Teaching in France — 2013/14, Part 3

Legs like pistons, boots like sledgehammers, the adolescents trampled on the lavender in Place Jaures. It was a flowerbed massacre and worse still; the young thought it was funny. On the other side of the square, village boutiques began to advertise late-night shopping hours, price reductions and coupons. Out from an adjoining road skidded an emerald green range rover that crashed into a patisserie. The engine smoke slowly cleared to reveal an unconscious George Michael at the wheel, bloodied and eyes still watering from a Radlett dogging- but why in Monistrol though? I woke up. Luckily George Michael’s fortnightly reality had turned out to be just another abstract nightmare for me here. Less is happening now, but this is my third blog over a period of two weeks.

Last week was a normal week- but I think there’s something in that. The teenagers at Lycée Léonard de Vinci have started to provide a grand contrast to the image of educational disengagement that I’d attributed to them prior to my arrival. The girls in my class continue to conjure beautiful English sentences such as “blinded by his burning desire” and “shaken to one’s core” whilst the boys operate within narrower lexical parameters of football and music, quite accurate and efficient nonetheless. Benoit the bully stills floats in a nothing, but I love him for it. I suspect Benoit’s hiding a key to something in his moth-bitten, coq sportif pockets. It’s an awkward and a crooked key, however I just suspect he holds the solution to something of great significance. But it’s far too early to tell whether Benoit really is the messiah.

Tuesday was a day of teaching, followed by a meal at a restaurant with the English department. Jokes were shared, eyes were wrinkled, shoulders got patted, winks were exchanged and smiles formed easily. I think it’s something of a handsome statement that in a sleepy village 7 work colleagues can have a reasonably priced meal, consume a few glasses of red wine, have a wide-ranging conversation, dip into the cares and woes of the classroom before heading back to their respective homes. That evening happened- and I think there’s also something in that idea, but it’s too early to tell.

The rest of the week passed in a similar fashion, with boxing taking up most evenings. It is still rewarding and I’m not sure if it’s anything to be proud of that I sparred the U14 French boxing champion. This kid was rusty nails though. Friday, I had debated the idea of driving to Freiburg-Im-Breisgau (Germany) to visit my friend Ed Perry who is on his own year abroad there. It’s 500 clicks away and accordingly, I thought it was probably too far at such short notice.

However, Claudia woke up and walked into the kitchen and I was out the door with two bags packed, splitting the Route Nationale into tarmac slivers. The Twingo’s 1.2-litre engine wretched it’s way out of the Haute-Loire, continued on past Lyon, hung a right at Dijon, trundled between the hill-top forts of Besançon, dissected Alsace, crossed the German border and trimmed the Black Forest (wink) before entering the fertile Baden-Württenberg region of S.W. Germany.

Such was the joy of being in Freiburg that I spent an indulgent long weekend sleeping on Ed’s floor. I felt almost ready to enrol at the Albert-Ludwig Universität, would they only allow a late entry into their Energy Engineering course. I feel St. Etienne could do better with some wind turbines on its surrounding hills, if only to make up for all the petty theft and criminal damage that occurs within. Freiburg, by contrast, is an impressive republic.

(Missing image of Freiburg cathedral — ‘Freiburg cathedral-quite something eh?’)

We’ve managed to fit some nights out here. I like going out to bars and clubs. I like it because the music can be good and the company can be rewarding. We went to the opening semester party of the university, which, truth be told, offered some great entertainment. The building held around 1,500 people. All German people queue and they queue unquestioningly. Ed and myself arrived tremendously late along with his two charming female friends Tami and Josie. We went straight to the front of the queue, hands on heads, blowing air, pretending we were lost before intentionally tripping backwards into the hearth of the queuing vanguard (the four of us — can you imagine!?). This proved worthwhile. Ed’s newly made German friendsall saw us wander nonchalantly past and had shaken their heads in disapproval. Sadly these friends, who had queued for a good hour, were subsequently turnedaway for arriving too late. Each setting, each place, each time requests the role of a villain. Our roles were that of the queue villains, we did the selfish thing and had the better night, and no issues were raised. Having mashed it up on the nod until 4.30am, I was starting to spin so we tabbed it back to an apartment block party. Once there, we jived with Australians, Poles, French, Russians, Swedes, Italians, Danes and Americans- the groove was global. Skinner once said that piss poor planning precedes any proper party when you don’t know your out-outs until you’re shouting- and I think he was right about that. This after-party was spontaneous, genuine and unofficially DJ’d well. The night slowly faded and went slow motion, all the commotion became floating emotion with the same piano looping over and over. Dizzy new heights, blinded by the lights, these people were for life, even wars were settled. And as a testament to the special relationship that Britain and America share, Ed was invited upstairs to end the night with a hand shandy by one Tennesse-born Jessica, allowing me to have his own bed to ponder on how European Bob had evaded me once again.

The next day, Ed walked me around Freiburg centre. We beheld the Freiburg Minster-the city’s cathedral. It is a piece of architecture above the rest. It remains the only Gothic church in Germany that was completed in the middle Ages and survived the bombing raids of 1944. It stands 116 metres tall and is a good a reason as any to be grateful for the manmade notion of deity. We trod down alleys, cobbled yet even and across bridges, wooden yet railed; and we took routes that connected pretty part with pretty part. It was at some point underneath the rosy Glyzine that I felt that Freiburg was unique in its blend of intellect, conservative aesthetic, student energy, liberal demeanour and inevitable economic output. In this way, Freiburg is an urban compromise worthy of recognition.

Maybe it was these thoughts that led Ed and myself fatalistically past a discrete venue called “Freiburg Erotikshop”. Thinking it might have the usual giant dildo-based wares to offer, we went in, chasing cheap gaggery. When you’re faced with a 35-inch rubber cannon, you laugh and that’s good for anyone. Opening the door, we found it very different to what we expected.

The shop’s lack of ventilation, together with a cramped layout had evidently caused the excess of authentic leather to sweat a thick must. We smelled animal and it had us quite curious. This store offered no dildos, no movies, no cheap tourist tricks, but seemed more of a shrine to the sexually unrepressed, to those cornered by society into the context of S&M which is indeed a laughable context for some, but a wholly sincere one for others. There was nothing pantomime about it. Freiburg’s erotic workship is sincere and acts as an antidote to the banality of sexual recreation, an act that ever since Emperor Nero has been impoverished by society. This store dragged sex away from notions of making love, away from the idea of a quickie, away from the idea of reproduction and into the realm of the most savage, animalistic, summit-chasing, boundless desires. Disgusting but clearly enriching for its clients. The owner approached us, looking like a late 50s Graham Norton would. I lied to him. I felt like I had to say we were sourcing material for a film that we were shooting which involved a young man losing a bet to an older man and consequently being subjected to a session in a gimp mask. Thus, I told him, we were going to need one of the highest quality masks available. And so, he led us past shelves of gas masks, specialised leather suits, anal armour and lastly to the “required” gimp masks themselves. I could now ask some questions. How did he get into this business? A 35 year long story, he chuckled. Did he enjoy it? Oh yes. Does he get much business? Not much, but enough people value his art to keep going. What was his favourite piece of merchandise? Well, it was packed away because he was due to leave in 10 minutes to a highly secret get-together in the Black Forest as part of his clandestine sexual club. The smile of this leather king anticipating his night’s frolicking is an excitement I’ve never seen on someone of his age. Not wanting to keephim, we said we’d be back and left on our way, feeling an intense desire to both vomit and join the evening’s bacchanalia.

Society shouldn’t reject these people. Society doesn’t need to embrace them either. What society needs to do is to continue to show a tacit disapproval such that what is taboo remains taboo. Society must never ever take a town’s proverbial freak from it. The world needs another side just as queues need their queue-jumpers. Society needs Sunday sermon givers as well intravenous hitseekers. Mr. Freakshop’s vocation is an intensely naughty one, but a pure one. It was saddening to hear that he is continually harangued by the town’s politicians and police to shut his store. I hope he doesn’t. I will forever struggle to rid my mind of the image of this pot-bellied shop owner being carried out that infamous night on a silver platter, apple in mouth, rashes of bacon across a trembling chest, covered in root vegetables, howling in ecstatic anticipation at his imminent annihilation by like-minded peers all in their leather best. Peers, who he said, were apparently “well-known public and private officials”.

(Missing image of a gimp chair — ‘One of the gimp chairs on show’)

I’ll leave Freiburg with a bundle of impressions. One more thing in case you decide to visit: Freiburg offers optional-charge transport. There is a pay-booth on its trams, trains and buses, but there are no ticket inspectors. Now I’m no expert, but I think the Germans still pay because they feel something can’t be right. But it is right; the transport charges are completely optional. You can pay if you feel like it, and if you don’t, then just take a seat and enjoy the ride. I rode the tram 19 times over the weekend and saved 43 Euros and I think that’s something Germany’s really got right –their unenforced transport charges. Good for them.

(Missing image — Freiburg Pizza club)

(Missing image — Something felt right here in Freiburg, something felt really right)

Now back to Monistrol-sur-Loire and consolidating memories over time into meaning.