill...

Chateau Mairie

One of the coolest parts was the "four banal" in one of the shops, which dates from 1447. A "four banal" is roughly translated as a "community oven." The one in Le Castellet is round, like a turret or a spire (probably the best way to expel the smoke) and it was used up until the 20th century. Basically, the townfolk wouldn't be able to bake their own bread at home, because the building and maintaining of an over would be way too expensive individually. So, they would pay a tax to some noble with a big enough house to have an oven (and it was big--think 20-30 m diameter, at least) and thus secure a spot in the oven for their bread on baking day. Ingenious, no?

I Can't Get No (Job) Satisfaction

To begin with, the title of this post is more an attempt at a playful bon mot  than how I actually feel about my job: from the Rolling Stones song of a similar name...

However, my job--though I'd like to retain it--is not exactly ideal. No one's is, which is a problem, but also a fact of life. I've discovered a number of things since the start of my teaching "career," and a few of them are starting to become a headache.

I'm trying to decide if I'm sick of teaching, or sick of being a teaching assistant. As a teaching assistant, my role is not taken all that seriously, by students or teachers. Then again, teaching is not taken all that seriously, either. 

Take the teacher's strike--not last week but the week before--I think it was January 31. No one told me about it before I got to school, but I ran into one of the Spanish teachers in the teacher's lounge, and she explained it to me. I think I got brownie points by being there, since the vice principle made rounds during the day to see who was actually doing their job...

Since the teachers didn't show up in protest, the students were a step ahead, willing to stay at home that day. I had two out of four, which is actually better odds than normal!! As far as I know, it was a national strike (here's some media coverage, in French) and the French do have a reputation for protest--it's like it's their national pastime!

What are they protesting, exactly? Well, higher wages for one (pretty standard) but the one that really gets me is this: the French government (and recently elected Socialist president François Hollande) wants to extend the school week from four days a week to--gasp--four and a half days a week! By the way, France is the only Western country to NOT have a five-day school week for children. (I heard this tidbit on the evening news the other night.) Currently, almost no one works on Wednesdays. A full-time teacher works 24 hours a week. I, part-time, work 12 hours a week. 

There is also the peripheral item on agenda of protection against firing of "unnecessary" teachers that has been a threat bandied about since Sarkozy's reign (circa 2007), but like I said, that's probably not a real threat. Personally, I do think it's criminal to fire someone without notice, but sometimes, some people (yes, even teachers!) don't deserve to keep their jobs. As for having to work more hours, I have this to say: suck it up, people. It's called work for a reason! 

In fact, I would like to be doing a hell of a lot more work than I am doing. I feel completely dejected, as my emails go unanswered, students do not show up to my lessons, and when they do, they sit passively, sleep in class, or otherwise act like a sack of bricks. (Thus leading my to believe that perhaps the sack of bricks has the edge on an IQ test...) 

I also have the problem of comparing everything to my previous experiences in Austria. That doesn't help matters, since I'm sure I complained just as much then. But, I'll say this: Austrian kids ARE better at English. A LOT BETTER! Maybe it's because the languages are similar? Because Austrians see a point in learning English? Because Austrians have fewer preconceived notions about Americans (or Brits)? Who knows? I've been told (by certain students embarrassed by their bad English) that the level of Spanish is much better in France than the level of English. 

What do I say to that? Whoopee.

I feel like I've complained an awful lot on this blog, for which I apologize (to my two regular viewers who have heard it all before on monster Skype sessions, I'm sure. :) ). Anyway, I will try my best to think more positively in the future. Just think: when I was 16, I wanted to move to France forever! I'll just have to remind myself of the reasons why, I guess, and hope they still ring true.

There was a point when I really liked teaching. When was that? Please remind me. I want to believe again.

Un, Deux, Trois, Poulet!

I don't know why, but it seems I tend to live in places with "themes." Last year it was hedgehogs, this year, chickens. I guess it's a Provence thing (chickens, that is).

I noticed it around mid-December, and took pictures, but never uploaded them. Here, for your perusal, is my chicken collection--for wont of a better description:

A smaller collection than the hedgehogs, but then again, this is a smaller apartment! I found myself looking at mugs with chickens on them at the store the other day, thinking, "Oh how cute!" and then realizing I had been corrupted. I stepped away slowly. It's the only way to cure a chicken habit like this.

Laughter is a Bitter Pill

Here's an unexpected cultural difference for you: laughter.

My students laugh at me all the time. They laugh when they're nervous, they laugh when I say something funny. They laugh when they don't know the answer, they laugh when I try to explain something in French.

Isn't it rather cruel, or is that just teenagers?

My American kiddos were always to petrified to say anything out of turn.

My Austrian kids were always so serious, except for the one jokester (der Spassvogel). There's one in every class.

Laughter makes me nervous. Laughter makes me sad.

I wish I could laugh back at my students, but someone has to be the professional in the room.

Travel Bug

I wanted to travel more than I have this year, but there are a number of reasons I haven't.

1. Money. I haven't really had the funds this year to make a trip far and away possible.
2. No travel buddy. I haven't found anybody to travel with--and traveling by yourself can be good, but it can also be really lonely. Aside from day trips, I have not really traveled.
3. Time. My schedule at school gives me Wednesdays off, but otherwise I have to work. School vacations are nice, but they seem to coincide with me having not money--so I stay home.
4. I am having trouble deciding where to go. At first, I wanted to look around Provence, but it's the wrong time of year to truly enjoy it. I've also been bouncing around the options of heading up to Paris or down to Spain, but I'd have to choose one.
5. Visa: my bureaucratic problems have been keeping me home. Not knowing when THE letter will come and how many COPIES I will need to make, not to mention the hazardous email (or seven) from the Rectorat, among others.

Perhaps I will throw caution to the wind and let the February winter break be my travel time. Now all that's left is to save up a bit of money and decide on a destination!

Oh, and I guess it is mildly ironic that just before this, I posted about going to Aix. By "tavel" I guess I mean "take a weekend trip" or the like.

A Trip to Aix-en-Provence

At the beginning of the month, Epiphany to be exact, I made it up to Aix-en-Provence to look around and do a little shopping. I ended up buying an incredibly delicious chèvre cendrée (goat's cheese with an ash rind--it sounds gross, but it is not! Just don't eat the ash) and Turkish apricots that were to die for at the farmer's market; drooling over a pair (...make that several pairs...) of Ubu earrings at a boutique; and hightailing it to the Musée Granet to see some of the lovely works of native son Cézanne--as well as other Impressionist, etc., artists.

Paul Cezanne lived here once

Santons: little figures for your Nativity scene made in Aix!

For my first trip to Aix, I'd say this was a success! I wish I had enough money to buy myself a pair of Ubu earrings, but the trip itself will have to suffice for my little birthday present to me. I thought about buying some santons, the little Nativity figurines that are made in Aix and a staple of Provence at Christmastime, but I realized, if you buy one, you have to buy a set--and those don't come cheap, either! They're something you buy as a collection: one each year to add to as the years progress: finding the perfect one is half the fun! But for me, I didn't think it was worth it, knowing I probably won't be able to collect year after year...I'm not going to be in France forever! Then there's the question of which figure to collect first: Baby Jesus, because he's most important? Or one of the Three Magi? Maybe Melchior because he has the coolest name...and there's where I left off, because I cannot make a decision, if ever so inconsequential, to save myself.

Here are some more pictures of santons:

And here are more pictures of Aix:

Hotel de Ville

A protest?!? In FRANCE?!?

One thing I learned at the museum, which was small but good, is that Cézanne and Emile Zola met when they were kids at school, and continued a lifelong friendship, even after they each became famous! Definitely cool. I also learned the French for "still life": nature morte. It just seems so much more philosophical and expressive! 

Here is a famous Cézanne nature morte:

Post-Graduate and Fancy Free

Well, "fancy free" is pretty much a lie...

But! I am thinking (again) about getting a post-graduate degree. More than thinking, actually: I've applied to grad school for next year, and in the coming weeks, I will hopefully hear back from those schools, which will most likely determine what I'll be doing next year.

I've applied to two programs at three different schools: Translation and Germanic Studies. I have a really hard time narrowing down my choices--last time I applied to grad school, I applied to two different courses of study as well, Comparative Literature and Journalism. Both were ultimately too competitive (or something--I did not end up pursuing those options, to say the least) and I have crossed law school off my list. I really didn't want to be a lawyer anyway. I need a career that's more...artsy-fartsy, shall we say?

Since this is the last year my GRE scores are valid (the last thing I want to do is take another standardized test put out by the Princeton Review), I figured it was now or never! I shall update with admissions results when they become available.

Aux Armes?

I did a lesson on American vs. French stereotypes before the holidays, and one of the things that constantly came up was:

AMERICANS LOVE GUNS AND ALL AMERICANS OWN AT LEAST ONE.

In the aftermath of yet another gun tragedy (this time in Newtown, CT), and a renewed interest in debating gun control back home, I decided, since the stereotype is becoming all too real and evermore difficult for me to defend as...well, a stereotype and NOT TRUE, that I would like to do a lesson on gun control with my students. 

It totally plays into the subjects they expect us to prepares students for, too: gun control could fit (with or without a little maneuvering) into "Myth and Hero," or "Spaces and Exchanges," or even "Places and Forms of Power." The topics are so vague, it's not much of a stretch at all.

It doesn't really matter if the kids like it or not, anyway, but I'm betting they will. It's a hot topic right now, and it would do them some good to catch up on current events. And it's definitely more interesting for me than listening to them recount their weekends, or tell me what they ate for Christmas dinner--the lessons of the past week--why prepare for an empty crowd, after all?

In my research, I've come up with some interesting things. At first, like most Americans, I was just horrified at the school shooting, and wanted to know what happened exactly. New gun regulations was one of the first things to come up, then comparison statistics of gun violence in other countries, including the firearms ban implemented in the UK after a similar school massacre occurred in Dunblane, Scotland. But you know what?  The United States has a hella bunch of guns out in circulation: 300 million at one count, which is enough for every man, woman and child in the country to have their very own. 

Later, I started reading reactions to the news, like the "I am Adam Lanza's Mother" article and other calls to arms (sorry) for better mental health resources in the United States such as "Can You Call a 9-year-old a Psychopath?" from the New York Times. Although reading about the woman with an uncontrollable, possibly autistic teenager, and a clearly psychotic nine-year-old shoved off to a case-study sleep-away camp were fascinating, I unfortunately found them way too tough for my students. There would be so much explaining to do on a cultural level, not to mention the length, the advanced vocabulary...it gives me a headache to think about, honestly.

But are those really side issues to the gun control debate, or do they reach the heart of the matter? What comes first, limiting gun use, or limiting people who feel the need to use guns to harm others?  What comes first, the psychopath or the NRA membership? Are video games to blame? There are no easy answers. And the questions lead to even more divisive topics.

Part-time opinion writer for the New York Times and French professor at Princeton Christy Wampole wrote a piece commenting about the fact that overwhelmingly the mass shooters of America are young, white men, and opined that they feel disenfranchised, like their lives are unimportant, maybe even meaningless. They have no place in society, because women (and minorities) are taking away the "hero" status of the young man. Whereas his grandfather brought home the bacon to the wifey after a glorious stint in Normandy or the Pacific, the contemporary American young man cannot even be guaranteed that he will have a higher salary than his wife. In effect, he has nothing. Sitting alone in his basement playing World of Warcraft he is even outsmarted by his computer, because his sparring partner in Chechnya recently found himself a girlfriend--one who won't talk back, or want to do something dumb like go to college. 

This premise, not of a need to redefine masculinity in our culture--which is what I was hoping for--but of blaming women and minorities for usurping power from white men, was even weirder and scarier to me than the idea of allowing teachers to carry concealed weapons in schools to protect students from future school shootings. Although sometimes in France it feels like the world has not changed since 1950, that's not a good feeling--unless benevolent sexism comes out in my favor. My guess is either Ms. Wampole has taken too literally her francophilia, or her Texas roots are showing (she mentions in the article she grew up near Fort Worth).

Thank goodness someone with more sense also wrote an opinion piece I found on Gawker: "The Unbearable Invisibility of White Masculinity," by David Leonard, I found much more to the point. In it, Mr. Leonard argues that portraying a mass killer as a victim just because he is or was white (he cites the Wampole article as well) is inexcusable, and a privilege that apparently comes with being white. One of the underlying reasons, he argues, that people are so shocked over the Newtown killings, and the movie theater shooting in Aurora, CO, over the summer, is partly due to the fact that they occurred in mostly white, suburban neighborhoods that are supposed to be safe--as opposed to the south side of Chicago, which is mostly black and obviously unsafe. People expect to be murdered out there.

Obviously, I'm just expressing my own opinions and frustrations now, since those pieces are way too tough for my students, too. I found a much simpler article from US News & World Report complete with gun pictures (I honestly had no idea what an AK-47 or an M16 looked like before I read the article); that should start them off--from there, I'll drop a few gun stats and ask some probing questions. That will fill an hour, and maybe even give the kids some food for thought.

Keeping it Vrai

I've been a little down on my experience in France in these last couple of posts, so I think switching gears to something more positive is in order.

Recently I've come to a conclusion: all young women in their prime should live, even if briefly, in the south of France. The French attitude toward women is a blend of benevolent sexism and objectification, with a smattering of misogyny. So...why am I then recommending an experience here? Have I lost my feminist bearings?

Let's think about it. If you are a cute girl, you can skip the line at the post office. You can talk your way out of your bar tab. You are more likely to get the last piece of cheesecake at the restaurant not because you ordered it first, but because the waiter likes you better...and then you're also more likely to get the waiter's card or telephone number at the end of your meal, but you shouldn't feel obligated to call unless you think he's cute, too...

The plain and harsh truth, ladies, is that after you hit the peak of your attractiveness (for most around age 25) you have only a few years before you start to look your age--if not older--and, as your grandmother warned you, things can go downhill really fast. Now that I'm 26, I guess the prospect has become more real to me, having transcended that "magical" chronological number.

The take-away message is, get in that flirting while you can. Bask in a couple of compliments, even if mislaid, because there will come a time when you will not get compliments anymore no matter how hard you try. Unless you are someone like Demi Moore or Nicole Kidman and can afford expensive anti-aging treatments, botox, a personal trainer, etc., you probably won't get wolf-whistled at by construction workers when you're 45.

If you live in Wisconsin, it is even less likely you will be complimented on your shapely legs by a man old enough to be your grandfather who sips his espresso at the table of an outdoor cafe, walking cane propped up against an adjacent chair, no matter your own age or personal attractiveness. A puritanical sense of decorum, lack of outdoor cafes, and a general disregard for the sex lives of people over 70 sees to it that such a situation just wouldn't arise, and if it did, you'd call the police.

In the south of France, however, you do not call the police. You have two options: 1) ignore Grandpa or sleazy construction worker, or 2) say "thank you" for the compliment and move on. Option #2 may get you more attention next time, so you're going to have to decide if it's worth it to you. Personally, like with the waiter, I would gauge the other party's attitude (and personal attractiveness). Flirting is supposed to be fun--something the French seem to have mastered--and if it's not, be brief without being rude. You don't want to have an angry stalker on your hands.

Another point: although the French are getting better about issues that affect women, such as rape and sexual harassment in the workplace, and are (as far as I can tell) better about such things than their neighbors in Italy, they are by no means as cognizant of such issues as people are in the United States. There is not much recourse for women who feel they have been harassed or discriminated against at work--and a woman earns 60 cents to every Euro a man makes.

That's called the plafond de verre, people, and it is one of the (many) reasons I do not recommend packing up and moving permanently to the south of France. For most, I'm sure a visit will suffice.

Let sleeping teenagers lie...

...in their beds while you wake up at six for class at eight.

This will be a fruitless action because no one else will be there at five to eight when you open the classroom door, and neither will they be there at five after eight, so you will have forty-five to kill waiting for the next class who may or may not show up as well. In which case, it's recommended to bring a good book, since you might be sitting alone in a room for the better part of a day. A really, thick, concussion-causing book like Anna Karenina in hardcover, or the Collected Works of Shakespeare will do the trick.

Don't throw your back out carrying it to and from school, now. You don't have a "real" social security number in France, so you'll be SOL if some sort of health problem should arise, not to mention sick days--HA! You think you get those?!

Not as a penniless teaching assistant you don't. Unless you come down with something like tuberculosis, in which case you'll get one sick day: the day they deport you for "medical reasons." The French government has a whole ministry devoted to weeding out people with faulty immigration statuses and infectious diseases.

Lucky you to be chosen, out of so many, to represent your country and culture for a school year in France!

There is no need for red-hot pokers*

Hell is French Bureaucracy.

Sartre had it wrong. Perhaps he was too enmeshed in it to totally see the horror.

The advice I was given by a PhD student and fellow American language assistant back in November was that those first three months of living in France always suck. I thought I'd be all in the clear come January, seeing as this would mark my three-month stint.

"Not so fast!" says the French government: "You have to sign some random form you've already signed (yeah, that other one was a FAKE OUT! LOLZ!) and photocopy it in triplicate, expedite it to our regional branch, national branch, and some other random branch we'll think of later...oh, PS, we need it by the end of the week, or you won't get paid this month, and possibly not next month, either. What's that? You haven't received that form yet? Well, don't worry. It'll come soon."

Yeah, like the package for Christmas my mother sent me on December 4 that I got on January 2? Efficiency and the French postal service are just a bit at odds.

I'm stressing out here. I didn't realize they could do that to us. In Austria, all I had to do was register with the police, snag my Aufenthaltstitel (visa) from the Bezirksamt (district agency...in Amstetten it was also the mayor's office) and I was good to go! No dragging out this immigration status b***s*** three plus months! I have the feeling I'll be doing this once a month until April--the necessity of which I will not understand, all the way through to the end.

Though, to be fair, I had plenty of annoying occurrences at certain magistrates to bog me down in Vienna...

*Borrowed, for effect, from the English translation of Huis Clos by Jean-Paul Sartre. The more famous, subsequent line is, "Hell is other people."

Les Contes d'Hoffmann

In September, the Opéra National de Paris put on one of my favorite operas, Les Contes d'Hoffmann by Jacques Offenbach. It "came" to La Ciotat recently as live-filmed version at the Cinéma Lumière.

I also saw a live performance last year in Vienna and another televised version at home on PBS (Great Performances at the Met, anyone?); after seeing three different versions, I have to say that seeing an opera live is the best of all possible worlds. Even if some of the characters are miscast and annoying at the theater, if you're watching a "filmed live" version from the comfort of your living room or an overpriced cinema seat (the freaking Paris version cost me 12€), it just isn't the same!

That said, there were a number of things I really enjoyed about the Opéra Bastille's version. The opera was directed by a Canadian, Robert Carsen, who did not have quite the grandiosity of mise en scène as Mr. Friedkin, the director in Vienna, nor the penchant for puppets; in the beginning, the stage is set bare-bones, with the eponymous character lying in a drunken stupor stage right--his muse arrives in Greek habit and sings to him. 

The muse, played by Kate Aldrich, was wonderful: a great combination of comedic and soulful, with a beautiful voice. Hoffmann, on the other hand, was horrifically miscast as a dumpy little Italian whose trilling "R"s got in the way of his singing. The imposing Franck Ferrari, cast as Lindorf, Hoffman's doppelgänger and evil side, was much more convincing--and one of the few times I didn't feel bad rooting for the villain rather than the hero.

The bare-bones set continued on through the opera--the Keller scene transformed into intermission at the opera, where Hoffmann awaits a glimpse of his beloved Stella. The Teutonic charm of the student pub Stammtisch was ruined for me by this posh, Franco-centric rive droite version. Blech. It was OK...but it lacked charm and an element of Faustian suspense that was certainly present in the dark, damp, Punsch-filled scene of Friedkin's direction.

The bare-bones set design annoyed me at first, but I've since forgiven, considering that Mr. Carsen got his start in Shakespeare, where less is more and more is silly. The Olympia act is the only one that deviated from this scheme, transforming the stage into a mad scientist's laboratory fit for Frankenstein. The coquettish Olympia, well-voiced by Jane Archibald, was a little too coquette for my tastes--at one point she mounts Hoffmann on a hay barrel--a little obvious, if you want my opinion. Oh, the French and their obsession with sex!

The Antoina act is one I always find a little tedious. I guess I have a hard time figuring out how singing would kill a woman with a weak heart, when singing is supposed to heal the body--yes, certain studies have come out showing that music has the power to heal!--however difficult I find the premise, I enjoyed the beautiful Ana María Martínez as Antonia. In fact, I think she was the best-cast and most talented of them all, considering the Antonia act is always too long, too boring, and smack in the middle (typically right before the intermission, when I'm trying to keep my bladder from bursting). As mentioned, the muse was great, too, but their roles are so utterly different, and the muse is almost, if not always, a role that's hard to turn sour.

As for Giulietta, interpreted by Sophie Koch: talk about a prima donna! She completely overshadowed poor Hoffmann, belting out her lines and then stood on the stage looking bored when she wasn't singing. There was very little finesse to her performance--I know Giulietta is supposed to be a femme fatale and a bit of a bitch, but it didn't seem like there was much acting going on.

The ending was all right, pretty standard. Hoffmann and the muse go off into the sunset with a bottle of wine under each arm (I thought maybe the muse should enroll him in AA). I love the message of the opera: that an artist will always have inspiration, which is just as good, if not better, than love. Makes me feel good about being a writer with no social life.