Au revoir

Paris in the spring, to Winnipeg still suffering from winter’s last blast… My last day in France was indeed spent in Paris, wandering around Montmartre and attending an open-air concert on the steps of an art gallery. After much rushing around (cleaning, packing, and the like) and not much sleep, my responsable accompanied me to the RER station. So began a long day of travel, from Sceaux, to Paris, to Montréal, to Toronto, and finally Winnipeg: where I arrived one week ago.

Seven and a half months in France that on some days felt like a lifetime; other days, it felt as though no time had passed at all. One week back in Canada and I feel as though I’d never left… but of course, whilst so much is the same, so much has changed too. There’s still more to say, more to tell. But for now, I’m just resting, adjusting, acclimatising…

9e arrondissement

Boulevard Haussmann, in Paris’ 9th district, is one of my favourite areas in the city. Lining the boulevard are the grands magasins, the large department stores: Printemps, Galeries Lafayette, H&M. Also in this district is the Opéra, head offices of several major banks, and of course the stereotypical Parisian apartments. It is bustling, crowded, and difficult to navigate on foot at all hours of the day and night. Business people rushing to and from sidewalk cafés during lunch hour (which lasts for at least 2 hours, of course); tourists stopping to photograph the elaborate department store window displays, which chang with the seasons and are always designed and executed by world-class artists; sidewalk vendors hawking a wide variety of goods; restaurant delivery drivers speeding by on their scooters (on the sidewalk, of course). Hang on to your purse and walk quickly, lest you be knocked down in the mad rush. Parisians are always rushing everywhere; I sometimes wonder if even they know why they’re in such a hurry.

I forgot to tuck my camera in my purse before leaving, so I have no photos of my own to share. It was a beautiful sunny day. The large trees lining both sides of the boulevard were overflowing with bright green leaves, the sky was blue, and even the locals seemed to be in a good mood. Or maybe that’s just because it’s Thursday, and many people seem to take Friday off. (And when they do that, they often also take Thursday afternoon off. Don’t ask me how they get away with it, but it’s apparently a very common practice here.) So who knows? Maybe these happy Parisians weren’t on their lunch breaks after all – maybe they were smiling because their work week was already finished.

I went in the grands magasins, tried on fabulously stylish clothes I can’t afford, and perused the fabulously overpriced accessories that I likely wouldn’t buy even if I could afford to do so (250€ for a thin spring scarf? I think not. And don’t even get me started on the shoes, the cheapest pair of which was 300€…) Basically, I played dress-up, and that was fine with me. I did get one summer shirt dress that was within my budget, then made my way back to the station because my feet were too sore to continue walking.

I arrived back at the school in Sceaux just as the afternoon recess break was beginning. Several English teachers were waiting for me in the staff room, to say goodbye. They gave me a card, and 2 gifts – a photography book of Paris, and a bottle of perfume! I received several requests to keep in touch, and a number of offers of letters of reference or recommendation, should I require them. As the impromptu “party” broke up as the bell rang, the teachers went back to their classes, saying they only hope that next year’s assistant will be as pleasant to work with and as good with their students as I was. See, that’s the kind of thing that makes me regret having to leave… OK, it’s not the only thing, but it does count!

Photo: savills.fr

Le chocolatier

I’ve been meaning to post something about this for awhile. You may remember a photograph I posted to this blog a few months ago, around Christmas time, of a large chocolate bear in a shop window. It was the holiday window display of Patrick Roger, a local chocolatier. I didn’t know it at the time, but have since discovered that he is in fact an award-winning chocolate maker and chocolate sculptor, who has several upmarket shops in Paris. His one location outside of Paris is the one in my town – it was his first store.

Upon the advice of colleagues, I ventured into his little shop for the first time several weeks ago. He had a stunning springtime/Easter display that had caused quite a crowd to form around the door. There were hedgehogs, chickens, gardens, huts, mice, trees – all made almost exclusively out of Roger’s chocolate and candied fruits. (The “eggs” above? Chocolate and candy. And below, a chick made of fruit paste – perched on real moss.)

Photos are not allowed in the shop, so these images are taken from his website, patrickroger.com. (Flash-heavy and slow loading, be warned.)

People raved about his chocolate, saying that he created flavour combinations that no chocolatier had ever tried before. I was told that I must try some before leaving. I was also told that it was rather pricey… Though when I walked in the shop and saw that the chocolates were 3€ each, with the average price of a small box at around 68€, it was still a bit of a shock. I couldn’t bring myself to buy anything! (Chocolate hedgehog with candy egg, above; a chocolate vegetable garden beside a chocolate hut, below.)

But as you know, I’m leaving soon. And I just had my last payday. So I thought: why not? This afternoon I went back to the shop and bought the smallest box of his signature chocolate, le Pavé de Sceaux: plain and lime ganache, and cocoa nougatine. One box, 29€.

If I had chosen according to filling, this is not the flavour I would have picked for myself, but since it’s his signature chocolate, and he named it after my town, where he got his start, I thought it was appropriate. And I wasn’t disappointed!

The thin outer shell of dark chocolate is incredibly smooth and melts almost as soon as it hits your tongue; the ganache and nougatine crumbles and forms a kind of paté in your mouth that then disappears very quickly, leaving almost no aftertaste. It’s not very sweet, it fills your mouth with flavour, and then it’s gone. Very good.

9 days…

Still so much I haven’t seen, haven’t done… but I suppose that’s always the case. I could spend a lifetime here and still not see all that there is to see.

So much to do… The cleaning and packing is daunting; this may be a small space that I’ve occupied for only a few months but I’ve still managed to accumulate a lot of stuff. Some of it will follow me back to Canada, if only I can find the space! Some of it will have to be left behind.

I’ll spend the next week and a half savouring the baguettes, the cheese, the fresh cream, the cheap local produce, and saying goodbye to those who have been my colleagues for the past several months. The students have already bid me farewell – one class gave me a gift, another sang for me, several said they would miss me. I will miss them too – well, maybe not all of them…

Southern Exposure

Just another afternoon in Provence. I’m here for a week, as part of my Easter holidays. While I love Paris, I also love this region. It’s good to get out of the city.

The rain finally stopped and the sky cleared, giving us a few hours of sunshine yesterday afternoon. We spent it hiking around the village of Evenos, which consists of a few houses, a church, a 2-table “restaurant”, and the ruins of a 12th-century fort. Wild boar roam the gorges nearby, but the only animals we ran into were the chickens and geese of the little French baba who runs the tiny restaurant. She told us stories of the war, when German soldiers came to hunt down the Resistance fighters hiding out in the caves that surround the village; of wealthy foreigners who are buying up all the nearby properties, and then complaining that they don’t like having to hear roosters crow every day; of tourist hunters who come on to her property and start shooting willy-nilly… This little 85-year old outlived all 5 of her children, and now occupies herself with tending to her business, her flock of birds, and her many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She told us her stories for almost an hour, and probably would have continued for longer if it hadn’t been time to lock up the birds for the night.

Today the rain is back; so far it looks like it might be an “in-day”, which is fine by me. The sound and scent of the rain is soothing and relaxing, and I don’t mind just curling up under a blanket, by the fireplace, with a book…

April in Paris

… starts tomorrow. But spring started long ago. Cherry blossoms in full bloom, the wind scattering their petals like so much confetti; daffodils, tulips, and crocuses growing wild in patches of grass next to the sidewalk. Aside from a few gloomy days of rain, the last few weeks have been all about blue skies and bright sunshine. The days are getting so long; as I write this, it’s exactly 20:00, but the sun streaming in the window makes it feel like only 16:00.

I discovered a deli nearby selling spatzle and German beer pretzels. Actually, I’ve walked past the small shop nearly every day for the past 6 months; I’ve just never gone inside, because it’s also a butcher shop, and the window displays, while beautiful, featured only a variety of meat. Until today, that is, when I spotted a huge bowl of spatzle in the window. So I walked through the shop’s doors for the first time, and while 99% of their products were indeed meat or meat-based, I did walk out with the noodles and 2 pretzles. Yum.

The spatzle was a little dry but delicious pan fried with some garlic and parmesan cheese. (The pretzel was great.) The pretzels were quite reasonable at 1€ apiece, but the noodles came to almost 8€ for “two servings” (it wasn’t sold by weight!)…

Photo #2: l’Union des Commerçants et Artisans de Sceaux

Not all fun and games!

“This is not an art class, nor is it a study period. You are not here to draw, or to do homework from your other classes. This is an English conversation class. You are here to speak English. Now start talking, and give me the answer to Number 4!” (me, yesterday afternoon, to a class of 15 year-olds)

“I gave you oral pair work. I can make it written individual work. If you want to continue working in groups then you have to actually work, not goof off and do nothing – which is what you’ve been doing all class so far.” (me, Tuesday morning, to a class of 12 year-olds)

Me: What class is this?
Students in unison: English.
Me: And what language are you speaking?
A student, quietly: French.
Me: So?
Students in unison: I’m sorry.
(me a few weeks ago, to a class of 15 year-olds)

“Part of my job is to tell your teacher how you behave while you’re in class with me, and whether or not you do the work that’s assigned. Just because I don’t grade your work doesn’t mean it doesn’t count. Your teacher knows what goes on in our classes, and takes that into account when grading you. Just remember that. (me several weeks ago, to a class of 13 year-olds)

“I personally don’t care if you attend my class or not, or if you show up and refuse to work, as long as you don’t disrupt your classmates. You’re the one who has to take an oral English exam in a couple of months; you’re the one who should care. My job is to help you in whatever way you require; if you won’t allow me to do my job that’s your problem.” (me about 2 weeks ago, to a particularly sullen and stubborn 17 year old)

All of which sometimes leads to…

“Hey, shhh! Get to work! Otherwise she’ll tell Mme. ****** (their regular English teacher) that we’re being silly again!” (an 11 year-old, lecturing his classmates who had become distracted)

“Madame, I’m sorry the schoolboys are very silly and will not behave for you. I promise I will.” (a 12 year-old, distancing himself from his rowdy classmates)

“Madame, do you know Canada is my favourite place? And you have very beautiful hair.” (one of my particularly cheeky 11 year-olds, trying to curry favour after being particularly hyperactive)

Photo: notre-blog.com – though I added the red circle indicating where my apartment is. Click on the image for a larger view.

Saint Larissa

Today is my day. No, really!

On most French calendars, you will find names printed in nearly every square. These Saints Days, or ‘name days’, are widely celebrated here, usually commemorated by cards and wine and sometimes cake. They really are a big deal; almost as much as one’s birthday.

It turns out that March 26th is St. Larissa’s Day. All week I’ve been receiving the good wishes of my students, who at the beginning of each class file into the room and individually come up to my desk to wish me a bonne fête! This morning when I woke up, my email inbox had accumulated several e-cards marking the occasion, and several teachers (some of whom I don’t even know!) have come up to me to wish me well.

Such festivity in the middle of an otherwise uneventful week!

Above photo of the original St. Larissa taken from: antiochian.org

New kid on the block

Meet the little guy.

After the hard drive sputtered and crashed on my laptop last week, another computing solution was required. Enter the little guy. Bought at a Darty store in a neighbouring city on Friday, this tiny EeePC is now my principal computer. (See it nestled “inside” my now-dormant old laptop, to illustrate the size difference.) The keyboard is impossibly small and difficult to use, but it is lightweight and adorable, and gets the job done. I’ve spent most of the weekend installing programs and getting acquainted with its French-language operating system.

I was in a virtual no man’s land for several days; with no TV or stereo, my computer was my lifeline to the outside world, as well as a form of entertainment. When it died, not only did I lose access to email and other forms of communication – I also couldn’t watch the news, play a DVD, or even listen to music.

It’s nice to be part of the wired world again!

You love me, you love me not

I’ve done much complaining about France since I arrived. But of course, the experience is far from being “all bad”. In truth, I love being here. Many people are jealous upon learning that I’ve moved to France; their heads fill with visions of éclairs and the Eiffel Tower and accordion players in the Metro. Of course, in reality, living here is much like living anywhere: there is work, there are chores, there are bills, there are noisy neighbours, there are unfriendly coworkers. (However, France does seem to have its own particular brand of red tape, that is unlike anything I’ve ever encountered.)

Quite frankly, the advantages of living in France should be obvious, which is why it can be worthwhile to list the disadvantages. However, lest you think that I am not enjoying myself, or have only negative things to say about my temporary home, here’s a brief, non-exhaustive, off-the-top-of-my-head list of things that I will miss when I return to Canada:

- superb public transit system, with fully integrated train, subway, and bus networks
- well-made and inexpensive bread, made round the clock in wood-burning ovens
- shops that stay open until 20:00 every day
- cheap chocolate, wine, and dairy products that are everywhere you look
- the town market, where local vendors sell their specialties twice a week
- an abundance of goat cheese products: not only different varieties and formations of the cheese itself, but also pre-packaged foods like pizza, quiche, and other products (it’s a lactose intolerant person’s dream)
- charming cobblestone streets and narrow passageways (even if they do tend to break the heels on my boots)
- the expectation that one should (and will) take care of oneself: staying home when ill, eating fresh foods, not rushing through coffee breaks
- small shops that specialise in a single craft or trade, with vendors who therefore really know their stuff (even if it can be a hassle to have to visit half a dozen stores just to do your day’s shopping)
- stunning architecture around almost every corner
- 2 weeks of holidays for every 6 weeks of work
- the green grocer’s just down the street: never have I seen so many fresh fruits and vegetables in one place. (Everything is gorgeous and ripe and there’s never so much as a cherry tomato out of place. And most of the produce is grown locally. And it’s not often one can compare 30 varieties of apple at once!)
- being a 20-minute train ride from the heart of Paris
- being in a society that values culture, education, philosophy, and beauty (even if it does sometimes – okay, perhaps often – lead to pretension in some)
- éclairs, the Eiffel Tower, and accordion players in the Metro…