Teaching in France — 2013/14, Part 2
I was finishing a brandy at Bar d’Ange in downtown Saint-Etienne, acting on a free drink voucher that had been thrust in my hand as I walked past earlier that day. How could I have known it would be a set-up? They surrounded me with flick-knives, four of them. Heavy-set, gold-toothed, skin pockmarked, they meant business. This spelt trouble in every possible language. But as they approached, suddenly appeared Marco Pierre White to my left in a black and white bandana, rolling pin in hand and to my right, Sean Bean, clad as Borromir.
I have undergone some wild dreams since arriving here, but I think it is part and parcel of the process of self-exploration in an alien environment. This is my second week’s blog.
Oh how I had thought there was no finer feeling that tearing up tarmac on French motorways alone, sitting in their adjacent “aires” and loyally paying their péage tolls! I lived and died by it. But I was mistaken. The best feeling you can get as an impressionable young man is using www.covoiturage.fr. It is a car-sharing site and about 5 times cheaper than French train fares. Having registered the day before and securely transferred €25 to an unknown stranger for a lift to Paris, I made my way at 6:00am the next morning to Quai Perrache in Lyon where a Skoda saloon car pulled up. At the wheel was a man called Nass, wearing the most exquisite light grey MontCler tracksuit combination. Soon, other passengers turned up. A 48-year-old academic popped out, a 30-year-old Chilean lady rolled out, and a 24-year-old Tunisian lawyer somersaulted out. If we were all strangers to each other before, we were now acquaintances and soon to become friends. What more magnificent way was there to tear up the black mat than with those you have never met? We got to know each other well. And led by the academic, we discussed monarchy, republicanism, broken hearts, politics and beauty; even our talk about the weather had something profound about it- I can now no longer view rain as anything but a symbol of revenge and the sun as anything but that of solace. I listened to how Yos the Algerian-born academic had just become divorced and had even more recently returned from his homeland where he’d attended his mother’s funeral. I felt genuinely upset for him and attempted to express that. He patted my left cheek gently and said thank-you. Oh, if there was anywhere where global issues could be discussed and resolved it was there in the cosmopolitan bosom of each other, happy and open in the wafting smoke of Nass’ sticky, fragrant hash that he had pulled out after a couple hours of driving. It was real duration of time. Covoiturage.fr undermines any other form of transport in the most human way possible. Nass may now buy my Renault Twingo at the end of my tenure here which is great- I think he wants something lower key to keep Lyon’s narcotic arteries in full flow. Yos, the academic, emails me interesting little things. I hope he finds love.
Last weekend in Paris was nice. Paris stayed up very late l because Saturday was “nuit blanche” where upon the transport operates until 6am, and so the clubs and bars stay open until then too. I spent most of the night trying to work out which one had caused the other. Had the transport hours encouraged the festivities or had the festivities encouraged the all-night transport?
I have joined a Saint-Etienne boxing club after 3 emails pleading with them to let me join a month into their season. Training began for me on Tuesday. The President of the club is Christian Vial, a 45-year-old veteran with an excellent record as an amateur in his youth. I think he quite enjoys the novelty of a Brit joining a French boxing club. I sparred with him at the end of training. After ten minutes of holding your arms up, boxing gloves become like weights and all you want to do is drop your guard and let your arms dangle for a bit. He made my nose bleed very quickly. I now box three times a week. I have always feared occupying the corner of a pub later in my adult-life, sipping on a lukewarm one and telling naïve ears that I could have done this or that but didn’t want to, or lying about how I was the best at something but gave it up because it was too easy. Boxing is my way out. And as well as preventing that, I think I’d also like to hone my reactions in order to avoid the flying hooks that the one-armed bouncer in Oxford tries to connect me with when he spots me getting my arse out behind him.
On Thursday, I thought it was time to head to Monistrol’s “office de tourisme” and buy a “petites randonnées” map for €1.50. I did a 20km circuit hike that day, departing from the hamlet Paulin and returning back to it 5 hours later. Whatever the French get wrong on a national level, they get a lot right on a local, regional level. The randonnée was meticulously sign-posted throughout by yellow arrows and crosses (these are updated yearly). The ramble itself was challenging- continually up and down valleys, along streams and through forest. I think walking alone in the mountains triggered something in the city-brought up, self-orientated, mind-warped person I am to envisage myself in a film or as some lonely, scarred soul. I couldn’t help but feel like Robert De Niro in The Deer Hunter, recuperating from my own Vietnam. I couldn’t help but feel like John Mayer, retreating into my own Montana to finish an album; for which I do have the requisite self-pity, but not the musical talent. Whilst weaving through mountain hamlets, I would grab and hold both straps of my backpack in an effort to recapture an image of youth and innocence. Is this my malaise that I can only play-act or imagine sincerity? Anyway, it was a wonderful ramble, ever accompanied by buzzards swooping from fence to fence, muntjac bolting from field to field and hefty Cantal cattle that simply stood and watched as I walked past. For your information, Cantal cattle resemble their Limousin counterparts quite faithfully- but the hue of their fur is just slightly lighter.
(Just a man on the open road, wondering what he is and where the road ends?)
(Some extremely rare unicorns I happened upon)
(I reported this to the Gendarmerie)
I returned soaked at around 9pm to a mean looking roommate Claudia. She sat with her legs crossed and arms folded. I apologised for being late and proceeded to cook her dinner before disrobing myself and posing as her naked stool while she ate. I can only assume that Claudia has seen Top Gear and has heard the Mexican stereotypes thrown about by Richard the hamster Hammond and is now very consciously subverting their stereotype of passivity by fulfilling it. Surely she can’t just watch me sort out the heating, food, cleaning, transport and social activities day-in day-out without being up to something ironic?
On Friday, I finally had my first lesson. The English syllabus in France is split into four themes, which are 1) Progress 2) Spaces & Exchanges 3) Myths & Heroes 4) Places & Forms of Power. I worked on “Myths and Heroes” with a group of 18 year olds. I brought in a poster of the 1956 George Stevens’ film Giant starring James Dean and Liz Taylor. They had to first describe it explicitly (how Dean is standing, how Liz Taylor is kneeling, their facial expressions, the general nature of the image), and then implicitly (what the poster could represent about the film and the intention of the director) before finally tying it into the broader notion of “Myths and Heroes”. Most reactions to it were basic and poorly articulated but then out of stinking nowhere, one very smart kid realised that James Dean was being subtly depicted as the crucified Jesus and Liz Taylor positioned as the adoring Mary, before saying how this created a sexual myth in Dean that was especially controversial in mid 50s, hyper religious America (in English too). Smart bloody kid.
Benoit, the proverbial classroom bully, is the most disruptive. He doesn’t care and might not even have that much potential. Like many other rural boys around here, Benoit stays up smoking pot all night because there isn’t much else to do. Accordingly, his focus is a little off come lesson time. I’m sure he just wants recognition though. Therefore I give it to him. I compliment him on anything he does mildly constructive. I hope he might think it’s worthwhile to then engage because of the ego-boost he could receive. I hope to have him after approval like a hobo after rock before I slowly wean him onto romantic poetry.
Frustratingly, I still haven’t moved out to Saint-Etienne yet. But village life is growing on me and I have found myself taking an increasing interest in Monistrol’s maintenance of its flowerbeds. Inexplicably too, I have begun to get particularly annoyed if I see any shop open after midday, such that I march straight up to the owner and tell them to shut their effing shop before they cause Monistrol to become commercially viable or alive in any way.
(Just one of the many music festivals Saint-Etienne offers. This band, believe it or not, were called “The New Beatles’.)
