Allons Enfants de la Patrie Or, My Retribution

(A second subtitle of this post should be "Holy Overuse of Hyperlinking, Batman.")

And now, a(nother) word from our political sponsors.

As I’ve mentioned before, it’s French election season, and thank God it’s not as long as American election season, which, really, is all the freaking time.  On the last day of my zone’s vacation, first weekend of zone B’s, and smack-dab in the middle of zone C’s, France had its first round of elections.  If you don’t remember from my French Government 101 primer, France has two rounds of elections to narrow down the field from everyone with 500 signatures and a soapbox to two.  (However, if a single candidate gets a majority of the vote — 50% — he or she automatically becomes president.)  Much of the talk surrounding the first round, or premier tour, circulated around 1) whether Sarkozy or Hollande would come in first, 2) whether either Le Pen or Mélenchon had enough power to knock off Sarkozy (the only ones who asked this particular question assumed a feeble Sarko), 3) whether the election falling in the schools’ vacations would screw everything up, and 4) who would come in third place.  I’ll treat each of these questions in one manner or another.

By the way, if you’re not interested in politics or French politics, you can go ahead and skip this one; I personally think understanding a country’s political process is paramount in understanding the culture, but I know some people don’t care about their own country’s politics, let alone a country that speaks an entirely different language.  I don’t understand it, but I know it.

Mélenchon had made a late surge in the polls before the premier tour, starting with a giant march and rally at the Place de la Bastille in Paris, a symbolic choice, as the storming of the Bastille prison in 1789 helped kick-start the French Revolution.   

From TF1's website.

Since that rally, in which thousands of people participated, the far-left Front de Gauche candidate had been battling Marine Le Pen in the polls, and some people worried whether or not having a second strong leftist candidate would hurt Hollande’s chances of passing into the second round of elections.

Strange.  That is exactly the same argument put forward in the United States when an “outside,” third-party candidate threatens to run in a presidential election: they will end up harvesting votes from the left.  Pundits were all ready to blame Ralph Nader for Al Gore's defeat in 2000.  Why doesn’t this happen with the right?  No one worried that Marine Le Pen would steal votes from Sarkozy; ditto for any threat Ron Paul or Joe Lieberman could pose if they decided to run as a 3PC in the U.S.  Is the right, in any country, so complacent that once they find a candidate, they fall into line and do not change their minds?  Is the left so malleable that they could change their intentions right up until the last minute?  Probably yes in both cases.

But it didn’t matter in any case.  Election night, April 22, 2012 saw the succession of Messieurs Hollande and Sarkozy to the deuxième tour — in that order, besting a sitting president in the first round for the first time during the Fifth Republic.  I tuned in to see what kind of hoopla France would offer, as each main station promised election coverage starting at 6 PM.  I don’t know why I expected a greater circus than there was; perhaps because I’m used to an election that takes place over four time zones with “swing states” in each zone.  But besides a countdown clock ticking away in the corner of my screen, a blurred out image of two people representing the two remaining candidates, and nation-wide coverage of reactions and candidates’ campaign headquarters, the hoopla seemed minimal.  No CNN-style interactive, floating maps; no endless amounts of graphics about demographics; no 3D holographic Will.I.Am reporting live from a random park.  Disappointing, but I enjoyed the countdown clock all the same.  They did show one interesting graphic, however: the turnout rate was somewhere around 80%.

What.

80%!

In.  Sane.

You’d be hard-pressed in the States to cobble together a turnout rate of 80% even if you smashed a handful of election years together.  Granted, I don’t know if the rate is eligible voters/people of voting age or if it’s only those registered to vote (if that exists), but even so, the rate is astronomical and above all admirable.  In this arena, France totally has the right to criticize the United States.  They may complain about everything, like, all the freaking time, but no one can say that they don’t do anything about their complaints; they take their civic responsibilities extremely seriously, which shows when they go to vote and then the next day(/week) when they dissect everything around the water cooler.  In mini conclusion, the fact that the entire country was on school holiday at the time barely affected a thing.  And if it did, holy crap, my brain would explode.

The percentages kept changing marginally throughout the course of the night, but the rankings didn’t, and that Mélenchon came in a relatively distant fourth.  Third: Marine Le Pen, who started the night with a whopping 18.7% of the vote and finished with 17.9%.  At this part of the conversation, people in the staff room become serious, furrowing their brows and dropping their smiles.  The fact that Le Pen won that many votes — greatly outdistancing anything her father did, even when he proceeded to the second round in 2002, truly scares the rest of the population that didn’t vote for the crazy chick.  Despite the Socialist and the Conservative proceeding onwards, a strong showing by the Fascists could mean a changing parliamentary presence (elections are in June) as well as an underlying contempt for foreign presence that isn’t as under the surface as previously thought.  In fact, Marine Le Pen seems to be campaigning for just that.

Over the week leading up to Sunday’s deuxième tour, the more mainstream runners up had still been grabbing headlines by publicly declaring for whom they would — or would not — vote.  The very night of the first round, Mélenchon declared his allegiance to Hollande without even warning the latter’s camp.  Or his own for that matter.  And while it may seem self-evident that parties of the same general political ideological branch would support one another, that’s where you’d be wrong, but I’ll thank you to hold all questions ‘til the end.

FrançoisBayrou, who has been on a perpetual, Ross Perot/Ron Paul-like crusade for the presidency for the past ten or more years, stated in a press conference held after the only debate that he would not explicitly tell his supporters to vote for a specific candidate, but he himself would cast a ballot for Hollande, as he did not want une vote blanche, a clear dig at Marine Le Pen.

Because, yes, the crazy bitch is casting a blank ballot.  Instead of backing Nicolas Sarkozy, the candidate nearest her ideological beliefs, and instead of being logical, she urged every Front National supporter to cast a blank ballot in protest of just where exactly this country is headed.  Now, I understand the notion of protesting through the ballot box; really, I do.  But at a certain point, you have to put on your big kid pants and make a decision whether you like your choices or not; you cannot sit back, arms crossed and pouting, just because you are unhappy.  Again, I understand and fully support protest.  But when your protest could actually harm your cause, I don’t think you should keep trying to cut off your nose to spite your face.

Let’s quickly return to French Government 101 boot camp for a moment.  In those two weeks between the premier and deuxième tours, the candidates are allowed to campaign as much as their little hearts desire, but there is only one debate, and they must stop all campaign meetings, rallies, speeches, and baby kissing as of midnight the Friday before the Sunday election. That is a wonderful, wonderful thing.  Although you can be damn sure the election was on everyone’s lips (and TV screens and radio channels and newspapers), you didn’t have to see the candidates’ faces all the freaking time.  In fact, most of the air time was dedicated to dissecting who would get Le Pen’s and Bayrou’s constituents.

The debate was remarkable only for the fact that the candidates sat at the same table; twin time clocks ticked below each side of the table to show that they would get equal time; and Hollande actually sounded rather presidential.  Like in any debate, neither candidate rolled out exciting new plans.  Instead, everyone rehashed everything he’d been saying for the past couple months, and Hollande repeated, “moi, comme président de la république” a lot, with which cartoonists had a field day the next day.

As for Jour-J, or The Torture’s Finally Over! Day, La Flèche broke out its patriotism in the form of pretty little flags strung up all over town as well as an excess of cars and people around the nearest kindergarten school which also happened to be the nearest bureau de vote/polling office.  I resolutely ignored any regular TV channels all day so that I wouldn’t ruin the atmosphere I had built up around this election.  I wanted to keep my bitterness for American elections, thank you very much.  Like everyone else in France, I tuned in at 19h30 to watch the countdown (it had started way before then, but I invoke the bitterness rule aforementioned), and everyone seemed to be sitting on hand buzzers — the atmosphere was that charged.  They peeked into Hollande’s office after he had already received the news, just like last time, but even though he tried to remain detached, he broke into a small grin and waved at the camera.

I didn’t give it much thought, as reporters were then kicked out of the room and tried to talk to Hollande’s extremely pretty son, and I was kinda distracted.

Are you distracted yet?

The clock approached 20h00, and the announcer counted down with it, eventually revealing at exactly 8PM that François Hollande would be the next president of France.  I’m not too ashamed to say that I let out a little whoop.  The massive amount of Hollande supporters gathered around the plinth of the column in the Place de la Bastille in Paris exploded in bonker-like enthusiasm; Sarkozy supporters gathered in La Mutalité fell to the floor weeping.  I’m not kidding: I saw one teenaged girl sobbing, and her mother reached over her shoulder to hand her a tissue, but when the girl went to grab it, she saw she was on camera and tried to hide her tears.

(Not mine.) Party on the left...

...Not so much on the right. (Not mine.)

Sarkozy’s speech was predictably conciliatory despite the crowd’s blatant rudeness at losing the election — he had to speak over vociferous boos every time he mentioned Hollande’s name and had to remind them that he was speaking at least three times — and Hollande’s speech was nothing out of the ordinary.  Bayrou and Mélenchon offered brief congratulatory statements while Marine Le Pen used her air time as a chance to urge all Front National supporters to seek their revenge during the parliamentary elections next month.  The world’s leaders called to congratulate the president elect, and both David Cameron and Angela Merkel walked back their Anti-Hollande Pact from earlier in the year.

I could go on about voter demographics, the fact that Sarthe is one of the few in my corner of France to vote mostly gauchist (as you get towards the coast/the rich people, you tend to find more Sarkozy supporters; go figure), a subject which I think is super interesting, especially when you see how tendencies in France shift from election to election, or the fact that this round’s turnout rate was even higher than the premier tour, but I’ll get onto my actually interesting point: how the rest of the world views Hollande’s election.

The basic answer: with massive amounts of fear and a capital AH.

The New York Times and the Washington Post, let alone European newspapers like The Daily Mail and Der Spiegel, now all express extreme doubt as to whether or not the Eurozone can handle their crisis.  All newspapers unite the Hollande election, the recent collapse of the Netherlands’ government, and the anti-austerity results of Greece’s parliamentary elections under one giant banner: Europe is a-gonna implode.  And fast.  Every single American news article about the subject is fraught with tension and nail-biting fear that most European countries are going to declare bankruptcy, the Euro will fail, and the rest of the world will plunge into an economic depression so deep that everyone will die oh my God.

I must say, from the inside, it doesn’t seem anywhere near that bad.

Yes, when I visited Spain, both Barcelona and Madrid put on a happy façade for tourists that barely masked the desolation most Spaniards feel daily.  Yes, all of Europe wants to take Greece by the shoulders and shake them until their brains start working again.  Yes, England has all but washed their hands of the Eurozone and their petty problems.  But there are very few people over in my part of the world that think the Euro is doomed, and most of them lean towards the Front National way of thinking.  Call it denial if you want, but where I’m at, I just don’t feel the hopelessness that both encompasses the United States and saturates its newspapers.  Everyone is optimistic that with just a little more persistence and hard work, they can dig themselves out of this massive rut in which they’ve found themselves.  And maybe on the way they can find Greece’s collective brain.

Most of France is ebullient about their new president, and they’re looking forward just like America looked forward after the 2009 elections.  Hollande has taken some cues from Obama in terms of how to extract France from the brink of recession, mainly a little more spending and investing where some others may cut, cut, and cut some more.  That cutting is called austerity, and by Hollande’s way of thinking, Sarkozy tried the austerity path, and it merely brought the country even closer to the edge of the cliff.  He wants to tax the top 1% of money earners at a 75% tax rate for a couple months, then peel back that tax rate to a proportional rate, essentially rolling back the tax breaks that Sarkozy put in place.

Sound familiar yet?  Good.  And believe me, talking about money is about as painful as you having to read my yammering about it, so this is kinda important.  And it has a point.

American newspapers have quoted economists who have basically fainted over Hollande’s plan.  It’ll capsize France.  It’ll handicap one half of the cornerstone of Europe.  It’ll kill Europe’s economy, then the U.S.’s, then the world’s.  It’ll eat babies.  Now whether you agree with this line of thinking or not, you have to understand that this is exactly how economists treat every new idea that involves actually letting go of money.  It’s exactly how they react to Obama, and granted, the France/Euro/Europe case is different — especially since no one in Europe wants this plan to fail, unlike in the States where it seems like everyone attacks everyone else over economic solutions — but still.

Okay, I hate talking about economics, but let me just say one final thing: regardless of your political ideology or economic preference, you must agree that if Franklin D. Roosevelt listened to any economists like these, the Great Depression might have become the status quo.

But anyways, in the end, leaving President Sarkozy and President-Elect Hollande came together to celebrate the 8^th of May, the day the Nazis surrendered, under the Arc de Triomphe.  They stood side by side in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, paying respect to all who fell during that black period.  In the end, some things are bigger than politics.

(Not mine.)

Day Twelve: Getaway Day

Hello! After a more-than-three-week absence, I am continuing with Winter Vacation!  With only a couple weeks left in France, I might be posting a lot less as I spend as much time as I can actually living, and what posts I do make will be current, real-time posts instead of recounting my vacations.  But since there are only a couple days left of my Winter Vacation, I will try to finish that one, at least. Once my contract ends, I will continue recounting my vacations here, as I think those vacations still have stories to tell that can't be recounted in pictures alone.  So, in conclusion, stay tuned!  It's gonna be a hodge-podge couple of weeks!  And without further ado, here's Day Twelve.

Day Eleven: We Paid for That?!

Holy crap, no one move: we woke up this morning, and no one had stolen any of our food!  I was flying, angels were crying, and pigs were singing or something like that.

Day Ten: I Would Walk 500 Miles

Is it really worth it anymore to complain that food got stolen?  No?  You’ve started taking it for granted?  So have I.  (In case you were wondering, it was my yogurt.)

Today we dedicated to Petrín Hill and the buildings we only wanted to see, so we steeled ourselves to walk clear across the city to the bottom of Petrín Hill, and we traipsed merrily along for about six blocks until Verity realized she had left her phone on her bed in the hostel: big no-no, especially when yogurt and pears weren’t even safe (and I’m putting away the bitter now).  She retraced her steps, promising to meet me at the funicular stop using public transportation so that we would theoretically arrive in the same place at the same time.

Happy Birthday to Me!

It’s my birthday!  It’s the second one I’ve spent in France: my first time “studying abroad” in Grenoble fell over my 17^th birthday, and my host family made a sign for me with my name spelled “Bekkie,” and we had chocolate cake for breakfast.  Rockin’.  This time, I had planned a weekend-long birthday celebration including the obligatory trip to the pub and even an appearance at a boȋte/French nightclub, but my plans got all jumbled up.  After going to Caen, I did end up going to the pub, but so did all the English students and their correspondents, and none of my teachers were available to even out the score, so I left relatively early.  Saturday night, Valérie hosted a going away party for the Huddersfield English teachers, so I treated that as a pseudo birthday party in my head.  But then when I walked by the pub on Sunday morning on my way home from the marché, I learned that it was closed until April 6^th, so no real party at the pub.  Oh well.  Best laid plans, and all that.  And to boot, I woke up the morning I turned 25 with an achy hip.  So, RAMBL, I guess my hash tag would be #25or55.

I Swear I Speak English

When Valérie informed me that the English exchange students would be taking a trip to Caen near the end of the stay and had extended the offer to me, I jumped at the chance.  (Well, more exactly, I did a little jig.)  After getting excused from my two classes that Friday, it was set.  Now all I had to do was board a bus with 31 kids I didn’t know and three adults who I ate lunch with once.

We all spoke English and French, right?  We at least had that in common?

Day Nine: Did We Really Do All That?

I’ve had enough.  This morning, two of Verity’s four pears were stolen, and now you get to suffer through a rant, so fasten your seatbelts kids: this could get punctuation-y.

Those Darn Kids

After the kids promised not to do anything, when I woke up an hour before my alarm on Wednesday, and the cleaning lady told me the kids had blocked all the entrances to the school, I could only shake my head.  I told her that I had thought they decided on protesting Thursday instead, but I guess kids will be kids.  Then the only other teacher from my side of the school came out of her room, and we told her the story.  The cleaning lady said she basically had to sweet talk the kids into letting her past all the signs tied across the gates into the school.  The other teacher swore, saying that she thought everything had been put off ‘til Thursday.

Rinse and repeat for the next couple hours.

Despite telling the teachers they would hold off, I guess a large number of students decided to blockade the entrances anyway from about 6:30 AM ‘til 8 AM, when they let everyone through so both teachers and students could get to their classes relatively on time.  They at least kept to one promise.  A couple of student representatives poked their heads into the teachers’ lounge at the recré and announced that they were doing a mini protest until the bell would ring again 15 minutes later, and that they urged us to attend, as “vous etes concernés”/it’s about you guys.

Oh really? Why, I had no idea.  Thank you for taking that tone of voice with your teachers, young sir.

I’m directly translating for the teachers’ faces that you couldn’t see at the time, and which I found vastly amusing.

After my one class on Wednesday, I immediately left to run to the marché, so I didn’t get to sit their first sit-in in front of the school near the main entrance, but according to Maine Libre, over 200 students gathered, and while that’s nowhere near the combined 1500 Cité Scolaire de Bouchevreau boasts, it’s still a large number of kids who didn’t have to be there.  The first of two articles came out yesterday in the online edition of the newspaper, and it actually quotes two of my students, Valentin and Théo, the latter of whom seems to be the main ringleader of this whole shindig.  Not gonna lie: super, uber proud.

Valentin is the student on the left of the long sign.  The sign says, "un poste à supprimé: celui de l’Elysée"/one post to eliminate: the one in the Elysée, or president's house.  Picture from Maine Libre.

Now rinse and repeat that for today.

Usually on days when I get to sleep in (for a little bit before I go running), I get woken up at least once by the cleaning ladies making their way down my hallway or scraping chairs upstairs or making a general racket somewhere in the building.  This morning?  Nada.  I knew when I checked my phone and it said 7:30 and I heard no sounds anywhere, that the kids had blockaded the school again.  I checked outside my window at around 8, saw the kids and teachers’ cars pouring towards Ampère from the direction of the front gate, and I knew for sure.  Thank God they ended at 8 again, because I definitely did not relish the possibility of persuading my students to let me out of the school in my workout clothes.

When I joined my colleagues for lunch at the Self, I heard snip-its of conversations that mentioned something happening at 1 PM, but whenever I asked about it, I was talked over, so I eventually stopped asking and instead engaged in a conversation about the latest on the serial killer in Toulouse that I talkedabout last time.  Before lunch, one of the teachers learned that he’d committed suicide; I later read that it was a sort of suicide-by-cop.  He stormed out of his apartment after an over 30-hour standoff, guns a-blazin’, and so the police had no other choice but to shoot him.  One of my colleagues said that two good things came out of this whole situation: 1) the murdered Magreb soldiers’ pictures in the newspaper contradict the stereotype of the blonde, blue-eyed French soldier, and the killer’s French nationality shows that not all terrorists come from the Middle East, and 2) without a live suspect, Sarkozy can only minimally use this to his advantage in the elections next month.

But anyway.  During lunch at the Self, a couple of the students took control of the P.A. system to announce a “sit-in” (yep, they stole the English term) at 1 PM in the same spot as yesterday: in front of the main gateway into the school, and they urged the teachers to join them in the effort.  So that’s what everyone was talking about!  I thought to myself: I don’t have class until 2; I like protesting; I’m already probably not going to be allowed back into the U.S.; why not?  So Karine, Lydia, and I ventured down to join the students.  All in all, only five teachers showed up.  I can’t tell if it was because they honestly had work to do or if they’re still a little bitter that 200 kids didn’t show up to support us on Monday.

To be honest, I’m still a little bitter that they decided not to show up during our totally-non-thrown-together protests.  Everyone knew about them: rumors had been spreading since Monday of last week, students and parents had been officially informed Friday, and an article ran in Maine Libre announcing the strike as well.  They definitely cannot claim ignorance.  But these protests aren’t taking time out from classes (there are a few classes that meet during the two-hour lunch block, but not many), so it can’t be because they all want to skip school.  Maybe they finally understand what will happen to their class sizes come the fall?  35 kids to a class is a huge number, and while that’s not a guarantee that there will be that many, it’s still a frightening enough statistic to make kids act.  There was at least the same number of kids today as there was yesterday: some did homework (Karine and I helped one of our premier STG students), some made out, some made paper airlines, the ones in the front held signs.  I saw a whole bunch of my premier L’s and premier STG’s, and they all made a point to say, “Hello,” not bonjour.  The students had alerted the press again, and I recognized the Maine Libre reporter from Monday because she has a rockin’ green saddle bag.  She took a bunch of pictures, though I don’t think I’m in any of them this time, and she interviewed the teachers sitting next to me.  We’ll have to wait ‘til tomorrow to get that story, I think.

As of right now, I don’t see these protests ending soon.  Apparently last year, the kids blocked the school for an entire month to protest something about retirement; I honestly don’t know how no one has mentioned that fact to me until now.  There are whispers of a national appel à la grève/call to strike for next Monday, though I don’t think our school will participate even if the unions do formally give strike notice.  But the kids have organized another day of protests: a possible blocus again in the morning, followed by another sit-in during the 1-2 PM hour, followed by — get this! — a possible camp-in after school on the soccer field by the gym!  Ugh, I’m so proud of their creativity, I could burst!  I still think my pretend school session on the soccer field is better, as is Valérie’s idea of getting the parents to call to complain to the rectorat in waves, but this is definitely a step in the right direction.  They’re still waiting on the proviseur/principal to give the okay, but with an idea like that, who could say no?!

Lycée Mort

Here you go!  My first ever video blog!  Let's hope all the stares and ribbing I got while filming were worth it.  I apologize in advance for any rambling, nonsense, or strange facial expressions I make during the course of this video; sometimes I'm not responsible for my face.

Why Is Six Afraid of Seven? Because Seven Eight . . .?

Day Nine is beyond ridiculously long, so I’ll combine only Days Seven and Eight and deal with not completing the joke in the title of this post.  (Rule 4, right?)

Day Seven: Impenetrable

The morning of our last full day in Budapest dawned clear and bright, and I rejoiced, for we would be journeying up to the other vantage point overlooking the city: Buda Castle.  While we ate breakfast, there were two other girls sharing the kitchen with us, and they asked us the requisite questions: where were we from?  How long were we in Budapest?  What would we recommend to do there?  And we bounced the questions back to them.  They were working as au pairs in Geneva, Switzerland (as I had gathered from the American-sounding one when she asserted that they should get a massage, as they wouldn’t be able to afford one in Swiss francs), and one was from Brighton, England while the other was from Washington, D.C. (ha!  I knew it).  They seemed completely amiable, and I found the southern English accent endlessly entertaining, but one niggling nuance bugged me: either consciously or unconsciously, the American girl would slide into a British vocal pattern.

Day Six: Spa/Snow Day!

I woke up the next morning with one thought and one thought only: SPA DAY!

Day Five: In Communist Russia, Tram Rides You!

The day dawned bright but not too terribly cold, and after rejoicing over a traditional tourist breakfast of muesli, yogurt, and a fruit, we headed downstairs to the reception desk in order to ask for directions to the Communist Statue Park.

“Are you sure want to go there?” the receptionist asked, half-standing from his chair. “It’s really far away, and it is really cold.”

“We know,” we answered brightly, hoping to preclude any other attempts at dissuading us.  To no avail.

“There’s a private bus that goes right there, but it’s expensive. . . .” he trailed off, and we nodded.

“We know.  Do you know how to get there through public transportation?”

Even if he didn’t do it physically, he totally heaved an eye roll mentally.  “Hold on one minute.”  He eventually wrote down (illegible) directions to Memento Park/Communist Statue Park (from now on CSP) and advised us to buy a day transportation pass before we finally trooped out of the hostel, teeth pulling complete.

Days Three and Four (Catchy Titles Inside)

As I'm sticking with vow to actually blog this whole vacation before the next one, dangnabit, I decided to combine these two.  Hope you don't mind too much.

Day Two: Dear French Karma: Really?

I spent the night huddled under an extra-thick duvet and a blanket as well as in my thermal pajamas and a sweater.  So much for hotels being better than hostels.  After a disappointing breakfast (and an even more disappointing shower), I head to the train station to see when the next TER to Sessenheim was.  TER trains work like the Metra in Chicago: you buy a ticket for whenever you need to use it, and it doesn’t tell you the train number, time, or direction.  Therefore, I had to ask a SNCF person which direction and which time to look for.  The nice man told me the next train was at 10:54, direction Haguenau.  Okay, fabulous.  I had a little over an hour to kill, and as pretty as I found the Strasbourg train station, I felt like I should, y’know, see Strasbourg itself.  So I booked it to the cathedral to take a quick spin, and wow, I’m glad I did.

Day One: Travel Curse, Be Gone!

A vacation couldn’t possibly be a Becky vacation without a travel problem, and so far this one hasn’t disappointed.

Interference

If you don’t happen to know, 2012 is an election year not just in the United States: France will also elect its next president this year, and it always makes for exciting conversation.  In order to continue, why don’t we review the French political process a bit?  A little French Gov. 101?  Okay?  On y va.  C’est parti.

Pre-Trip Brouhaha

You'll be pleasantly surprised with the fact that I (almost) faithfully blogged throughout (almost) all of the Winter Vacation!  That means you get an actual chronicle of my vacation.  You can commence your celebrations.  Or running away: I'll only judge you a little bit.

Warning: Polemics Ahead

The images of the Loire icing over are cooler, but it's a slideshow, so you get frozen vineyards instead.

 Yes, I haven’t had a class of more than four kids all week.  Yes, the buses are kinda-sorta-not-really running again (only 25% in Sarthe, and none still in Maine-et-Loire).  Yes, vacation starts for me at 9:50 AM tomorrow. 

But no, that’s not what I want to write about today.

Remember that teacher post elimination I talked about last time?

It’s reality.

Icy Road Week?

Yup, it was an ‘icy road day.’  I can’t tell if it’s just me/my impatient American-ness, but I feel after 24 full hours of snow NOT falling from the sky, the roads should be clear and definitely shouldn’t be a problem for the Monday morning commute, let alone a threat for the rest of the week, even if the region isn’t used to snow, as everyone seems to be so fond of reminding me.

Uh-uh!  Second Rule of Being in France: Logic?  What Logic?

Just a Typical Weekend

This weekend, Verity got the idea in her head that she wished to visit Chartres, a town that I only know of because of its cathedral.  After more researching . . . yup, still really only the cathedral that is noteworthy.  It has a stained glass museum, as the cathedral itself has more medieval stained glass windows than any other French cathedral; a history museum that specializes in military uniforms; and an agricultural museum.  When we separately told two people our plans to visit Chartres, each person independently asked, “Why?”  The second asked if we were staying the weekend, and when Verity assured her we were only going for half a day, I guess she sighed in relief.  So cathedral and walking around it was!

Precision

I know there are no pictures in this post (sorry, Zig!), but I needed to make a little clarification before the situation got too out of hand.  A little precision on my possibly premature announcement on Facebook (or by email . . . or by phone . . . I was kinda excited) that I’m staying in France until the end of June.

Snow Day! (Kinda.)

It snowed yesterday, and by ‘snow,’ I mean steady, heavy snowflakes the size of quarters.  And by ‘yesterday,’ I mean from when I awoke at 6:45 AM ‘til I stopped staring out the window at 6:30 PM.  All day.  Despite all that constant weather, it barely accumulated: when I finished my last class at 6 PM, slush had just begun forming on the pavement, and I could still see the tips of the grass on the ground.

It's Not Just Me!

Because I’ve done a horrible job keeping up with my life so far — I blame actually living life, and then relaxing from it, and, believe me, I need an excuse not to write — I’ll try from now on to post whenever something interesting happens, or a particularly profound thought sprouts in my head.  That puts less pressure on me to “catch up,” and therefore I feel less of the stress which makes me want to write less.  I will post “flashbacks” to the vacations I have yet to relate, so don’t worry; there will be ample opportunities to laugh at the troubles into which I’ve gotten myself.

So.

It Was the Best of Times . . .

The teachers have kinda formed ranks around me, levels of protection or safety nets to keep me from falling into the abyss of a weekend alone at the school.  One of them will ask what I’m planning for the weekend, and if I accidentally answer, “J’ai rien de prévu” (“I have nothing planned”), then word spreads that the little American girl will be awl awone, and I have five offers by the end of the day.  If they have time for a powwow, which I’m convinced happens while I’m in the bathroom, they’ll present a united front and a coherent plan, and I’ll hear that so-and-so has invited me to stay for the weekend.

Ready . . . Set . . . Vas-y!

That first full week in La Flèche was busier than I thought it would be.  While I spent most of my time profiter-ing du soleil — it was as Indian of a summer as I’d ever seen — by spending most of my free time at the man-made plage by the Lac de la Monnerie, that free time was surprisingly minimal.