Teaching in France — 2013/14, Part 6

One Wednesday afternoon, I was killing weeds. A bit of paid gardening to help offset spiralling petrol costs.

“N’oubliez pas de mettre partout, l’herbicide,” squawked the garden’s owner.

On my knees, I sprayed the weed killer’s fine mist onto sprouting shoots, shoots that seemed innocent now but in the coming weeks would prove troublesome. It was only a matter of time before someone turned up. Two red snakeskin boots planted themselves down in front of my lowered eye line, sinking a centimetre or two into the mud. “Red snakeskin boots?” I wondered to myself. There was only one definitive face that could match that footwear. It was the hermetically sealed, wind-tunnelled, elastically pinned visage of Mick Hucknall of Simply Red, looking as if he’d just been spent his entire musical career in a pot of Vaseline. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

“You know Caspar, I’m staying young in the fresh air here, holding back the years”.

“Ha, that’s good,” I laughed.

“It was good, wasn’t it, you do that it in your blog don’t you- insert funny phrases. Now I hear your work allows you to spend time around kids?”

Unsure what this dream meant, I presumed its subtext was to keep going, to keep searching for the real year abroad experience.

(Missing image of Mick Hucknall of Simply Red)

I returned to France on the 6th January, almost directly from Thailand where I had spent the majority of the Christmas break. Thailand is actually a great place, especially Bangkok- but why are so many men dressed up as women and why do so many women have male appendages? The timing was opportune and it effectively confirmed my year abroad as a gap year in disguise. Flying back from Heathrow to Lyon suffering from a Thai bug wasn’t enjoyable, but being upgraded to business class once on board by the charming BA hostess Kelly was rather enjoyable. I had put on a facial display of pained grimaces. Kelly’s instinct had sufficed to assume that a wider seat, metal cutlery and a chicken Caesar salad was the necessary remedy. Feeling better and feeling ready to live in France again, I drove back the familiar route to the town of fewer lights and less noise: Monistrol-Sur-Loire. A note lay on the doormat from the accountant asking me to pay the rent and see the headmaster.

The next day, I felt nervous about seeing the headmaster, with whom I had rubbed shoulders so amicably before the break. Why had I been hauled in? Had it been my late-night dinner parties with imaginary friends where I had spoken to myself from different sides of the table, in different tones of voice? Had it been the blatant breach to syllabus convention? Had I touched a child? Had I touched his child? He welcomed me in and began on a different matter: “You know, the English get a bad rep for food, but I think it’s good”. Still nervous, I attempted to soften his rim, “No, no, it is truly awful. French food is much better- more integrity.” Sensing manipulation, he ended the niceties and informed me that a German part time teacher might well be moving into my flat- about which I would have no say. Resembling a luxurious prison penthouse, I’ve become quite proud of my solitary existence in the school’s annexe flat and I wasn’t sure how to take the news that I might have to share it. I bumped into Claudia recently who asked: “Why are you still living there? What are you thinking?” Frankly, that flat is a part of me now. I clean it, and it cleans me. Claudia asked again “You should live with others like you wanted to, surely?” But why would I want to talk to other people when I can watch at full volume on Youtube an adolescent male gorilla fight a reigning male silverback for dominance over the troop. Anyhow, I said that it was “fine by me” to Proviseur Barthelemy. The headmaster also mentioned his Christmas visit to Bradford to see his daughter, a newly qualified engineer there. Fearing the headmaster making another unlettered insight into Bradford’s failing to “deal with the Muslims”, I made for the door. Monsieur Barthelemy halted me with a “Caspar, do you notice this problem?” I turned and informed him that I had noticed the problem and thought everyone should be shot, including him and myself. He seemed quite happy with this, nodding then that I could leave.

January has welcomed in mock exams for the kids. For the first time, I’ve felt more like a teacher than an assistant. I’ve given the students plenty of oral practice under exam conditions (trousers down, lights out!!!!!!!!!). I’ve marked their written scripts with the anointed red ink. I recall one mock oral with Pierre Farget, a young lad, who was speaking on the notion of power. His English was quite excellent and rivalled that of Manchester City defender Vincent Kompany’s. Now, Vincent Kompany should himself expect a Nobel Prize for his Contribution to football’s struggling syntax, but Pierre too spoke effortlessly, phrasing his opinions idiomatically and pausing thoughtfully throughout the conversation, at the same time aware of the wisening effect of his perfectly timed three second pauses. He cruised to a 20/20 oral score. I always start laughing when people are really good at things, and when Pierre said the line: “For me, power may manifest itself in different environments and in different carriers, but it always conforms to the same dynamic, that of retention and maximisation- that’s why I think power is a bad thing”, I howled with laughter and sent him out in euphoric anger. What a student, what a future.

Whereas before I would have returned to my apartment between lessons, I now remain in and around the staffroom, classrooms and the corridors completing odd jobs and chatting to student oddballs. Teachers take advantage of my newfound enthusiasm and heap unmarked homework on me. I find the red pen certainly mightier than the sword and it is particularly aggrandising writing feedback at the end of students’ essays, wherein it matters little whether the corrections are correct so long as one’s own patronising voice can be restored. In fact, I’m finding that the English department are leaving more and more of their essays and comprehensions in my cabinet. It’s almost exactly like when Andy Dufresne from Shawshank Redemption completes one tax return for the sergeant and then ends up doing all the prison guards’ tax returns but almost nothing like that. Last Friday, for example, we had a 2-hour meeting to decide the audio clip for the Baccalaureat listening exam, and to choose the set texts for the written paper. I felt I contributed to the decision-making process and left thinking the same thought that my teachers had verbalised to me at a younger age, if only the students knew how much time their teachers (not including me) devoted to them in thought, discussion and person.

Sometime during the holidays, Benoit whisked a streak of red from the front left of his hair to the back right. Unsurprisingly, he looks ridiculous. Moreover, the strained expression he has brought back to school seems to confirm that he is well aware that he’s undone himself yet again. He knows that he might have to bash an innocent’s head against a wall in order to reassert himself. Noteworthy is that another young buck has stepped up and caught my attention. That boy is Yan, trusty with Iphone screen repairs and the carrier of a misshapen nose. He’s the real deal. Last week in class, we were discussing Mount Rushmore and we were all struggling for the fourth face etched into the mount’s side when Yan piped up and said “Surely, Steve Jobbs?” Delivered dryly, I thought this chap really was the next best thing. It was up there with some of the best jokes I’ve ever heard. There was nothing cheap about it. Yan had obviously sussed that America was an adequately sensationalist enough country who just might get carried away enough in their appreciation of Steve Jobbs as a technological divinity to add his face to that white, South Dakotan escarpment. Yan knew this to be absurd, but because it was America, he knew he could play with it as an absurd reality and that’s why he told the joke with a straight face, with no pre-emptive giggle nor any wry lift of his lips. Benoit is a simpleton compared to the genius lethargy of Yan. He’s never said a word since, but he gets all my attention because when you can talk smack like that, you deserve attention. Last Thursday, he said, “I’m from China”, when he clearly isn’t, when he has clearly spent his whole upbringing in the Haute-Loire. This kid just gets better and better.

(Missing image — ‘A picture of Benoit at 9 months old’)

Sometime last week, I realised I was missing a plug. At last, the day had brought an objective. I located the nearest Bricomarché, only ten minutes away luckily, and set about travelling to it. I normally circumvent the town to travel south, choosing the larger RN87 to arrive at this important roundabout that connects retail wastelands with cities afar. So, you can imagine my ecstasy in discovering after all this time that this wasn’t the only road on which to travel south. Shaking at the dizzying feeling of connectedness, I found myself able to simply follow the main boulevard out of the town, past all the recognisable shops and only about a kilometre onwards before reaching that very same roundabout- something I had ironically never done! How could two routes lead to the same place without my knowing after all these months? Once at the DIY store, having just about composed myself, I succeeded in buying the right plug. Better still, the plug functioned when I returned. There is a supreme amount of satisfaction to be gleaned from identifying daily little problems, hatching simple solutions, enacting them and feeling the reward. This whole episode had genuinely skimmed the surface of real duration and has probably been my most enjoyable moment from this year abroad.

(Missing image — ‘Here’s a picture of mushrooms that I found on Google Images- they look very tasty, I have to say’)

And so, in the perpetual chase of real duration and appropriate living, I have looked to simpler pleasures, or rather I’ve looked to no pleasures at all. Since returning, I haven’t made any plans for weekend trips. I’ve determined that the best way to live is to be quite content with inactivity, to bathe in time. The weekdays go by with boxing training and perhaps the odd evening out if I receive an unexpected call or a text. Most evenings, I’ll do marking, cook my own dinner, watch a thousand animal altercation videos such as cougar vs grizzly bear, African rock python vs juvenile Nile crocodile and my current favourite, an incredibly savage encounter between a white rhino and a cape buffalo. My apartment, which I’ve alluded to being like a prison penthouse, spacious but shit, means I have an equally awful bed so I normally use documentaries to help bring about sleep. Louis Theroux’s voice probes society’s peripheral characters and seeks their humanity without judgment and probably is the most effective. On weekends, I’ll now spend more time in Saint-Etienne than Clermont-Ferrand or Lyon, whether that’s at an international assistant shindig or with Marouane- my dark, brooding policeman lover. Funnily enough, Marouane showed me his wonderful plantation unit last week. He has converted a whole room in his apartment to grow his marijuana, kitted out with artificial lighting and ventilation. At lunch breaks, I will sometimes take a beer with Démis, a forty-year-old teacher, who Woody Guthrie might have termed as a “rambling man” who, before settling to teach here, had house-sat the world and had lumber jacked in most forests to make a buck to travel on. Démis is wicked smart and highly philosophical in conversation. He even tears the filters off his Gauloise cigarettes, which certainly adds something. He lives in a converted barn in a nearby village and has invited me there to help with some woodwork he does on the weekend.

(Missing image — ‘A handsome accommodation initiative in Saint-Etienne’)

There comes a limit in dedicating yourself to a rural existence because sometimes you need social interaction. I met some young people the other day for 5 minutes in a shop. They made a grave error. At the end of our brief conversation in this random shop, they said, “Oh you should come to our joint birthday party! Haha!” The “Haha” was meant to say the offer was insincere and that I shouldn’t come. They made the mistake in saying the words “you should come” to a year abroad student with nothing to lose. They saw my eyes, they saw the car and they knew I would go anywhere for a birthday, for a wedding, for a coffee, for a walk with a stranger. I said to them, “I’ll be there, tomorrow at 10:00am.” They said the party started at “7pm”, so I replied “11:00 am it is then.” They left awkwardly, unsafe in the knowledge I’d be there.

Re: Francois Hollande getting his end away with Julie Gayet for the past two years. I’ve spoken with my teachers, my famille d’accueil and my French friends, asking whether their president having an affair is an issue that bothers them. Without exception, they agree Hollande looks a fool. The Mr Bean image of him leaving Gayet’s home in a motorbike helmet with the visor open revealing his naughty face certainly leaves much to be desired from a President. However, I would dare say the French couldn’t care less about the episode with regard to what it says about Hollande’s morality. They might go as far as to say this is an irresponsible act given how public his life is. However, the French are sworn to the concept of “la vie privée”and accordingly, will scoff at anyone who partners private life to one’s effectiveness in work. Even, the most beholden critics of Hollande don’t use the incident to dent his ability to make bad policies whereas I imagine Britain’s media would find a close parrallel between a hypothetical David Cameron philandering and a struggling British economy. It would be in fact Cameron’s addiction to abnormally long periods of the 69 manoeuvre that had caused a third quarter slump in manufacturing jobs. Indeed, it wasn’t too long ago that at the funeral of French President François Mitterand, both his wife and mistress walked arm in arm behind the coffin, showing the difference with which France reacts to public scandal.

(Missing Image — ‘François Mitterand’s wife and mistress together at the President’s funeral. An interesting dynamic.’)

I think satisfactory banality is just what the doctor ordered in order to cure the modern condition. I think reaching a kind of normality leads to an invested year abroad experience. And personally, I continue to be all for that.