Life as a Postgrad Scholar

The past week has been marked by many changes in location, yet all contained within a sphere of familiarity, which kept me from devolving into a nervous wreck. Last weekend, for example, saw me arriving in Dijon, where I was greeted unexpectedly at the train station by my former host family. It felt strange to see them again after almost three years had gone by since I had stayed with them while studying abroad, but they were as welcoming as ever. I would say even more so than I had believed possible, for they agreed to put up one of my American friends as well, and prepared us a lovely lunch upon our departure. As it happened, we were not lacking in invitations to stay at other people’s houses, so we didn’t end up staying the full four nights with my host family – an arrangement that worked out quite nicely for us.

Our original goal was to visit all the familiar haunts in Dijon, and while we managed to do so, we were also pleased to find ourselves in a position to indulge in a real vacation: sleeping in, spending some quality time with friends at home, and eating well among the necessary components. The highlight of the visit for me by far was staying with Nathalie, my “mom away from home” during my first experience of living abroad. Not only was she a warm hostess and a wonderful cook, she even had a dryer we could use for our laundry (this is a rarity in France, for those of you who are unaware)!

One encounter that stands out in my memory was of visiting the chouette, a small owl carved into the side of the Notre Dame de Dijon that supposedly brings good luck if you touch it (see below). As I was preparing myself for the photo, a man’s voice called out behind us. Speaking in a odd mixture of French and English and what sounded like Spanish (perhaps he was a foreign visitor as well), he told us about a creature that breathed fire on the chouette. It took us a little while to figure out what he was talking about – there was a tiny dragon carved into the church wall a little further back, something that neither of us had ever noticed before! This is what I love about revisiting places – you’re bound to find out something new, regardless of how many times you’ve been there before.

Chouette! = Great!

Upon returning to Lyon, I found myself hard-pressed to re-enter the rhythm of preparing lessons and getting up early to teach, especially considering the fact that several changes had been made at the school during vacation. As a result, I was no longer able to access the internet and print out articles to distribute in my classes, and I was also obligated to change classrooms several times within the course of a day, something that had not been the case previously. Obviously this required me to do a little more thinking on my feet than usual, but I’m happy to say that it turned out pretty well, for the most part. It seems to be my lot in life to enter into precarious scholastic conditions… with the exception of Puget Sound, perhaps.

My random occurrence for the weekend took place earlier today, when I visited a mycological exhibition that was being held in Neuville, the suburban village where I am currently living. There were many other things besides mushrooms that were being shown at this event – most notably a zoological display of reptiles and insects, complete with enthusiastic beetle wranglers – but I found myself drawn to one variety of fungus in particular: the Phallus Impudicus, otherwise known as the satyre puant, or “stinking satyr.” My inner third-grader derived no end of amusement from such a descriptive name, and, as you can probably tell from the photo below, the fungus does indeed have a phallic shape.

Behold, the Phallus Impudicus

I was fascinated to find out later, with a bit of online research, that in its early stage, the fungus is sometimes called oeuf du Diable (”Devil’s egg”), at which point it is still edible, having the flavor and consistency of a radish. It is only when the fungus reaches maturity and begins to smell like a rotting corpse that it becomes inedible (although with the pungent odor of some French cheeses and sausages, I wonder if there’s really that wide of a difference…).

On a more linguistic note, for those of you who read French, I was amused to see the varieties of signs that were posted to ensure that nobody touched the displays. Some were more nicely phrased: Laisser aller vos yeux et pas vos mains, was one of the more polite examples – much more so than, say, NE PAS TOUCHER.

My first indication that I was in a foreign city was the faint scent of some illegal substance that greeted me as I stepped outside the train station – that is to say, a substance that is considered illegal in most of the US and Europe, but not in Amsterdam. Almost immediately afterwards, I was taken to my first “coffeeshop,” a cute little place called Siberië, where smoking indoors was permitted, as long as it wasn’t tobacco being smoked.

Having little interest in mind-altering substances myself, I took a cup of tea, which turned out to be delicious (vanilla sencha), and tried to settle into the laid-back atmosphere of the place. After the cafés of France, where the atmosphere is always slightly formal, albeit convivial, I wasn’t used to the earthiness of the people I saw passing through the coffeeshops of Amsterdam… or indeed, in the entire city, where “go with the flow” could be said to be the inofficial motto.

I saw this motto in action firsthand later that evening while perched on the back of my Dutch friend’s bicycle as he navigated his way alongside the sparkling canals. From what I could tell, the percentage of people on bicycles to people in cars was at least 60-40, if not more in some of the quieter streets. I saw all sorts of seating arrangements: some sat on the rack behind (like myself), on small back seats (unlike myself, who had only a pillow to protect my rear end from the bumps of the road), in front between the rider and the handlebars, and in small seats within a sort of low-riding basket attached to the front wheel. Occasionally I would see what looked like an entire family on one bike, the mother steering her two or three children through busy streets, seemingly without a care in the world. There was nary a helmet to be seen, except on the people who rode motor scooters, whom I gather were required to do so by law.

As far as national cuisine goes, Dutch food does not seem to have as wide a variety as French, although I did try a few new things – most notably, broodje haring, or raw herring on bread, occasionally coupled with onions or pickles. I also sampled some unknown Dutch cheese, which turned out to be delicious melted on brown bread, but I would say by far the best experience was of Indian food, properly spiced, unlike most Indian food I’ve tried in France.

Overall, I would say that Amsterdam is an ideal city for wandering, although there are plenty of cultural opportunities for those who seek them. My personal goals were simple – to see two girls, one of historical fact and another of semi-historical fiction, and both of whom inspired me on many levels.

The first was the Meisje met de parel, otherwise known as the anonymous Girl with a Pearl Earring. I had been fond of the artist Johannes Vermeer since a young age, but I hadn’t taken a real interest in this particular painting until I read the book of the same title by Tracy Chevalier, who did a beautiful job of combining Dutch history with thoughtful storytelling. After finishing the book for the first time, I was determined to visit the Mauritshuis in The Hague, where the painting was housed. It took me two more readings, once in French and again in English, before I got there, but at long last, I was in a position to visit the museum, being barely an hour away by train.

The Mauritshuis had a few surprises in store for me. I went to the upper level straightaway, anxious to see the Vermeer painting but also curious to see what else the museum had to offer. The first thing that caught my eye was Peter Paul Rubens’ painting of an old woman and a boy by candlelight. It looks entirely unremarkable in most reproductions, including the attached picture, but when viewed in person, with the right lighting, it comes to life in the most dramatic manner. I found myself practically moved to tears, so vivid was the impression that the characters made upon me.

Eventually I arrived at the room featuring Vermeer, where again I was surprised, for, unlike the much-touted Mona Lisa, the Girl looked almost exactly as she did in reproductions. Upon seeing the painting in person, I was struck by how starkly simple it was, especially in comparison to Vermeer’s other works. Her expression does not invite the viewer in, as does the Mona Lisa, in fact I almost felt as if I were hurting her by looking at her so intensely. It felt more appropriate to quietly slip out of the room and leave her in peace, yet I stayed a little longer, trying to pinpoint what exactly it was that made the painting so timeless.

My second pilgrimage was much more straightforward, although also more harrowing, partially due to the large crowd of tourists at the Anne Frank Huis. To even enter the museum took almost an hour of waiting, as the line wrapped around the corner of the street and proceeded for at least half a block before coming to an end. I was rather touched nonetheless by the obvious popularity of the place, as it showed that the legacy of Anne Frank still lived on.

It felt slightly surreal to walk through the tiny, dimly lit rooms (left empty, at the wish of her father) where she and her family lived in hiding for almost two years – to see the walls that she had decorated with pictures of movie stars, much as I have done in years past – to look into the same mirror that she must have every morning – and to glimpse the same magical view of the tree outside the attic of the “Secret Annex,” as she called it in her diary. I left the museum in a bit of a daze, not even stopping to make my usual postcard purchases in the museum shop. What can one gather, after all, from such a visceral experience?

As immediate as my entire experience of the Netherlands may have been, I have tried to encapsulate a few moments in photos. I am happy to say that my photographic repertoire has begun to expand more than ever into the realm of people, whereas on previous trips I tended to err more on the side of building and nature shots. And animals, as may still be evident in the pictures below…

I was quite amused with the poster in the background

I think you can tell what kind of establishment we were in from the painting on the wall...

One of the stranger coffeeshops I came across...

...and even stranger clientele...

In front of the Mauritshuis

Twilight view of one of the bigger canals, located in front of the central train station

I awoke this morning at the precise moment when the street lamp outside my window turned off, changing the light in my room from vigilant orange to a reassuring blue. A glance outside revealed distant echoes of vermillion in the dawn-kissed clouds, but it promised to be a somber, overcast day. A cozy, overcast day, to be more accurate, for I do not want to convey the impression that I am disappointed with the weather. Autumn is here to stay, and I am quite content to stay indoors during my day off, rather than walking the chilly streets.

It appears that I am here to stay indefinitely, for as I continue to look for apartments in the city, with exasperatingly slow results, I am starting to consider the possibility of not moving until next year, when there are likely to be more openings, especially in the university sector. Having long since graduated from dorm-style housing, I am somewhat reluctant to return to living in a single room among a community of strangers, but if that happens to be the best thing that comes my way, so be it. Meanwhile, I’m starting to like the little town of Neuville-sur-Saône, as far removed from the center of Lyon as it might be.

My attitude toward the whole adventure brings to mind the fable of the hare and the tortoise, summed up in the adage “Slow and steady wins the race.” The pace of life has certainly slowed for me here, even amidst the bustle of people in the streets, goaded on by the cold and anonymous appointments at destinations unknown. Although I imitate their rapid pace, I also like to pause from time to time, trying to take snapshot impressions of the action around me. Many of the best moments take place while I am waiting somewhere. For example, the other day, while perusing the stands at a carnival that takes place in the Place de la Croix-Rousse every fall, I decided to order a waffle with crème de marron, a sugary chestnut paste. While waiting, I was entranced by the antics of a Frenchman and his magnificent black-and-white bulldog. The man would playfully point at a display of beignets (donuts) atop the counter, urging the dog on, and the dog would get tremendously excited and stand straight up on his hind legs, chest lifted proudly while he leaned his front paws against the counter in a vain attempt to reach the beignets. It was one of those moments when I wished I had my camera with me, but I contented myself with petting the dog’s soft fur and smiling at the owner.

The waffle is not the end of the story. I am also, it is sad to say, on the way to becoming a bread addict. I could think of worse things to be addicted to – the omnipresent cigarettes, for one – but it still surprises me, how much I have begun to crave the taste and texture of French bread. I am not speaking of the baguette variety, although there are certainly good baguettes to be found. As I mentioned before, Chantal and her family prefer to eat other types of bread, usually containing whole grains, and they are not shy about slathering on butter, the faintly sweet, creamy kind. Furthermore, I have rediscovered the delights of Nutella, which for some reason seems to have a special appeal when I leave the States. (It works exceptionally well as a hot chocolate alternative, by the way – just melt a generous spoonful in a saucepan and whisk in a cup of milk, or half-and-half if you’re feeling decadent ). As a result of my resurgent Nutella fondness, I tried my hand at making crêpes over a gas stove, which after the first few botched attempts turned out to be surprisingly easy.

And just when I thought that nothing would surprise me… my host family serves me boudin, that notorious blood sausage. It was actually quite delicious, once I managed to stop thinking about the ingredients. Supposedly it’s rather difficult to get boudin right, even in France.

On a similar, food-related topic, I recently had the privilege of attending two soirées. The first was a housewarming party for my “host sister” Maureen and her three housemates, and I can testify that the house was very well warmed indeed. I have included pictures below of the party preparations, with two of Maureen’s friends (Maureen is the blur in the middle of the first photo). They had prepared a marvelous array of finger foods, including a home-made quiche, a home-made variety of pecan pie, and several vegetable choices, some of which you can see in the pictures. And, of course, lots and lots of wine (among various other alcoholic beverages). I was rather amused by the difference in character I saw between a French person sans alcohol, and a French person after several drinks – a disparity, I believe, that is rather larger than it is for the average American.

Fanny, Maureen, and Elsa, hostesses extraordinaires

The second soirée was less exuberant, as most of the guests were over 35 and chose their drinks carefully, but no less decadent in its array of delicious food, This time there were not one but four different varieties of quiche, in addition to three different kinds of dessert: melt-in-your-mouth chocolate cake, a plum tart, and the French equivalent of pineapple-upside-down-cake, the name of which eludes me. The purpose of the gathering (pictures of which I hope to post later) was to bring together the language profs and assistants of Saint Ex, although it turned out that only two of the four assistants showed up. I got to know Sebastian, the German language assistant, a little bit better – hopefully there will be future occasions when I will get to speak at length with the Spanish and Russian assistants. We both brought something to with which to perform, he a song and his guitar, and I a poem.

One of the lines from the poem resonates especially with me right now: “Loneliness is satisfying because it doesn’t compete with anything.” I would not consider myself lonely in the negative sense (at least not since I moved from the house mentioned in the previous post), but it is true that there is a certain satisfaction to be found in not having a set social pattern to follow. By choosing to be alone, I free myself from the expectations, often self-imposed, that attend a more socially involved lifestyle. Be that as it may, I have certainly enjoyed my forays into sociability thus far, and hope to continue similarly in the future. Meanwhile, I remain like a swan on the Saône, buffeted occasionally by winds and waves, but always serene in solitude.

Me with the Saône in the background

In case it hasn’t become clear by now, I’m somewhat of a romantic. One of my childhood fantasies (perhaps fueled by the books I read) was to live during the Victorian era or a similar time period that involved strict social mores and an even stricter dress code. As a result, when I visited a house that looked as if it belonged in an 18th-century novel, I was excited. Never mind the fact that it was located on the outskirts of Lyon, that only female tenants were allowed, and that the buses stopped after midnight – the minute I saw the little room at the end of the third-floor hall, complete with elegant furniture and matching yellow lamps and floor-length curtains, I had to have it. It took me another five days or so to move to the house, as the family who lived there was leaving town for the weekend, but I stumbled through the door on blustery Monday night convinced that I was there to stay for the rest of my visit in France.

That is not to say that I left the previous family without chagrin. We had exchanged gifts earlier that evening (a genuine saucisson brioché included in my bag of groceries), and Chantal, my host mother, teared up a little as I walked out the door, even while assuring me that it would not be the last time I would be at their house, and that I was always welcome to come back if my new living situation didn’t work. I sensed that she and her husband felt rather lonely in their house, with one daughter studying abroad in Sevilla, another just recently moved to her own house in Lyon, and their son recently re-departed after dealing with a death in his girlfriend’s family.

My new host family could not have been more different. Although they were certainly friendly people, and very welcoming to foreigners, they were much more fixated upon appearances, especially the mother, whom I will call Stéphanie. My first impression was of a young, blonde, type A sort, who went jogging, enjoyed playing with her cats, and wanted an English-speaking person in the house to help teach her children and do occasional babysitting. She showed an odd mixture of affection and strictness with her children, who were both adorable (a girl of 7 and a boy of 4), and didn’t even bother to introduce me to her husband at first, explaining that he worked very long hours at work and was never there during the day.

As I soon discovered, this was the normal setting for the house – empty, or at least filled with people who were always in a hurry. Upstairs in my room, tucked into my new bed, I felt as Mary Lennox (of The Secret Garden) must have felt in Mistlethwaite Manor, swallowed up by the vast loneliness of a house unloved and un-lived-in. Downstairs, on the impressively decorated main floor, there were few places where one could curl up comfortably with a book in the evenings, and the three cats were rarely to be seen during the day, only when shut in the kitchen at night after the family had retired to bed. The first evidence of children I saw in the house was of their names written on a small blackboard in the kitchen, followed by a list of tasks to be completed by each child (mainly of the “Clean your room” and “Finish your work” variety). The Portuguese housekeeper, whom I found to be very warm-hearted and friendly despite the fact that she spoke very little French, seemed to be slightly intimidated by her employer.

All of which combined to make me re-consider my childhood dream – did I really want to spend months on end in such a restrictive environment, however pleasing it was to my aesthetic and literary sensibilities? The reality was proving to be less romantic than the idea, especially with winter fast approaching and the heat in my room not in good working order. After two nights of uneasy sleep, I arrived at a decision to return to the previous house. It was not easy breaking the news to Stéphanie, but fortunately she came around and was gracious enough to let me go with no bad feelings. And fortunately Chantal was true to her word – she welcomed me back to her place with open arms, where, as she put it, “it may be a little chaotic, but at least it’s alive.” I couldn’t agree more.

So here I am again, back where I originally started, and all the happier for it. Winter has begun to set in for good, which means a warm fire in the living room and incessant cups of hot beverages. Saint Ex has begun to resemble an Arctic outpost, if somehow it happened that a colony of warmly-dressed French people were transplanted to the far north (oh wait, wouldn’t that be the French Canadians?). Classes have been going well for the most part, especially since I’ve figured out how to set up speakers in the classroom and play songs for the students. I never thought I would say it, but thank goodness for Ipods (even of the lowly Shuffle variety).

I don’t believe I went into much detail about my current living situation in my last post, but as one of the best ways of experiencing a foreign culture is by observing the lives of its families, I think it’s well worth including in my account of adventures abroad. To sum up, I am temporarily staying with one of the profs from my high school, who lives in a house that can be best described as a suburban French equivalent of The Burrow. For all of you who are not familiar with the magical tales of Harry Potter, envisage a tall, aging house boasting a sprawling back yard, and serviced by a steep, rickety staircase. Featuring a whistling downstairs toilet, a leaky upstairs shower, doors that don’t always want to stay closed, and unexpected appearances of shoes and clothing in various corners, the house manages nonetheless to present a cheerful, welcoming atmosphere (as you might pick up on from the pictures below, including a friendly specimen of one of several neighborhood cats).

Where the house differs from The Burrow (at least as far as JK Rowling’s choice of descriptive detail) is in the lifestyle of its family. They are not typical in many ways – for example, they avoid drinking milk, like their meat relatively well done, and don’t privilege baguette over other, healthier types of bread. The entire family is obsessed with Spanish-speaking culture, evidenced by various Spanish, Argentinean, and Mexican items around the house, including several books in Spanish, and – dare I mention it – an impressive rattlesnake skin in my bedroom. All three children have been to the aforementioned countries, to study abroad and sometimes to work, while the parents have frequently visited Spain during the holidays. There are a fair amount of books in English as well, as the mother teaches English at the school and worked as a teaching assistant in Ireland, which I’m guessing is where she picked up her quasi-Irish accent.

However, when my host father took up his knife one evening and began buttering his cheese, I remembered all over again that yes, I am indeed in France. There are other reminders as well – not only does the entire family smoke (mother, father, son, and two daughters), but they do so freely wherever they please in the house. At the table, everybody often tends to talk at once, making it rather difficult for me to enter into the conversation. It’s a bit like trying to hop onto a moving train, something I have never tried. Something I have tried within the past few weeks however is hitch-hiking, a practice which is still considered perfectly safe and acceptable in many areas of France. It was especially useful while the public transportation strike was going on, although I tried to use the bus and metro as often as possible. Fortunately, the strike has since ended, which makes it much easier for me to get around town.

Regarding classes: so far, so good. I began working at the high school last Thursday, the first of October, which up until two days ago consisted of introducing myself to each class and taking questions from the students and teachers alike. They all seem bright and curious for the most part, some of them naturally more forward and confident than others, and I don’t expect to have serious problems with discipline. The difficulties lie more in the state of the school grounds, which are undergoing extensive renovation, causing a shortage of classrooms. What impresses me about Saint Ex (the shortened name of the school, which is officially called Lycée Antoine de Saint Exupéry, named after the Lyonnais author most well-known in the United States for his whimsical story of The Little Prince) is its reputation for academic excellence. Students are given the choice of attending supplementary classes in art, music, dance, or film studies, usually at various conservatories in the city, and Saint Ex has been cited as producing the highest scores on the baccalauréat (the French equivalent of the SATs) for any public high school in Lyon.

I can also testify that the food offered in the cafeteria is not bad, although I wouldn’t call it gourmet quality, especially in comparison to a restaurant I visited last weekend, the Brasserie Léon de Lyon. I ordered magret de canard (duck breast) with figs, and delicately spiced riz au lait (rice pudding) – delicious. (The picture to the left is of me with a French friend outside of the restaurant, which, for those of you who know Lyon, is located near the Place des Terreaux). The food offered by my host family hasn’t been too shabby either, such as roasted chicken (a few organs included), pork sausage, and various fruits and vegetables straight from the countryside. I also sampled a popular liqueur called pastis, which has been described by some as a legalized version of absinthe due to its strong flavor of anise.

Back to the school – I began teaching classes on my own this past Thursday, the eighth of October, which is proving to be an experience of trial and error, much as I had expected. Students and teachers alike seem to be willing to forgive me for the latter, for which I am thankful, but I think I have managed to keep the students fairly well engaged so far. It also helped that there was an orientation meeting for the English language teaching assistants yesterday, where we received many suggestions for fun classroom activities. Above all, our role seems to be that of counterpoint to the profs, who tend to be more dry and factual in their educational approach. I can’t exactly say that’s the case for the profs of Saint Ex, as they seem quite dynamic and creative to me for the most part, but I’m sure I will find my role as time passes.

For it really feels like I’m playing a role sometimes; the role of a friendly, quirky, sometimes clueless American. It’s hard to say just yet how this will affect my life in Lyon… but so far, for the most part, it seems to be working to my advantage.

…though fortunately the weather has been quite lovely so far in the Rhône-Alps region of France! The title of my inaugural post, as an English language teaching assistant in France, refers more to the welter of obstacles that seem to be cropping up, for no particular reason that I can divine. For example, my first flight out of Denver was delayed, which eventually led to my staying in the United States for two more days than originally planned. 19 hours later, almost immediately upon my arrival in Lyon, I was informed that the longest public transportation strike in French history had just begun (100 days), which did not bode well for my plans to start apartment-hunting in the following days, as my current host lives in one of the many suburban communities of Lyon that are serviced by a only handful of buses.

Needless to say, things are not progressing at quite the pace I had hoped – however, I don’t have too much to complain about otherwise. Over the past week I’ve managed to enter into French society to a certain degree, largely thanks to the help of various friends and friends of friends. Among my adventures was a truly epic day trip to a small village near the Alps – what was originally supposed to be a 4-hour hike, an hour or two aside for driving to and from the village, stretched into a 10-hour ordeal, as we got lost several times along the way! The end result was worth it nonetheless, as we reached a high summit looking over the Rhône river and picnicked beneath the cross that had been placed there to protect the village in days long past. The pictures below are from that hike, taken last Sunday (that’s me on the left in the first picture and on the right in the last picture).

One thing that has proved to be less of an obstacle than I had feared is my ability to speak French. I did not have many opportunities to practice over the summer, as I know precious few French speakers in Boulder, Colorado, and even fewer in Long Beach, California (Vermont and Montreal were the two exceptions in my French encounters during the summer). However, after the first day or so, I felt relatively at ease with the language, which is more than I can say for previous visits to the country. It’s good to know that my four years at Puget Sound were good for something (among many things)…