A: What's that called?
B: It's a notice board.
A: What's it used for?
B: It's used for giving information.
A: Where is it?
B: It's next to the whiteboard.
This is the format of which I will be using for my first teaching lesson come next Monday. It's the beginner's format and we use picture flash cards to prompt the appropriate response. My lesson will be much more exciting though with prompts such as "Monkeys eat bananas" and "Seagulls eat trash". I wanted to do fantasy animals, but the other members of the class politely commented that words such as dragons and gnomes might not have much relevance to the everyday conversations of French villagers. Apparently, "Dragons eat sheep" isn't a particularly useful phrase. Some village.
I've lost inspiration as its been a long day. But all in all, class is going well and hopefully teaching won't be too nerve wracking on Monday. The work itself is time consuming, but not particularly hard. At least not yet. We begin grammar next week. Had a good wrestle with the automatic tea kettle at the school today. Luckily there were no witnesses to the battle as most of the students were outside. I won, though. The sneaky button lay just beneath the handle, hiding, clearly a fan of the guerrilla tactics. You have to love going to a school where you walk out of the bathrooms and run into a white, shaggy llama. Oh, and a peacock. And yet another sort of interesting looking chicken. We americans should really get more creative with our poultry. And we should consider them more often as domestic pets. I think Marge, the prehistoric looking chicken, would make an excellent addition to the Everett household. Perhaps her full name should be Marge the Prehistoric. Sounds threatening for sure. The house I'm staying in truly is an experience. I just helped Mishka take some tea upstairs to Toby and two of his older music students (one of whom is Kenny who is a funny Brit with a rugged smile). The upstairs is a giant unfinished room where Toby and his students practice the guitar and sing until two in the morning on most nights. It seems Kenny is the one who favors Neil Young. I'm determined by the end of the trip to join in and perhaps challenge my fear of singing in front of others. Stupid fear, really, although it is a common one.
God, I just ate another biscuit. The biscuit factory would have been dangerous enough if it sold tasty biscuits, but the fact the the biscuits are actually cookies makes it lethal. I'll come back fluffy for sure. Although I deserved the cookie as I did manage to do yoga today in my room upstairs. Had to be careful not to knock over the dresser though or wedge a splinter in my foot. I've gone matless. A real yogin rouge.
Ok, I'm going to bed before I break into the brie.
Or have any more tea.
Wee.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
So Toby isn't exactly a house elf
Bon Jour France! It may have taken a plane, a train, a bus and a Toby to get me here, but I made it. The Silfiac house is amazing. The country home is really a converted old school house, which according to Toby, has great acoustics for recording. That's right Harry, my house elf plays the guitar. Toby's long time living partner (or at least I think she is his girl friend from what I can tell) Mishka left the graphic design business years ago and now practices massage while traveling back and forth between England and France. In fact she's leaving for Thailand in a week to learn Thai massage and Thai cooking. And there is a dog Nooks who is half wolf and a cat who isn't nearly as playful so I have no idea of its name and a whole flock of chickens, which I have taken the liberty of naming Marge, Ferdinand and Ruthie (there are two other chickens of whom I will name once I get a better sense of their personalities). Oh, and Toby and Mishka are British so it seems I've dropped right on into the British version of Three's Company. I fell asleep last night listening to the muffled voice of Toby singing and strumming Neil Young. Toby says the French fancy Mr. Young. Really though, they are great. No young American off on a French adventure could have asked for better landlords or roommates really. Toby picked me up last night from the bus stop and we puttered straight on over to the grocery store. A bit overwhelming as I, who have cooked perhaps 8 meals in her lifetime, stared at all of the french labels completely aghast as to what to put in my small red cart. But I managed to gather my thoughts and ended the trip with some oranges, apples, bread, cheese (the Brie is only one single euro!), and something that I believed to be sliced turkey. Oh, and cereal. And a fancy chocolate bar to calm my nerves.
RUN UPDATE
Went for a run this morning. I know, crazy. Freezing. Lots of cows. Solid country views. Will run more. Was told to be on the watch for boars and to run the other way or perhaps grab a stick to prevent attack. Luckily, no boars.
Traveling truly is surreal. You leave Texas and in less than 24 hours you find yourself standing in a small French village that looks like something out a movie and chewing down a baguette with two hippie British folk. I don't think it has entirely set in yet. The village itself is quite tiny.
Oh and I almost forget my charming new British friend named Chris. So I left Paris yesterday morning and took a train to St. Brieuc where I found myself struggling about two flights of steps with two exceedingly large suitcases (yes, yes, mother you were right). Anyway, I managed to succeed and exited the train station in full confidence ready to tackle the French bus system. Finally found the right bus stop and realized I had a solid three hours to kill. So there I was, young and American as I looked with my giant bags and large yellow coat bustling about cursing the French for their cobblestone walkways that were so mean to the small wheels of my suitcases. You can't say the Americans aren't utilitarian with regards to sidewalks, thats for sure. Anyway, I walked or really fell into the nearest open pub and spat out "bonjour" to the three elderly French staring at me from the bar. One whom I took to be the owner, looked at me quizzically and then retorted, "Sleep?". I said no, glanced at the menu and sputtered out "Pizza" the only word listed that wasn't in French. Did I actually want a pizza? No, of course not, but given the circumstances and my rather frazzled nature, pizza is what I got. I would like to say it was a lovely pizza, but the truth of the matter was it had to have come from some sort of frozen microwave oven dinner. Microwave pizza or not though, it did the trick and a put my bags down and began to warm up slowly hoping no one would try speaking French to me for awhile lest I order some other grain dish of which I had no appetite for. And now for Chris. Chris bumbled into the pub in precisely the same manner I had, although he only had one suitcase and stammered out a phrase that resembled "Vodka and Pepsi". My heart glowed, an Englishman! I hadn't worked the courage to shout across the bar yet, but after seeing him reach for a pocket size book with the word "French" stamped across in big bold letters, I made my move.
"Are you English?", I nearly shouted across the way.
His head perked up, "Why yes. What are you doing in St. Brieuc?"
"I am taking a TESOL certification course. What about you?
"Oh that's brillant! I am too" he eagerly shouted back.
Chris then pulled up a chair, our suitcases now accounting for half the bar and we both ordered a drink. Chris is a wiry chap of 26 years old, with a great high pitched laugh and quick sense of humor. Although, in all honesty, anyone speaking in a British accent automatically sounds 18 times more witty than the average American. Truly, its not fair. By the same token, Australians automatically sound 18 times more cool than the average American. Anyway, just as Chris and I were sparking up conversation, a large French bloke by the name of Philip (Pheeleep) thundered over and asked in his thick French accent, "Are you English?". Chris chimed in yes, and before I could get out that I was American, Texan no less, Philip began regaling of the historical ties between France and England and how honored he was that the British had lost so many lives to save the French in WWII. He then went on that he was directly related to Cornwall and continued on about the democratic ties between all of our nations (by this point I had been able to speak up that I came from the US of A) and how much he loved his British neighbors and friends. He then warned us about people spiking our drinks, said what a shame it is that some of the British youth are anti-monarchy, and shared that he worked for the Catholic association taking telephone calls. At this point, I looked up at the clock and suggested to Chris that we head out so as not to miss our bus. We said our goodbyes to Philip and then me, Chris and our gaggle of suitcases took off. We made it to the bus where we found another future pupil, Brenden, the Australian. From St. Brieuc the bus took us to Rostrenen and from Rostrenen Toby took us to the grocery store which is where I began this recanting this tale starting with my nerve soothing chocolate bar purchase. And now I await the arrival of our final peer, Rowan. Another Brit and the only other student staying at the Silfiac house. I'll let you know if he is 6'4" and owns a castle which would thereby make him fit for me and, well, my future life I suppose.
RUN UPDATE
Went for a run this morning. I know, crazy. Freezing. Lots of cows. Solid country views. Will run more. Was told to be on the watch for boars and to run the other way or perhaps grab a stick to prevent attack. Luckily, no boars.
Traveling truly is surreal. You leave Texas and in less than 24 hours you find yourself standing in a small French village that looks like something out a movie and chewing down a baguette with two hippie British folk. I don't think it has entirely set in yet. The village itself is quite tiny.
Oh and I almost forget my charming new British friend named Chris. So I left Paris yesterday morning and took a train to St. Brieuc where I found myself struggling about two flights of steps with two exceedingly large suitcases (yes, yes, mother you were right). Anyway, I managed to succeed and exited the train station in full confidence ready to tackle the French bus system. Finally found the right bus stop and realized I had a solid three hours to kill. So there I was, young and American as I looked with my giant bags and large yellow coat bustling about cursing the French for their cobblestone walkways that were so mean to the small wheels of my suitcases. You can't say the Americans aren't utilitarian with regards to sidewalks, thats for sure. Anyway, I walked or really fell into the nearest open pub and spat out "bonjour" to the three elderly French staring at me from the bar. One whom I took to be the owner, looked at me quizzically and then retorted, "Sleep?". I said no, glanced at the menu and sputtered out "Pizza" the only word listed that wasn't in French. Did I actually want a pizza? No, of course not, but given the circumstances and my rather frazzled nature, pizza is what I got. I would like to say it was a lovely pizza, but the truth of the matter was it had to have come from some sort of frozen microwave oven dinner. Microwave pizza or not though, it did the trick and a put my bags down and began to warm up slowly hoping no one would try speaking French to me for awhile lest I order some other grain dish of which I had no appetite for. And now for Chris. Chris bumbled into the pub in precisely the same manner I had, although he only had one suitcase and stammered out a phrase that resembled "Vodka and Pepsi". My heart glowed, an Englishman! I hadn't worked the courage to shout across the bar yet, but after seeing him reach for a pocket size book with the word "French" stamped across in big bold letters, I made my move.
"Are you English?", I nearly shouted across the way.
His head perked up, "Why yes. What are you doing in St. Brieuc?"
"I am taking a TESOL certification course. What about you?
"Oh that's brillant! I am too" he eagerly shouted back.
Chris then pulled up a chair, our suitcases now accounting for half the bar and we both ordered a drink. Chris is a wiry chap of 26 years old, with a great high pitched laugh and quick sense of humor. Although, in all honesty, anyone speaking in a British accent automatically sounds 18 times more witty than the average American. Truly, its not fair. By the same token, Australians automatically sound 18 times more cool than the average American. Anyway, just as Chris and I were sparking up conversation, a large French bloke by the name of Philip (Pheeleep) thundered over and asked in his thick French accent, "Are you English?". Chris chimed in yes, and before I could get out that I was American, Texan no less, Philip began regaling of the historical ties between France and England and how honored he was that the British had lost so many lives to save the French in WWII. He then went on that he was directly related to Cornwall and continued on about the democratic ties between all of our nations (by this point I had been able to speak up that I came from the US of A) and how much he loved his British neighbors and friends. He then warned us about people spiking our drinks, said what a shame it is that some of the British youth are anti-monarchy, and shared that he worked for the Catholic association taking telephone calls. At this point, I looked up at the clock and suggested to Chris that we head out so as not to miss our bus. We said our goodbyes to Philip and then me, Chris and our gaggle of suitcases took off. We made it to the bus where we found another future pupil, Brenden, the Australian. From St. Brieuc the bus took us to Rostrenen and from Rostrenen Toby took us to the grocery store which is where I began this recanting this tale starting with my nerve soothing chocolate bar purchase. And now I await the arrival of our final peer, Rowan. Another Brit and the only other student staying at the Silfiac house. I'll let you know if he is 6'4" and owns a castle which would thereby make him fit for me and, well, my future life I suppose.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Du Weeks and Counting
So, after battling the flu for the past week, I emerged less than victorious from my bedroom encampment to scamper about in attempts to get everything arranged for the big trip. Today I can check off my list "buy a sliver, shark engraved flashy flash drive", "buy a small Say it in French phrase book" and "email family friend about staying at their place in Paris". All this means is I now own a ridiculous flash drive, I can now ask for directions to the bathroom or comment on how nice the brandy was (this is apparently an important phrase) and my first night in Paris should go smoothly as I have secured shelter.
Really though, I just can't wait to pack. I love packing. I've already prepared a list of wardrobe necessities, although I fear my subcategory of footwear necessities is more than unnecessary. I haven't written in awhile and its a bit rough. I am determined though to write four times a week while abroad. I think it will help keep me sane and will give me something to do. Since I will have no friends. And no particularly large sum of money. All we can ask is that the language school have a board game collection. I figure I can always make friends at the Scrabble table. Unless of course, its French Scrabble and then I will be excluded given my language barrier and forced to play something more provincial like dominoes.
On a different note, do you ever wonder how your body is able to make such copious amounts of mucus when sick? I mean really, if I blow my nose one more time I am going to lose it. I have had a long past of sinus problems and I have about had it with my maxillary inflammation. Go away, I say. There's really nothing like those "oh shit" moments right after you sneeze either. You have to act as if your scratching the tip of your nose the whole way to the bathroom so that you don't offend anyone who might happen to look at you and discover the little love drippings that extend from your nostril to your upper lip. We think we abide by the simple rules of cleanliness, but really at times of illness, its back to the ways of the beasts. You're just lucky if you make it without sneezing on any of the smaller, less able creatures around you.
So while trying to look up how to say "I am sick" in my handy little French Phrase Book, I took a moment to scour the section entitled "Drug Store". Listed were the following.
Phrase 851. Boric Acid. De l'acide borique.
Phrase 853. Carbolic acid. Du phenol.
Phrase 854. Castor Oil. De l'huile de ricin.
Phrase 858. Corn Pads. Les toiles anticor.
Phrase 863. Epsom Salts. Des sels d'Epsoms.
Phrase 878. Quinine. De la quinine.
All I can gather from the phrases offered is that oftentimes when one steps inside a French drug store you are actually transported back to France circa 1923. Seriously, though. Boric Acid? Corn Pads? Castor Oil? Quinine? Are the good people of France battling malaria as of late?
I hope the rest of my handy little phrase book is a bit more up to date and I pray I won't have to ever actually have to ask for any of the above, in French or English.
And so ends my day.
Official Countdown: 13 days.
Oh and for the record. I have named the engraved shark on the let of my flash drive Max and the one the the right, Regis. Like Regis Philban. But better, because he's Regis the Shark.
Me. Max. And Regis. All on a great journey, together as one shark pack. Shark pod? Should be good.
Really though, I just can't wait to pack. I love packing. I've already prepared a list of wardrobe necessities, although I fear my subcategory of footwear necessities is more than unnecessary. I haven't written in awhile and its a bit rough. I am determined though to write four times a week while abroad. I think it will help keep me sane and will give me something to do. Since I will have no friends. And no particularly large sum of money. All we can ask is that the language school have a board game collection. I figure I can always make friends at the Scrabble table. Unless of course, its French Scrabble and then I will be excluded given my language barrier and forced to play something more provincial like dominoes.
On a different note, do you ever wonder how your body is able to make such copious amounts of mucus when sick? I mean really, if I blow my nose one more time I am going to lose it. I have had a long past of sinus problems and I have about had it with my maxillary inflammation. Go away, I say. There's really nothing like those "oh shit" moments right after you sneeze either. You have to act as if your scratching the tip of your nose the whole way to the bathroom so that you don't offend anyone who might happen to look at you and discover the little love drippings that extend from your nostril to your upper lip. We think we abide by the simple rules of cleanliness, but really at times of illness, its back to the ways of the beasts. You're just lucky if you make it without sneezing on any of the smaller, less able creatures around you.
So while trying to look up how to say "I am sick" in my handy little French Phrase Book, I took a moment to scour the section entitled "Drug Store". Listed were the following.
Phrase 851. Boric Acid. De l'acide borique.
Phrase 853. Carbolic acid. Du phenol.
Phrase 854. Castor Oil. De l'huile de ricin.
Phrase 858. Corn Pads. Les toiles anticor.
Phrase 863. Epsom Salts. Des sels d'Epsoms.
Phrase 878. Quinine. De la quinine.
All I can gather from the phrases offered is that oftentimes when one steps inside a French drug store you are actually transported back to France circa 1923. Seriously, though. Boric Acid? Corn Pads? Castor Oil? Quinine? Are the good people of France battling malaria as of late?
I hope the rest of my handy little phrase book is a bit more up to date and I pray I won't have to ever actually have to ask for any of the above, in French or English.
And so ends my day.
Official Countdown: 13 days.
Oh and for the record. I have named the engraved shark on the let of my flash drive Max and the one the the right, Regis. Like Regis Philban. But better, because he's Regis the Shark.
Me. Max. And Regis. All on a great journey, together as one shark pack. Shark pod? Should be good.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)