Teaching in France — 2013/14, Part 5
Early December
I was carrying some food shopping back from Carrefour when he turned up. Startled, I asked him “What are you doing here?” He smiled and said “Come on, give me a bag to carry”. Handing him a sack of carrots, potatoes, canette fillets, we proceeded to walk the lane, which weaves out of the village, up the hill and on to the school. Once at the door, I said, “Thanks, that was kind of you, but what are you of all people doing in Monistrol?” Richard Gere turned his head into the breeze, lowered it a little, chuckled and finally replied, “Yes, this is all a bit weird isn’t it?”
I would say that I’m integrating successfully into the region and I am continually warmed by the inclusive attitude of the French here.
I was in a nearby village’s laundrette a few weeks ago when a woman saw me trying to wash my clothes. From watching me fingering around in my pocket for coins to pouring powder into incorrect slots, her maternal instinct kicked in. Stranger to the Haute-Loire, and stranger to the process of laundry, I was invited then and there to be the weekly dinner guest of her family. An hour working on English grammar with her son, who’s sweet but struggles with work, earns me the reward of sitting with the family for supper. I’m fed well through four or five courses of French/Mediterranean dishes (her mother in law is Sicilian). The best thing I’ve eaten was a red Tuna steak in a Sicilian tomato sauce of olives, red onions and capers, mopped up by rustic bread. The worst thing I’ve eaten was called an andouillette. An andouillette is an oblong, coarse-grained sausage stuffed with chitterlings, intestine and tripe. Unsurprisingly, it smells like a rotting animal corpse. But, as you know, one has to smile, say thank-you and bloody well eat it. It’s the right thing to do. Françoise is married to Victor, and together they have three lovely daughters and the one son. A weekly meal allows for essential French practice, wholesome feeding, and an attractive high altitude drive to their village Aurec along cliffs’ edges with harsh granite crag on one side and lofty air on the other.
In the three weeks since I last wrote a blog, teaching weekdays has continued to happen. I’m glad that the syllabus has moved on from the theme of “myths and heroes” because the English department insisted on providing me with lesson plans on British heroes such as Churchill. However as far as I know, Churchill was a 1930s cigar marketing campaign that got out of hand and I remain unconvinced about his relevance or whether other heroes I’m told to talk about such as Charles Dickens, Nelson, Queen Elizabeth II and J.K. Rowling actually existed. After a period of very difficult negotiation with the English department to allow me to teach my own version of seminal British heroes: these being Mike Skinner, Ross Kemp, Oliver Reed, Marco Pierre White, Sean Bean, Morrissey, Kevin McCloud, Cat Stevens and Stewart Lee, both wearied sides knew it was high time to advance to the second part of the syllabus. We have thus progressed to the expansive theme of “Places and Forms of Power” and Benoit is still staggering in last from break. “Places and forms of power” is pertinent to today, and it’s been with great enjoyment that we’ve worked on the political scenario of Britain, the Syrian conflict, geopolitical tensions and the very notion of power itself. Kids are great. Kids are the future. But when that phrase was first coined, had they envisaged these kids of the future being convinced that Cameron Diaz was in fact the Prime Minister of Britain, and not David Cameron. Kids probably aren’t the future, shale gas probably is. Each lesson ends on a lecture I give in attempted French on the destructive power of social-networking and on-line convenience, both of which I am addicted to.
I continue to love all these students, and I think they’re extremely well natured. I feel like reaching out to Benoit and his bloodshot eyes and persuading him to give himself over to some academic concentration, rather than just puffing a potent way through his younger years. But I don’t know what’s right and I’m only three years older than him, so I don’t think I will yet.
Monistrol held a winter fête a week and a half ago. I know fêtes from past summers spent in France and they’re good fun, and you know what, they probably surpass the fun of village festivals in Britain because of the abundance of air rifles and bb guns in them. I was aware that most of the students in my school would attend and I also knew I didn’t have anyone to go with. However, I went anyway because I wanted to win a teddy bear and enjoy some of the rides. I sometimes find my students quite timid in class, so I was rather touched when a group of “terminales” (final years) spotted me, came over and invited me to wander around with them in their group. Monistrol had made a real effort for a tiny style-less town. That evening was warm and golden. I didn’t win a teddy bear because the air rifle had clearly not been sighted and the artisan had used particularly active helium gas for the balloons I had to shoot. Fêtes might be the future because they make people act younger and that’s important for transparency. I think the soul is at its most sincere and open when carelessly running between a candyfloss stall and bumper cars.
(In my off time, I’ll sometimes go out. Here, I’m in Val Thorens at an outdoor party to welcome in the new ski season)
About 50 centimetres of snow fell eleven days ago. Most of it remains because of continuing minus temperatures and repeating snowfalls. Driving has been at its most hazardous, and therefore at its most thrilling. At any excuse, I’ve taken the Twingo out and journeyed somewhere. I’ve gone to Clermont Ferrand to see friends, I’ve visited Vichy- which I have to say is the least interesting town for the amount of historical importance heaped on it and I’ve sometimes driven out with a spade in the hope that I’ll find a broken down vehicle which needs digging out. And indeed, I have helped dig out two vans now, but I’m hoping for a lorry before the winter period’s out. As France’s most photographed vehicle, the Twingo has enjoyed a lull in speed camera attention because rather than churn up the black tarmac, I’ve had to adapt, slow down and gently roll along slippery, carpet-like snow- the heavy black stuff inches below. I’ve broken down once at 1am in minus temperatures, I’ve been rescued and I really have done a 180 degree slide. I suppose you could say I’m happy.
(Missing image of empty car on motorway — ‘Some people had abandoned their vehicles and had simply chosen to die’)
(Missing image of car crash — ‘Some drivers forgetting to steer into a skid and not against it)
At boxing, I made a friend. He’s a military policeman who I spar with called Marouane. Marouane carries a Glock (a Glock 19 probably, but it could be a 17) and arrests people for a living. Between rounds, we were chatting and he invited me over to his place in Saint-Etienne to enjoy that male combination of Fifa and smoking. In the same sentence wherein he recalled arresting a car thief that morning, he also called himself the best herbal botanist in Saint-Etienne. No moral conflict apparent, the grassy stuff seems outside the remit of law sometimes. My old man did his own assistantship in France many years ago and recalled an episode where he was drinking with a French policeman who became so drunk that my Dad ended up driving the copper back to the barracks in his own police car, sirens in full siren. I think memories like that are probably good memories to have and I think it’s alright to want to have memories like that.
(Missing of broken down car — ‘Very traumatic episode of running out of petrol and the engine stopping on a hill’)
The other night, I finally got hold of a memory to keep. I went for a drink with a French person in Lyon. Meetings like these always start off embarrassingly because when they ask me where have I come from; I have to admit how far I’ve driven for their company. Far from breaking the ice, this comes across as the action of someone not quite right in the head. They’ll shift uncomfortably at this point, but it’s okay; I’ve got it from there. (Relatively embarrassing Bridget Jones blog moment, that. There you go. You’ve had it, it’s not coming back again.) During the meet, the spoken French improves and I learn things about someone else and I drink drinks. The memory I’ll keep is that the barman took his penis out maybe fourteen times that night, each revealing more creative and original than the previous. This was a grotty bar on the outskirts of Lyon, run by jokers, and everyone was getting involved, but it was the surprise of the century. Cocktail umbrellas, menus, beer mats, dartboards, he used any prop to catch you by surprise. I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard, well, since I was born. The students deserve to see this kind of stuff, I concluded! It might be the strongest argument yet against those who claim humans have evolved.
This weekend, I’m heading back to Lyon for “fête des lumières”. This is a three-night celebration of light. Originally, it had some religious underpinning but has since developed into a dedicated music weekend, once authorities realised they didn’t have to justify a celebratory tear-up in the name of something else. I, for one, will be there having a good time with the Clermont Ferrand assistants and jigging about. Lyon will be unbelievably beautiful I imagine with the decorations.
On some general notes:
1) Who knew Harrison Ford’s character in Blade Runner was in fact a Replicant all along? A student told me this the other day and only now I know why it’s such a Sci-Fi cult classic.
2) Don’t watch the Simpsons in French, the French vocalisations of Krusty the Clown and Sideshow Bob are twisted, haunting and fucked.
3) There’s some particularly complicated road works going on between the A89 and the A71 in the Rhone department, so steer clear and plan ahead if possible.
Tonight, however Matthew, I’ll be making an endive dish for myself. Herewith the recipe:
6 endives
Tub of creme fraiche
Grated Parmesan
Bread crumbs (chop up some fresh, sliced bread very finely)
3 tablespoons French mustard
Thyme leaves — bunch — if you have them
Spoon full of sugar
Warm the Creme fraiche with mustard, thyme leaves and little sugar, and leave to ‘infuse’ for c 10 minutes
Take the endives, cut them into quarters and slice off a little of the central root — then lay in flat dish, side by side
Pour warmed creme fraiche mix over and then sprinkle with a mixture of breadcrumbs and grated parmesan. Put in medium oven for c 1 hr — cover them with foil for half an hour then uncover them for the last half an hour in order to brown them up.
(Missing image of snow laden skies — ‘Some weather earlier today’)
