Leave it to the French to Create a Mob Over Wine

          In November, the Fête de Beaujolais (or Festival of Beaujolais en anglais) celebrates the release of the Beaujolais brand’s new wine of the year with free tastings. Oddly enough, they choose to release it on a Wednesday night at midnight, probably because they know you have to teach a class very early in the next morning, yet that you are also irresistibly drawn to the promise of free wine, and because they hate you.  So despite obligations, many of the other assistants and I went at about 9:30 pm, yet suffered anticlimax: there was an empty stage and a lot of event tents that cost money to get into and only sold food, which we didn’t need. So what do ten or so creative English assistants do when faced with nothing to do and a distinct lack of wine? Head to the bars in Vieux Lyon, of course.  

Vieux Lyon at night.

          Vieux Lyon translates as Old Lyon, because the buildings are still from the middle ages, and the narrow streets are all cobblestone. It is without a doubt my favorite part of the city.Vieux Lyon also hosts a wide variety of bars, both English and French. And by English, I mean legit British. We headed to one such pub, where the bartender spoke not only spoke English, but had this sign posted near the register:

          At about 11:30 we returned to the festival and a crowd had gathered. A parade rolled the barrels of this year’s new wine down the street with torches and a band in tow, and most of the audience formed a conga line, hip swiveling and sometimes even singing together as they trotted alongside the procession. (Did you know that alongside was one word, according to my spell check? Yeah, I didn’t either.) I have to admit the impromptu conga line was my favorite part. 

          Then were was a lot of getting rained on while watching fireworks, getting rained on while waiting for the wine to be dispersed, and getting rained on while fighting through the crowd for free wine. My hair was drenched, and I was being crushed by other French folk, but we were laughing and we found fun in the (rather soggy) chaos as we were squished and compacted in the mob. The wine was actually quite good, and we had a fun time walking around in the rain and hanging out by the giant statue of a man riding a horse. A little later on, we noticed a strange phallic shape coming off of the side of the statue for absolutely no reason. We were concerned:

          My friend who had studied abroad last year in the same city saw my photo on Facebook and gave me her response photo, taken in front of the exact same statue, also inebriated on good French wine:

Same place, different time.

          It made me laugh out loud. Good to see that my friends and I are only continuing a longstanding and noble tradition of wine-induced public shenanigans. 

Obviously, I Keep A Cool Head in Stressful Situations

I live in perpetual fear that a few of the French guys that I see in my daily life will ask me out. I know what you’re thinking: “Oh, poor you. Your diamond ring must be so heavy.” But it’s worse than it sounds! I have an amazing boyfriend, who sends me kickass care packages like this:

Everything is from him except the jack-o-lantern, of course.

 He Skypes me twice a day. Even if Joseph Gordon-Levitt himself asked me out, I would feel compelled to say no.

Saying no immediately results in an overpowering sense of rejection for the unfortunate guy and then I feel bad for crushing his hopes, and guilt for being a bitch to someone who only wants to be nice to me. And then the awkward silence ensues afterwards, and this is the WORST. My insides twist up and I want to die. So I really, really don’t want these poor French men to ask me out, for their sakes, and for mine.

I mean this in regards especially to the timid and kind-hearted teacher that I work with. He’s young, not bad looking, and obviously he’s smart because he teaches econ, a subject which wastes no time in making loud “WHOOSH”-ing noises over my head. He tends to wear sky blue knit sweaters and soulful puppy eyes. He’s also so quiet, and shy, and sweet, that I dread whenever he’ll eventually gather the courage I can see building in his super awkward body language.  Today, for instance, he walked over to me determinedly and started making small talk, and of course the conversation wound its way towards shaky ground. In French he asked, “Do you ever eat in the cafeteria?” with this hopeful tone to his voice. My mind started flashing red lights and going ALERT, ALERT.

“Uh… no, never. I bring something because it’s less expensive.”

“Ah…” Cue crestfallen look. I even hated shutting him down in sneaky subtext! I tried to escape by making copies, but he followed me with copies of his own. As we stood at our separate machines, the copy room scene from 500 Days of Summer flashed into my head and I quickly smothered it. SHUT UP BRAIN. 

BRAIN, YOU ARE NOT HELPING.

“So what do you like to do on the weekends?” he started up in French with a newly resolute air about him.

“Um…” I started, just as I noticed that in my fluster I had been making huuuuge, double sided copies and that I was wasting tons of paper on worksheets that were all wrong.

“Usually, I stay in… uh…” My French suffered as I distractedly jabbed the cancel button, or what I thought was the cancel button because it was red, but maybe it was the log out button? Is “supprimer” delete? Or is it “annuler?”  I flashed through French verbs frantically in my head.

I heard myself blabbing on, stuttering over the French phrases: “But I think that I will start to be a better tourist--” Jab, jab, JAB, push. The copies stopped, but then started AGAIN, even more zoomed in.

“The other English Assistants and I have some plans for this weekend, so that should—that will—that was--will be fun.”

“I see. Well... have fun then,” he responds, walking out of the room with his head down and his body language reeking of misery.

He left me standing alone in the copy room, feeling like an asshole, and holding 50 unnecessary double-sided pictures of a cartoon turkey.

The Dangers of French Coffee, and the Perils of UPS

Real French Fact#4: Need something shipped to you from the U.S.? Don't use UPS.

My parents wanted to send me a care package full of the essentials of life, namely food and cute new shoes. They went to UPS first, who offered to charge them $50 for a teeny tiny box to be shipped to France. Then they went to their local post office, which charged them... $9.00.

On an unrelated note, I’ve now finished my espresso, and now I feel a little deflated. I could go get another (in fact, if it was American Coffee, I’d get five more), but French coffee will MESS YOU UP. You think you know what coffee is? No, you have no idea. Starbucks has nothing on French coffee. Combine three espresso shots from Pete’s Coffee at home, stir in a little pure adrenaline, some unadulterated amphetamines from an illegal drug warehouse, stir in the sensation you experience as you buckle yourself into a rollercoaster, and add a dash of attempting to ride a wild tiger that wants your blood, and you will have a vague idea of the effects of French coffee. I can drink a grande Starbucks latte and take a nap directly afterwards, to the astonishment of my friends. But I swear, any more than one teeny cup of French coffee, and my hands shake, I flash hot and cold, I feel painfully alert and uncomfortably conscious, and I BOUNCEBOUNCE BOUNCE around the classroom, speed taking with a crazy, disturbing grin on my face. “OKAYSONOWSWITCHPARTNERSANDASKTHEMNUMBERS8-10. READY!? GO!”  I quickly learned to keep to one cup so that the Crazy American Girl didn't scare the students

Pre-coffee:

Not sure why I went with the decision of giving pre-caffeine me T-rex arms. In the moment, it just felt right.

Post-coffee:

. 

France is a Desolate Wasteland (When it Comes to Sandwich Condiments)

All I wanted a peanut butter and jelly English muffin. You wouldn’t think that would be terribly dramatic. However:

Real French Culture Fact #3: They do not really sell peanut butter in France. Sometimes at grocery stores they do, in the “foreign” aisle, next to the soy sauce and the tortillas, but it isn’t a sure thing. If you want some when you are in France, bring your own.

And that is exactly what I did! And that blessed jar of Skippy lasted me… until today. I had been carefully rationing it out once I noted in panic that I was 2/3 of the way finished, but I had slowly chipped away at it by the spoonful until I had scraped the bottom clean. The last time I wanted peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I had swiped the last little bits off the sides. This time, refusing the toss the jar out, I spent literally eight minutes scraping with incredible precision to get the last half of a tablespoon off of the sides and the bottom.

Decide what is geekier: the fact that I did that or the fact that I timed myself.

What can I say? The French have no appreciation for peanut butter, but damn it, I do, and I was desperate. 

Desperate measures.

Cause I'm a Grown Up Now

As a new teacher, I feel a strange amount of pride every time I accomplish the most mundane tasks at school. Having a key and closing up the classroom makes me feel so mature. I get a rush of "Look at me! I have a job! I can lock doors LIKE A BOSS" as I test the knob and walk away. "Classroom secure," I imagine reporting to my imaginary walkie talkie. Every time I make copies of a lesson plan, I celebrate my own smugness: "I know that A4 means single sheets of paper, and I'm going to select it and I want 35 copies, baby. Centered and single-sided. Watch me go!" Getting coffee from the special coffee vending machine is of course the best experience for feeling superior. Sipping my espresso casually in the teacher's lounge, stirring the sugar cube into it with the disposable plastic stick, my smugness exudes "I'm an adult, doing grown up things. I AM DRINKING GROWN UP EXPRESSO." I'm so drunk on the power of my maturity that I nearly burst.

All of these superfluous perks, however, vanish in the classroom, while I do my actual work. I fumble with my work sheets, struggle to make the students understand, to make them speak up, to quiet down, to speak up, and to quiet down again. I constantly try to act like I know what I'm doing and display confidence, but I'm really just flying by the seat of my pants. My opinion of my job really depends on how receptive the class is, and how much they seem intellectually stimulated by the lesson. If they are intrigued, then I have the best job ever that I want to do for the rest of my life, and I can't wait to guide them through the lesson like a motherfucking Beacon of Knowledge: 

If they're apathetic and bored and they think the lesson is dumb, I hate teaching and I never want to do it again and I want to crawl into my corner of shame for ever naively thinking that "Supersize Me" was promising fodder for discussion.

Man, these stiletto-clad, fashionista French high school girls can cast you such a withering glance, which amazes me with all the ways it can make you shrivel at once. With only the eyes, they manage to effectively communicate: "Not only are you beneath my notice, you unfabulous thing with your untailored jeans, but you presume to make me care about your words, and you will be sorely disappointed because I do not give a shit, and you can't make me." (Ok, the untailored jeans part might be me projecting, but I promise the rest is all there.) When this glare occurs, on the outside, I continue my lesson as competently as ever. On the inside I go "I know! I know! Who cares about fast food social experiments?! I'm sorry that I'm not as effortlessly trendy as you--I'm sorry! I'll wear heels tomorrow!" 

If only secret, internal, fashion-insecure me could meet and take notes from I'm-the-king-of-the-world, watch-me-drink-this-espresso-cause-I'm-an-adult-with-a-job me.

An Open Letter to My Brain

Yes, you.

Dear Brain,

          Jet-lag is a funny thing, isn't it Brain? Our body is in Lyon, France, yet you, for some reason, are still in the Bay Area of California, and I heard you when you said you'd be damned if you'll synchronize for my sake, despite my asking nicely. "Bwahahahaha!" I hear you laugh the evil-nemesis laugh of mad scientists as I fade into unconsciousness at embarrassingly early points in the day, and on the bus as I'm about to miss my stop. Even when I wake up (at 4-6 am, by the way), I still feel groggy because you've convinced our body that it's really only 9 pm and that I should be turning in soon. WHY DO YOU DO THIS. Too tired to be awake, too awake to be tired, I end up groggily and irately watching episodes of Bones until its time to get ready for work. Is this all your elaborate plot to get more exposure to shirtless David Boreanaz? Because if it is, that is underhanded and mean, and you should know that I would watch Bones regardless of your shit.

The best torso picture I could find was unfortunately also the worst facial hair picture I could find... why did he think this was a good idea?

            BRAIN, YOU ARE IN FRANCE NOW, DAMN YOU. It's time you start acting like it. These childish pranks are below you. You're giving us under-eye bags. I know how vain we are-- is that really what you want? As I find myself counting down the minutes until 7pm when I can pass out with shame like an elderly person in an assisted living center, I not only lose my dignity, but also an ability to lead a normal life, or to take the bus.

              SNAP OUT OF IT, or I will make us listen to Lindsay Lohan music. 

          Don't think I wont. 

          Fear my wrath. 

          Sincerely,

                Me

Bonjour! I have not died.

I did in in fact emerge from Charles de Gaulle airport victorious, and then became swamped with real life stuff like family and holidays and scarfing down Mexican food while I was still in California and it was still scarf-able. But a new post will be up soon, and not to be arrogant or anything, but I'm sure that it will be charming and hilarious and worth the wait. So, just hang in there. I promise I will stop having a life soon, and post.