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.

Like everything, sometimes it’s awesome.  I’ve stayed at Valérie’s house and made friends with her littlest, Adele, when I said I liked her name and kiwis.  I’ve spent the day with Catherine and her family twice, once with the adults at a wooden house expo (let’s just say I didn’t understand what I was getting into when I agreed to accompany them) and again when her English husband David decided to make videos of inanimate objects talking.  Lydia has issued impromptu invitations to her house in downtown La Flèche twice, once for dinner and once to make pumpkin cookies.  (“Real ones.”  I showed her a can.  “No, from real pumpkin.  The way it’s supposed to be done.”  I wanted to say, ‘This is the way; Americans do short-cuts.’)  Valérie finagled a way to get me a Blu-ray DVD player that the school bought, apparently forgetting the rest of their technology was from 1990.  All the teachers in the staff room, regardless of whether or not I can remember their names or even the subjects they teach, have always gone out of their way to help me in any situation.

And help, I a-needed it.  I’ve had students banned from my classroom because they repeatedly talked about smoking weed and calling another student, “gay.”  I had to fill out a report with Valérie’s help, and we submitted it to the school for the students’ permanent records.  I would have thought it a bit harsh if Verity hadn’t experienced the same thing only the day before.  I have two students from Paris that repeatedly drill me about why Americans do things the way they do, and I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from asking why the French feel they have to judge all the time.

Of course, the government had its day in the sun.  For our mandatory assistants’ orientation, they told us to be at the OFII office in Nantes on such-and-such day at such-and-such time in order to get more information about completing our visas and, y’know, how to teach, never mind the fact that we’d already been on the job for about two weeks before this meeting.  No address, no directions — I had to find those out from the Facebook group, and a group of us got lost anyway, because I swear the building was hidden under an Invisibility Cloak.  Thank God Amy let me stay the night at her place in Angers, because otherwise I would’ve had to spring for a hostel as well as the transportation tickets.  The orientation ended up being more than useless.  Besides meeting incredibly stupid assistants that give Americans a bad name, including train jumpers and a kid who was definitely fresh out of college (“What’s happening to kids these days?!  They don’t read anymore!!!!!!!”  In English.  In a tram.  During rush hour), we spent the morning listening to OFII representatives tell us contradiction after contradiction.  We didn’t have to send in all that paperwork right after we arrived in France; we could’ve dropped it off then!  And some of those papers?  Not necessary!  Registered mail?  Forget about it!  Oh, and visiting England on this American visa?  Not so fast.

Apparently, from what they said, it was super difficult to get to England and back while in possession of our visa — something to do with them not being a Schengen country, and even though both Americans and the French can visit for up to 90 days without a visa, those with our visa had to fill out paperwork with the UK embassy in Paris in order to visit at all.  Then one of the representatives said it would just be a problem getting back into France. That got everyone up in arms.  It’s like they said, “See that country over there across the water?  The one that speaks your language and costs a lot less to get to than your own country?  Ha!  You can’t go there!  Nah-nah-nah-boo-boo!”

Someone finally stood up and asked, in both English and French, “So if we come back from England through another Schengen country — say, Germany — then we would be fine?”

The group of officials covered their microphones, conferred, and answered, “Yes, but we don’t recommend it.”

First Rule of Being in France: “Yes, But.”  Or, there’s an exception to every rule.

But the worst trouble I’ve had so far has been with, you totally guessed it, the cleaning ladies.  Totally sweet and innocent to your face, and then BAM, soon as you leave the building, they say you’re breaking things and throwing spaghetti sauce everywhere.  It started with the hair in the shower.  They told Verity to “tell the other assistant” that we needed to clean the hair out of the shower drains.  Ew, but we both did it anyway.

A note appeared in the kitchen one morning, stating we had to take better care of it, ‘cause it was a mess and not their job to clean up. Thanks, moms.

Then one of them stopped me when I was on my way to class, telling me that we, the assistants, needed to stop flooding the shower closets every morning, because it would leak through to the next floor.  I politely said that we, the assistants, did, but the curtains were simply too small for the shower stall, so no matter what we did, the shower stall/closet/room would be inondé.

Verity texted me one morning, saying the electrical gadgets under the windows in the kitchen weren’t working, so we should tell l’intendance, and she was going to get a power strip at Carrefour to see if that was the problem.  Wasn’t the strip but the outlet, so when I told l’intendance, Madame Rigolot heaved an almighty sigh, said, “Again?” and called maintenance.  The next morning, another note appeared in the kitchen, stating that we shouldn’t use all of the appliances at the same time, despite the fact that that wasn’t the problem.

The icing on the cake came when I happened to wander in to l’intendance to replenish my meal money.

“Good thing you stopped by,” Madame Rigolot said, a wrinkle firmly fixed between her eyebrows.  “The cleaning ladies were complaining about you this morning.  They said you’re not taking out the garbage, you’re flooding the bathroom, and the kitchen was an absolute mess this morning.”

I didn’t know what part of that to attack first.  “I had no idea we were supposed to take out our own garbage; no one told me.  I don’t know where it goes.”  Also, what the hell are the cleaning ladies for if they don’t clean?

She shuffled some papers.  “Then have the other assistant show you.  We can’t do everything for you.”

Um, okay.  “And I told the cleaning ladies that the curtains were too small.  We’re trying, but they’re just too small.  And I know I cleaned the kitchen last night—”

“Then talk to the other assistant,” she cut me off, definitely not living up to her name.  “We offer these things to you as a courtesy, and you should be more grateful for them.”

Whoa.

I could barely gather my jaw off the floor and scurry out before the tears really came.  Seriously?  ‘A courtesy?’  Is this how we would be treated all year?!

I ended up sitting in the staff room, staring at my agenda, until lunchtime.  Karine invited me to lunch at the Self, then seeing my face, asked what was wrong.  And it all poured out.  The most embarrassing part wasn’t the tears or the weak, “They hate us ‘cause we’re foreign!”  But the most horrifying part was that it all came out in English; French didn’t even enter my mind.  Ugh.  I fail.  I couldn’t tell if Karine was overwhelmed or didn’t know the words, but she responded in her native tongue as well, and I can only hope that wasn’t a cue to try to spill my guts in a foreign language.

My saving grace of lunch: sweet potato fries.  While everyone else in the Self dissected each fry with a knife and fork, I dug in head first.

Karine’s immediate solution was to go and confront Madame Rigolot, and I immediately refused, having no desire to face her again so quickly, and I cited the fact that l’intendance would be closed for the day.  Then another teacher said that, in fact, since it was Monday, it would be open for another hour or so after lunch.

Damn him.

Still refusing to see her again, I hesitantly acquiesced to following Karine after we finished.  During lunch, the rest of the teachers at the table began absolutely trashing Madame Rigolot, saying that it wasn’t just that she hated foreigners, but she hated happiness.  So sigh of relief there, but still boo.

Karine led me in through the l’intendance door, and I was about to turn right back around when she asked my arch nemesis if she could speak with her boss.

Sweet.

The ensuing conversation I can only describe as bad ass.  Karine gave the head of l’intendance a Canada-sized chunk of her mind, saying that the cleaning ladies had no right only talking to the assistants; that blame wasn’t the issue, but everyone including the other visiting teachers should be addressed equally; and that, actually, the assistants were rendering the school a service, so back the eff off.

Might have added that last little part.

She also helped me sort out my Internet problems (yes, again, but this was the absolute last time [fingers crossed]) and basically patted me on the head to get me to calm down.

Here’s hoping that was the low point.

But I cannot say this enough: everyone else in my tiny town is beyond helpful; they sincerely want to give not just me but anyone anything they need.  It’s incredible.  Every time someone mentions somewhere new, someone else says, “Oh, I know someone who’s been there!  I’ll connect you two!”  If I mention needing to go to Angers or Nantes or Le Mans, teachers will immediately offer to find me a ride so I won’t have to pay for/rely on a bus.  I’ve been referred to two people who wanted an English tutor, as the English teachers wanted me to get a little extra argent de poche, pocket money.  (One, an old lady named Christine, didn’t end up panning out and canceled our future sessions through a telephone call when I was beyond ill and half-asleep. The second, 26-year-old Elodie, is now one of my closest friends in La Flèche.)  A visiting University of Angers student talked to me for two hours and gave me her phone number and email address, saying if I ever wanted a ride or a personal guide or someone to speak franglais to, she was my girl.

Love, love, love.

Side (but important) note: the Pub.  Pub Henri IV, which I’ve mentioned before, is the place to hang out.  There are three places to go in La Flèche if you want activity after dark, but I’ve only been to one other, and I felt like I was cheating on Bertrand the whole time.  (The Pétit Bar du Théâtre was having a salsa night!  Karine twisted my arm!  And I didn’t pay for a drink the entire night!)  And this is why the Pub and Bertrand have my eternal loyalty: they love the bejesus out of Verity and I and give us at least one free drink each time we go.  Also, Bertrand knows I like real hot chocolate (called chocolate chaud à l’ancien), and has the staff trained to give me the real stuff even if I just say chocolat chaud.  But it was my and Verity’s first sojourn to the Pub together that cemented our love affair.

Warning: the following story may or may not undermine any shred of respect you may or may not hold for me.  I know this.  I’m telling it anyway.

‘Twas a normal Wednesday night, the week before I started officially teaching.  I took Verity to the Pub to meet Bertrand and have a pint.  One pint.  As soon as we finished, Bertrand came over, set three shot glasses on the table, held up a giant bottle of mint vodka, and said . . . I’ll be honest, I don’t remember.  We politely refused, me out of my utter hatred for that alcohol.  Even in the middle of our protests, he poured three shots and picked up his.  Verity and I stared at each other, the same through flashing in our eyes: you can’t refuse a drink from a French person, especially when it’s already been poured.

So . . . bottoms up.  I figured mint would be better than straight vodka, and it was.  Barely.

As soon as our glasses hit the table, he filled them up again.  We stammered.  No really.  We had to leave: Verity had work in the morning, and I had to not drink any more vodka.  But there was that thought again, so we bottoms-ed up.

Now rinse and repeat three more times.

He stopped after the second, which totally wasn’t fair, and even though our protests got louder (and surprisingly more coherent), he kept going.  Finally, he let us get up to leave, and he disappeared behind the bar while we staggered to the register where one of his barboys refused any payment except for the beers we’d had.

But.

On our way out the door, from behind the bar appeared three shot glasses and three regular sized glasses.

“Jagerbombs!”

Sponsored by my future fake-admirer/pilier du bar (I’m pretty sure he lives there) Dmitri.

Followed by a bubble gum vodka shot from Bertrand, an absolutely shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

Honestly, I’m surprised I made it home that night.  However, I vividly remember everything, so it couldn’t have been too bad, right?

And now the cronies, who are named Something and Mikhail/Tight Butt, Bertrand, and Dmitri will give us free drinks every time we go, probably because the second time Bertrand tried to pull that stunt, he poured the vodka directly into my mouth and consequently spilled all over me.  (The third time, Dmitri sent a meter of shots to our table, one of each flavor of vodka available.  Thank God I was with five other people.  And that vodka looks a lot like water.)

. . .

You can resume trying to respect me now.  Hey, chalk it up to an overly-nice town!