Teaching in France — 2013/14, Part 1
With a final slug of whisky, a last Lucky Strike stubbed on the dashboard, I slammed the Mustang door shut and put the pedal to the floor. 13 hours, 950 kilometres, 4 bar brawls and 6 hits of smack later, I arrived at Monistrol-Sur-Loire.
Three observations from driving down:
1) France has an abundance of “aire”(s) alongside its motorways. These “spaces” aren’t for petrol stops or shops. A lot of the time, they don’t even have toilets. They are kind-of green spaces with benches, neither quiet nor attractive. Britain has no such thing; you either pull off the motorway to fill up, to grab a sandwich or to purposefully take an exit. The French, it seems, are prone to pulling off the motorway to sit in these “aires”. The only reason for this can be that such is the enshrinement of lunch in France that people prefer to prepare lunch at home for long car journeys and relax in these “aires” to eat their lunches whilst we bustling Brits don’t afford midday to 2pm the same period of gastronomic significance. We grab a Costa sandwich and go, but only if it coincides with our petrol running out. Here, I saw benches heaving with French arse tucking into homemade terrines, cold meats and cheeses. Fair enough. I would like to do a documentary tour of these “aires” one day in order to find the very best “aire” next to a motorway.
2) French petrol station sandwiches have inevitably suffered because of this. For a country so concerned with its own slow food movement and the integrity of its cuisine, their roadside sandwiches are woeful. They have roadside sandwiches because developed countries must have them, but it’s clear France will not invest in roadside cuisine. So great is its shame that it even won’t try to improve it. For them, packaged sandwiches do not exist.
3) French road safety has improved drastically in the last 5 years from what it once was, apparently once the worst in Europe according to my old man. The French have these brilliant “radars automatiques” which trace your average speed and alert nearby road police to potentially hazardous drivers. French authorities also designate past road deaths by placing a black silhouette with a red arrow across the torso at the exact spot where the accident occurred as a warning to drivers and as a testimony to the tragedy.
I’ve been here since Sunday 29th September. Monistrol is a tiny town/large village of a few thousand people. My apartment is in an annexe building to the school. It is modern enough but soberingly white and plastic. It makes me long for Britain’s by-gone era of 70s carpets and garish curtains- an era I did actually live through. I share it with the Spanish assistant who is called Claudia from Aguascalientes, Mexico. Claudia is charming and very open-minded. Our mutual language is French but being from a country that doesn’t dwell in an imperialist anachronism, Claudia is actually culturally globalised and speaks excellent English, having never formally learnt it. We both feel guilty at being prisoners of technology but the fact our flat has no Internet means we are likely to move to the larger Saint Etienne and commute on working days in my Renault Twingo Mustang. This will be better for our French too, as there are young peeps there.
That said, the lycée is extremely welcoming and doesn’t seem a problematic lycée like those found in French inner cities. The proviseur (headmaster) is an interesting chap. He seems quite taken with the image of British culture as depicted by airport/ Piccadilly Circus souvenir shops. Behind his desk hangs a “Keep Calm and Carry On” poster and his coffee mug says “Keep Calm, I’ve been to the Shetlands”. He resembles an even scrawnier version of Michel Roux but is a sound man. He has directed me to a fish and chips shop, run by an eccentric English expat in a small town nearby so I might have a gander. He also informed me that his daughter is a newly qualified engineer and has had the misfortune to be posted in Bradford. When recounting his visit to Bradford, he expressed righteous horror at the clash of the niqab and the miniskirt on Friday evenings. As you probably know, the French have banned the Burqa ting. Normally I’m up for a debate, but in this case, the indecipherable issues of religious custom, provocative western clothing, national identity and democratic responsibility were not going to be be resolved in the office of a ruralised, French headmaster because it is the office of a ruralised, French headmaster, and not the office of the organisation for religious and societal balance. Therefore, I rolled my eyes back in strained agreement, signalling the bloody burqas and bloody women sentiment he might have been looking for.
Yesterday, I went to Clermont-Ferrand at 7am (it’s 150km away and I drove it in 1 hour 25minutes). It was one of the best drives I’ve had in recent memory. You proceed from the heights of the Haute-Loire, covered in pine forests and marked by lofty cliffs (a bit like Scotland), into the heart of the Auvergne which still has hills and mountains but is generally flatter with vast maize fields that appear quite golden as the sun rises. The city’s cathedral can be seen from 10 kilometres away like a monolith, completely black from the volcanic rock used to build it. I love driving and I love driving when Claudia doesn’t speak. You’re probably not wondering why I was going to Clermont-Ferrand but it’s because it is my académie, essentially the bureaucratic centre for the region’s education. All the surrounding area’s assistants gathered there yesterday and had meetings with teachers and the chance to exchange details. I met two American teachers who had become so disillusioned from teaching high school kids in Durham, North Carolina (an extremely dangerous shit-hole) that they’d packed it in and had come to recharge their batteries in a safer teaching environment. Americans, whilst sometimes too serious and too ready to wear their heart on their sleeve, are for the most part wonderful, great people. One of the best and most basic things about this experience is that you make friends with those who you otherwise might not have. Our mutual positions overcome the shackles of our cynicism and prejudice, such that one day all our kids will be able to play with each other and not be defined by the colour of their skin, but the content of their character.
After a great day of teaching tips, friend making, detail exchanging, Claudia and I returned to Saint-Etienne in order to mingle with the other assistants there, the social sluts we are. Saint-Etienne is beat. It can no longer offer anything economically. When a UNESCO building for design and creativity is built in the centre, it is not a statement that the city epitomises these things, rather it is a sign that Unesco has identified Saint Etienne as desperately in need of external investment. Saint-Etienne slouches like the overlooked sibling between Clermont-Ferrand and Lyon in a valley with its grands immeubles forming a big fuck-off outer Mordor wall, barricading itself like an adolescent at the top of the house. It can be quite imposing but seems quite lively. A lectrice at the local university did say to me however, “You know how some say that it’s not the city which matters but the people you meet in it which make it liveable. Not in this fucking city”. Anyhow, we all got quite merry at a Belgian bar, which I can tell you, bloody filled up towards the end! Whilst stumbling back looking for food, I saw some nutters from the French equivalent of Parkhurst but without meatcleavers or yeti suits crash a quad bike into a bollard. The bike was quite wrecked, so one pissed on it and they both walked away. I phoned my girlfriend and told her I loved her.
Teaching starts next week and I’m planning how to control twenty 18 year olds in a class who may not give a shit, but I cannot wait.
On another final note, I was walking around the Carrefour near my village two days ago when Robbie Williams’ musical masterpiece “Candy” popped up on the radio. If you have sadly heard it, try slowing it down in your head and imagine its lyrics sung by Morrissey, quite ironically it could pass for a Smiths classic.
(Missing Image — Me ripping the A79 a new one on my way to the induction day)
(Missing Image — Me cooking an aubergine and mushroom risotto in the kitchen)
(Missing Image — Me ripping one out of Clermont-Ferrand’s alleyways)
