Place Verdun, near the Prefecture
Had a grande cafe creme with Eve, another English assistant. Eve also bought a really big chocolate croissant, of which I only ate one bite. Seriously. I refrained.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Cauliflower
There's cauliflower all over Grenoble. The market has an entire display case of the blooming stuff. It looks beautiful, in that Body Snatchers sort of way.
One week ago, our neighbor Rita had a dinner party for Canadian Thanksgiving. I couldn't find corn on the cob, so I steamed a head of cauliflower and a bag of carrots. I don't like cauliflower. It was a good dish to bring as there would be no threat of me eating half of it. Someone suggested that cauliflower could be mashed, like potatoes, and served with gravy. 'Try passing that idea in Idaho,' I thought.
It reminded me of the apocryphal story my family tells of an uncle who, as a child, was disgusted by the dinners served in his older sister's home. "Send for the first plane to Florida!" he wrote to his parents, "I hate it here! They make me eat my potatoes."
Last night I was at a party thrown by friends Lionel and Vincent. I stood near the window chatting away in broken Franglais to whichever unlucky souls would wander too close. On the opposite side of the room I caught a glimpse of an overflowing bowl of popcorn. Popcorn is hard to come by in France, and expensive when discovered. I couldn't take my eyes off it.
"Oui, je suis en France depuis l'année dernière," I stuttered to a woman who worked for a replacement hip and shoulder manufacturer, looking past her own shoulder (probably not a replacement), wondering if the popcorn was salted and buttered. "If you like, we can speak in English," she said.
I watched another guest pick up a kernel of corn and dip it in a bowl of sauce before popping it into his mouth. Lucky bastard. "If we speak in French it will help me, but yes it will be a simpleton's conversation," I said to her. "A simpletons?" she asked. I wondered if the popcorn was microwaved or airpopped or made on the stove. Maybe it was JiffyPop! Maybe Lionel and Vincent were in the kitchen cooking up more aluminum packaged popcorn right now.
"Mon francais est un petit mal. Maintenant dans mon cours j'etude le subjunctif. Je deteste le subjunctif." She agreed with me that it is difficult. "It's not very common to use the subjunctif," she assured me. We were joined by Benoit, who is married to a woman from Kansas and he speaks Midwestern. "Of course we use the subjunctif," he said, "more so in written French than in spoken."
There was an empty spot on the floor near the bowl of popcorn. "Excuse me one moment, will you?" I said, pivoting to keep the popcorn in sight. "I'm going to refresh my ..." I looked at my full glass of wine ... "enjoyment of French pop music."
I maneuvered across the room, moving through the smokey haze of every enclosed space in France. The bowl, that holy grail, moved into range. I plunged my eager hand into the clammy cool chill of a bowl of cauliflower.
One week ago, our neighbor Rita had a dinner party for Canadian Thanksgiving. I couldn't find corn on the cob, so I steamed a head of cauliflower and a bag of carrots. I don't like cauliflower. It was a good dish to bring as there would be no threat of me eating half of it. Someone suggested that cauliflower could be mashed, like potatoes, and served with gravy. 'Try passing that idea in Idaho,' I thought.
It reminded me of the apocryphal story my family tells of an uncle who, as a child, was disgusted by the dinners served in his older sister's home. "Send for the first plane to Florida!" he wrote to his parents, "I hate it here! They make me eat my potatoes."
Last night I was at a party thrown by friends Lionel and Vincent. I stood near the window chatting away in broken Franglais to whichever unlucky souls would wander too close. On the opposite side of the room I caught a glimpse of an overflowing bowl of popcorn. Popcorn is hard to come by in France, and expensive when discovered. I couldn't take my eyes off it.
"Oui, je suis en France depuis l'année dernière," I stuttered to a woman who worked for a replacement hip and shoulder manufacturer, looking past her own shoulder (probably not a replacement), wondering if the popcorn was salted and buttered. "If you like, we can speak in English," she said.
I watched another guest pick up a kernel of corn and dip it in a bowl of sauce before popping it into his mouth. Lucky bastard. "If we speak in French it will help me, but yes it will be a simpleton's conversation," I said to her. "A simpletons?" she asked. I wondered if the popcorn was microwaved or airpopped or made on the stove. Maybe it was JiffyPop! Maybe Lionel and Vincent were in the kitchen cooking up more aluminum packaged popcorn right now.
"Mon francais est un petit mal. Maintenant dans mon cours j'etude le subjunctif. Je deteste le subjunctif." She agreed with me that it is difficult. "It's not very common to use the subjunctif," she assured me. We were joined by Benoit, who is married to a woman from Kansas and he speaks Midwestern. "Of course we use the subjunctif," he said, "more so in written French than in spoken."
There was an empty spot on the floor near the bowl of popcorn. "Excuse me one moment, will you?" I said, pivoting to keep the popcorn in sight. "I'm going to refresh my ..." I looked at my full glass of wine ... "enjoyment of French pop music."
I maneuvered across the room, moving through the smokey haze of every enclosed space in France. The bowl, that holy grail, moved into range. I plunged my eager hand into the clammy cool chill of a bowl of cauliflower.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Loose Ends
1) My foot - the angiogram showed nothing abnormal or unusual, just a moderately slow flow of blood in and out of the foot. The pain went away on its own. The podiatrist decided I have a ganglion instead of a cyst. It's still fat though. That's ongoing.
2) Hewlett Packard - Even though they laid off 2,100 workers in France this month and have had a hiring freeze for one year, Douglas landed a 12 month internship with their office in Grenoble. He's working on updating the company's accounting processes to bring them into line with the post-Enron Sarbanes-Oxley Legislation.
3) Lycee Vaucanson - My Assistant d'Anglais contract began on October 1, but the school isn't ready for me yet. I begin on Monday the 17th instead. Being paid for the whole month, of course.
4) French Classes - I'm enrolling in classes again at the Alliance Francaise. Started this week.
5) NYC - Great town. Although frightening with some of the security and post-New Orleans I'm not convinced they have a good evacuation plan should the city should sink into the East River.
2) Hewlett Packard - Even though they laid off 2,100 workers in France this month and have had a hiring freeze for one year, Douglas landed a 12 month internship with their office in Grenoble. He's working on updating the company's accounting processes to bring them into line with the post-Enron Sarbanes-Oxley Legislation.
3) Lycee Vaucanson - My Assistant d'Anglais contract began on October 1, but the school isn't ready for me yet. I begin on Monday the 17th instead. Being paid for the whole month, of course.
4) French Classes - I'm enrolling in classes again at the Alliance Francaise. Started this week.
5) NYC - Great town. Although frightening with some of the security and post-New Orleans I'm not convinced they have a good evacuation plan should the city should sink into the East River.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
La Palais
Place Victor Hugo
My first cafe back in France. My friend Cho and I each enjoyed a shot of espresso while we eavesedropped on the table of English and American undergraduates next to us.
My first cafe back in France. My friend Cho and I each enjoyed a shot of espresso while we eavesedropped on the table of English and American undergraduates next to us.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Three Days at Straight Camp
Remind me to read my mail more closely. Particularly if it's in a foreign language.
My day of orientation for the English Assistant position I have with a Lycee here in Grenoble turned into a three day/two night trip into the mountains with the other 300+ English, German, Spanish, Italian, Russian, and Portuguese assistants in the region. My first clue should have been the table at registration with the sign "Assignments de Chambres" over it. Actually, the first clue should have been that everyone else at the Centre Regionale Departement du Pedagogique showed up with a suitcase. ACTUALLY, the first clue should have been the letter they mailed me in June stating exactly what was going to happen.
But, there I was Tuesday morning looking around at eveyone else. All younger than me, all more fluent in French than me, all chipper and chatty. And me, eyes rolling and way over it. Could I have been more arrogant in my cluelessness? So, at our lunch break I asked a woman who was assigned to a school in Chambery where she was staying during the three days in Grenoble. "Are you serious?" she asked. 'Why's she freaking out? I'm not hitting on her. Does she think I'm hitting on her?' I thought. "We're all going to Autrans tonight for three days. Didn't you pack a bag?" 'I have to spend three days with you people?!' ran through my head.
So, I ran home, packed a bag, kissed Douglas good bye and ran back to catch the bus that was hauling us all into the Vercors range. Our lodging for the orientation was some sort of barracks compound near the ski jump and cross country skiing sites of the 1968 winter olympics. Something a mix between a summer camp, a bargain basement motel, and surplus athlete housing. Something Barbara Bush would consider us all very lucky to have. Each building had two wings of bedrooms off of a central entrance hall. One odd design freature was the row of sinks in the entrance hall. This is where I brushed my teeth each morning.
In addition to the 300+ assistants scattered throughout the compound's 4 barracks there were seven classes of 6 year olds. Most from schools in France's northern regions, their parents had packed them off for a week or two to experience the Alps under the care of a teacher or school official. Sounds sketchy, but the kids all seemed happy.
One morning, me in my pajamas brushing my teeth in the dorm, a parade of 6 year olds in two lines marched past on their way back from breakfast. "Bon jour monsieur" they said as they filed past. I watched them in the afternoon playing soccer on the lawn. I didn't notice anyone scoring nor were there any discernible rules. They were simply running around, kicking the ball, and lots of giggling. The 300+ assistants were remarkably similar. Most in their 20s, there was a lot of giggling, no apparent rules, and against hormonal urges, very little scoring.
In the three days, I learned that I'm not very good with names. Places, yes, but names, no. I identified people by where they were from. I'd be in a circle talking about "That Guy from Minnesota" or "the Spanish chyck" and "What's-her-face from Sacramento". I learned to play euchre from "The Wisconsin Guy" who politely reminded me his name is Trevor. He laid down the rules of play with the intensity of Alex Trebek revealing the Daily Double. Euchre was imported to the US from Alsace, the often conflicted border region between France and Germany. The game is popular in the US Midwest, where Alsatians and Rhinelanders settled in the 1870s while avoiding the Franco-Prussian War. The thought of these draft-dodging immigrants playing the same game on the shores of the Great Lakes made it a more appealing way to pass my time.
In euchre the highest cards are the Bowers - the Jacks of the trump and complimentary suits. While I listened to Trevor thoroughly relate the rules of play my mind wandered. Maybe these Bowers were actually Bauers - the German word for farmer. Would it be too much to read into their superior position in the game a revolutionary peasant uprising? Like the immigrants fleeing the Kaiser's conscription, was the bauer's rank over the king a metaphor? Prussia won that war and Napoleon III was deposed. My daydreaming cost me the game.
I shared a room with four others. Three of us, jet lagged, were sound asleep by 11 the first night. The other two went into the nearest village and found a bar. They came back around 3am. I held no grudge as they turned on the lights, made noise, and fell into their unmade beds. But when "That Guy from Ontario" started snoring I wished I'd won a bed-wetter in the roommate lottery. The bed-wetter is much maligned, and for good reason. But one in exchange for the Ear-Nose-Throat Specialist in the upper bunk would have been a godsend.
He did eventually snore himself hoarse and then silent. After about an hour. The silence however left me worried that he'd choked on his tongue. I lay there in guilt, enjoying the chance to slip back into sleep, but worried that I'd wake up in the room with a dead man. Would it be considered manslaughter to suspect that someone had asphyxiated himself and not do anything about it? What are France's manslaughter laws? As an actively atheist country they probably don't have any Good Samaritan Laws.
It all ended well though, as Mr. Ontario was back the second night with another rendition of Niagara Falls and I start in a classroom at Lycee Vaucanson next week.
My day of orientation for the English Assistant position I have with a Lycee here in Grenoble turned into a three day/two night trip into the mountains with the other 300+ English, German, Spanish, Italian, Russian, and Portuguese assistants in the region. My first clue should have been the table at registration with the sign "Assignments de Chambres" over it. Actually, the first clue should have been that everyone else at the Centre Regionale Departement du Pedagogique showed up with a suitcase. ACTUALLY, the first clue should have been the letter they mailed me in June stating exactly what was going to happen.
But, there I was Tuesday morning looking around at eveyone else. All younger than me, all more fluent in French than me, all chipper and chatty. And me, eyes rolling and way over it. Could I have been more arrogant in my cluelessness? So, at our lunch break I asked a woman who was assigned to a school in Chambery where she was staying during the three days in Grenoble. "Are you serious?" she asked. 'Why's she freaking out? I'm not hitting on her. Does she think I'm hitting on her?' I thought. "We're all going to Autrans tonight for three days. Didn't you pack a bag?" 'I have to spend three days with you people?!' ran through my head.
So, I ran home, packed a bag, kissed Douglas good bye and ran back to catch the bus that was hauling us all into the Vercors range. Our lodging for the orientation was some sort of barracks compound near the ski jump and cross country skiing sites of the 1968 winter olympics. Something a mix between a summer camp, a bargain basement motel, and surplus athlete housing. Something Barbara Bush would consider us all very lucky to have. Each building had two wings of bedrooms off of a central entrance hall. One odd design freature was the row of sinks in the entrance hall. This is where I brushed my teeth each morning.
In addition to the 300+ assistants scattered throughout the compound's 4 barracks there were seven classes of 6 year olds. Most from schools in France's northern regions, their parents had packed them off for a week or two to experience the Alps under the care of a teacher or school official. Sounds sketchy, but the kids all seemed happy.
One morning, me in my pajamas brushing my teeth in the dorm, a parade of 6 year olds in two lines marched past on their way back from breakfast. "Bon jour monsieur" they said as they filed past. I watched them in the afternoon playing soccer on the lawn. I didn't notice anyone scoring nor were there any discernible rules. They were simply running around, kicking the ball, and lots of giggling. The 300+ assistants were remarkably similar. Most in their 20s, there was a lot of giggling, no apparent rules, and against hormonal urges, very little scoring.
In the three days, I learned that I'm not very good with names. Places, yes, but names, no. I identified people by where they were from. I'd be in a circle talking about "That Guy from Minnesota" or "the Spanish chyck" and "What's-her-face from Sacramento". I learned to play euchre from "The Wisconsin Guy" who politely reminded me his name is Trevor. He laid down the rules of play with the intensity of Alex Trebek revealing the Daily Double. Euchre was imported to the US from Alsace, the often conflicted border region between France and Germany. The game is popular in the US Midwest, where Alsatians and Rhinelanders settled in the 1870s while avoiding the Franco-Prussian War. The thought of these draft-dodging immigrants playing the same game on the shores of the Great Lakes made it a more appealing way to pass my time.
In euchre the highest cards are the Bowers - the Jacks of the trump and complimentary suits. While I listened to Trevor thoroughly relate the rules of play my mind wandered. Maybe these Bowers were actually Bauers - the German word for farmer. Would it be too much to read into their superior position in the game a revolutionary peasant uprising? Like the immigrants fleeing the Kaiser's conscription, was the bauer's rank over the king a metaphor? Prussia won that war and Napoleon III was deposed. My daydreaming cost me the game.
I shared a room with four others. Three of us, jet lagged, were sound asleep by 11 the first night. The other two went into the nearest village and found a bar. They came back around 3am. I held no grudge as they turned on the lights, made noise, and fell into their unmade beds. But when "That Guy from Ontario" started snoring I wished I'd won a bed-wetter in the roommate lottery. The bed-wetter is much maligned, and for good reason. But one in exchange for the Ear-Nose-Throat Specialist in the upper bunk would have been a godsend.
He did eventually snore himself hoarse and then silent. After about an hour. The silence however left me worried that he'd choked on his tongue. I lay there in guilt, enjoying the chance to slip back into sleep, but worried that I'd wake up in the room with a dead man. Would it be considered manslaughter to suspect that someone had asphyxiated himself and not do anything about it? What are France's manslaughter laws? As an actively atheist country they probably don't have any Good Samaritan Laws.
It all ended well though, as Mr. Ontario was back the second night with another rendition of Niagara Falls and I start in a classroom at Lycee Vaucanson next week.
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