School days

They gather in the hall, huddled at the classroom door. No one enters the room until I go and stand at the door, holding it open for them, or wave them in from behind my desk. They file in one at a time, claim their seats, and drop their books and bags on the tables in front of them. No one sits down until I give them permission. Then they all say “good morning” (or “good afternoon”) to me, in unison. And then no one utters a word, save for the occasional, barely audible whisper. Well, no one utters a word until I begin the class, thereby giving the signal that it’s OK to talk. At the end of the hour, no one stands up, no one closes his or her books, no one starts packing up backpacks – even if the bell has already rung – until I formally end the class, thereby giving the signal that it’s OK to leave.

This is how nearly every class begins and ends here, regardless of age or grade level. Classroom formalities and manners have been hard-wired into these kids, to the point that it’s almost creepy. This isn’t to say there are no discipline problems: they are still teenagers, of course. But they seem to have internalized a certain respect for authority. (Strange, in a country so proud of its revolution and its near-constant strikes and protest marches…) I’m not an actual teacher; I’m a foreigner; I’m fairly young; I don’t give exams or have the power to strongly impact their grades – and yet they listen to me, and respect me, and generally do as I say. I’m amazed!

The public school system is very different in France. The days are long: 8:25 to 6:00, even for the youngest students. (Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday are full days; Wednesday and Saturday are half days.) The teachers, while nice and approachable outside of the classroom, are very harsh and very strict within the teaching environment. In my week of classroom observation, “clueless”, “hopeless”, and “stupid” are some of the adjectives that were liberally bandied about by teachers to their students. (In one unfortunate case, one 11 year-old boy failed to answer one question on a worksheet, and the teacher not only yelled at him and wrote “lazy” in large capital letters across his worksheet, she also formally wrote him up in his school file.) Chewing gum, hats, MP3 players, and cell phones are not allowed anywhere on campus – including outside in the yard during recess and lunch times. When the bell rings to signal the start of a period, teachers lock their classroom doors; if a student is late, he is marked absent and must report to the principal’s office, where he has to explain himself, and then get a special note allowing him to get into his other classes for the day (because according to the system, he’s “absent”). If a student misses school for less than 48 hours, a doctor’s note is required. If a student misses school for more than 48 hours, a different doctor’s note is required, along with a letter of explanation – or an apology, depending on the circumstances – from the parents. There are no electives in junior high, and the only “elective” in high school is a choice of which languages to take as one’s second and third language. (Yes, every student has to take French plus two other languages.) There are no school sports teams, no school band or orchestra, no drama club – or even a drama class. (There are however classes in phys. ed., music, and art, all of which are compulsory right through to graduation.) There is a nation-wide series of exams at the end of junior high, which determine whether or not one can continue on to high school; and the exams at the end of high school take 2 months to complete, and the language exams involve both written and oral components.

I have been working for 2 weeks now, one week of observing and one week of teaching. It’s been an interesting experience so far: some students are exceptionally weak and can barely form a coherent sentence, while others are almost fluent – sometimes all in the same class! Some classes are chatty and enthusiastic, while others are completely disinterested. Sometimes the hour flies by, other times it’s like pulling teeth to get the kids to say a single thing…

One more day, and then I can catch my breath: a two-week holiday begins Saturday afternoon…

Photo: lesmanantsduroi.com

Happy Thanksgiving

It was at a Thanksgiving dinner in 1994 that I looked down at the food before me and realised that I had not put any meat on my plate. It was not a deliberate act; it just happened. I had been thinking about vegetarianism for some time already, and had gotten to the point where I was no longer able to eat meat with a clean conscience. I had begun to feel so guilty about this “bad habit” that whenever I put fork to mouth, I was on the verge of tears. I knew I could no longer continue eating meat, but I saw no way around it: our society is based on meat products, and other animal by-products are found in virtually everything we consume. And then one day it just happened: I stopped eating meat, without even thinking about it.

Thanksgiving dinner was at Gramma’s and Grampa’s in Port Alberni; it was the first Thanksgiving since Gramma had passed away. Yet there was a houseful, and the table was overloaded with food. There were about 5 or 6 different types of meat, as well as the usual mashed potatoes, vegetables, salad, breads, dumplings, and sauces. We filed into the kitchen and started piling the food on our plates, buffet-style. I took what looked good, and when I found my way to an empty seat on the couch in the upstairs living room, my plate was piled high with food. It was only mid-way through the meal that I noticed what was missing from my plate… And it was at that moment that I knew I would become a vegetarian. I knew that by unconsciously choosing to go meatless – on Thanksgiving yet, a large family meal centered around the various types of meat on the table – I could become a vegetarian.

Aside from two occasions where I ate salmon, I have never again eaten meat since that Thanksgiving in 1994. And you know what? I have yet to miss its taste – and I have yet to regret my decision.

To the people who constantly tease me and refuse to accept my decision, I ask: why? Where is the appeal in making the same, tired jokes that every vegetarian has heard hundreds of times before? Why do you feel the need to say anything at all? Do your carnivorous ways make you feel guilty yourself? Do you feel that I’m standing in judgment of you? Do you feel threatened by my choice? My reasons for ceasing to consume meat are simple: to reduce the amount of suffering inflicted on animals. That’s it: nothing more, nothing less.

I know that there is no such thing as a perfect vegetarian: in our society it’s nearly impossible to avoid animal products altogether. But I do what I can to minimise my impact on the lives of my fellow creatures. If someone decided to stop eating sugar – not because he was diabetic or had a weight problem, just because he wanted to consume less sugar – he would be applauded, and no one would give him a hard time. Yet because meat is the product I choose to avoid, I am hounded constantly, by family, friends, and strangers alike. Why? What do meat eaters find so threatening about my position?

Over the past seven years, Thanksgiving weekend has offered up three opportunities for holiday dining: once with Slawek’s family, once with mine, and once with me as the cook. Every Thanksgiving I roast a Tofurky, usually to be consumed by me and Slawek alone. (Mum will sometimes make an effort and have a forkful or two.) I am an unabashed fan of Tofurky, but can understand how some might be reluctant to try it. It’s not just the roast; it comes with its own cranberry and potato dumplings, vegan gravy, and “Tofurky jerky” sticks. It’s a vegan feast that is not just an alternative to the traditional turkey, but is my own personal celebration of the choice I made all those years ago. This year I celebrate 14 years as a vegetarian; unfortunately I’m doing so without the usual trappings, as I’m now in a country that doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, and doesn’t sell Tofurky… I thought about going to one of the Canadian pubs in Paris, but I think I’ll just stay in town and go for an evening stroll down the narrow sidewalks, watching the people rushing home from work, and the children playing in the dried leaves littering the cobblestone streets. Then I’ll scout around in my tiny pantry for something suitable for a Thanksgiving meal, and celebrate this holiday in my own unique way.

Photo from archikins.blogspot.com

To market, to market

When I awoke this morning, a heavy fog had descended on the town, cloaking the tops of most buildings in mist. It seemed the perfect conditions for a walk. Then I remembered: Saturday morning in most French towns and villages means one thing – market day. So I gathered up my black reusable bags that I brought from home and set out to navigate my way through the maze of stalls erected overnight in the streets.

The main market in Sceaux is on rue Houdan, not far from my apartment. It’s a pedestrian-only street, lined with small shops. There you will find several butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers, as well as cobblers, green grocers, and chocolatiers. The streets were bustling with people; it seemed as though all 20,000 Scéens, as the inhabitants are called, were out this morning. Just past the shops is a sort of empty square; this is where the impromptu stalls were set up, selling everything from lasagna to lingerie. Just past the stalls is the permanent marketplace – a large, open warehouse that is only open during market hours (Wednesday and Saturday mornings). Inside, rows of permanent stalls offered a dizzying array of products: farm-fresh eggs, hundreds of cheeses, fresh olives and figs, fresh seafood and slabs of meat, produce from around the region, dried nuts and dried fruits, freshly milled flour… It’s a loud, busy place, crammed with shoppers jostling one another for a spot in line. There are dogs on leashes running about nibbling at bits of food that have fallen from the shelves; there are children running about begging their parents for sweets; the vendors haggle with the customers and offer compliments and free samples in a bid to attract passers-by.

I’ve come home with a full bag: several small pots of fresh yogurt, a bottle of fresh milk, a kilo of small yellow potatoes, two huge zucchini, a loaf of multi-grain bread, a chunk of fresh mozzarella, a bag of green beans, and two small spinach quiches – all for about 15 euros. Not a bad deal.

The sun has come out and has burned away all the remaining cloud. The market will close very soon – around 2pm is the limit. Meanwhile, I’ve got some cooking to do!

Photo: chateau-beaumont.co.uk

Home sweet home

The old, beaten-up hardwood floors are surprisingly sturdy, not at all creaky. The plaster walls could do with a new paint job and some minor repairs in some places. And the faucet in the bathroom seems to be much too large for the tiny sink to which it is attached, and repeatedly splashes water on the floor. But other than that, my new home is quite acceptable.

My apartment is on the 3rd floor of the school in which I’m working. You’ll find it at the top of a large wooden staircase, lined with a red oriental rug. The impossibly tall large French windows open on to the courtyard, with its rose garden and large stone fountain. Long, gauzy white curtains filter the sunlight and fill both the bedroom and kitchen with a soft glow. Yes, a bedroom and a kitchen – contrary to what I was led to believe, this isn’t a studio apartment at all. The bedroom is quite large, and could easily be divided into a sleep space and a den, if only I had a couch… Alas, the only furniture I have for now is a bed, a table, and a beautiful old wood armoire and end table.

The kitchen is spacious, with a refrigerator and stove/oven, and a table that seats 4. There, the hardwood floor gives way to mustard yellow and cream-coloured tiles arranged in a checkerboard pattern. Large radiators in both rooms heat the entire apartment nicely, even for a perpetually cold girl like me.

There is also a shower room, nestled right next to the entrance to the apartment. It’s tiny and consists only of a glass shower cubicle and a tiny sink. (The WC is down the hall.) But it’s new and in perfect working order and delivers steaming hot water, so I can’t complain.

I moved in on Wednesday, finally leaving the hostel behind. I did the move in two trips, because my muscles could not bear a repeat of Sunday, when I traveled from the airport to the hostel with all of my luggage at once. On the last trip back to Sceaux, a man climbed into our car on the metro to play his accordion for money, as buskers often do; he played Kalinka, before exiting two stops later. I’ve spent the last few days gradually filling up the fridge and (teeny tiny) pantry. I’ve just got the essentials; luxuries like lamps, occasional rugs, towels and knives that actually cut bread will have to wait until after my first payday. There is also no TV, telephone, stereo, or even radio in the apartment: luckily I have an Internet connection, else it would be awfully quiet and isolated up here…!
While I do have a stove and oven, fridge and kettle, I am missing some other appliances that I wouldn’t mind having – coffee maker, toaster, microwave… Having to boil water on a gas range every time I want a cup of coffee is bit tedious. (That reminds me: I don’t have any cups either. I’ve been drinking my tea and instant coffee out of bowls! ) I have several forks and spoons, but only one butter knife which has also had to serve as bread knife and scissors, to open packages, as I keep forgetting to look for a proper knife when I go to shops.

I’ve had several adventures in daily French life already, from not knowing how to operate my gas appliances (where to light the pilot light in the oven, for example), to not knowing how to buy produce in French grocery stores (none of this American-style bringing your groceries up to the cashier – you have to do all the work yourself, from weighing the items, to finding the digital calculator and calculating the price yourself, which you then apparently memorize or write on the back of your hand to convey to the cashier). But I have opened a French bank account without incident, and will soon be getting a cell phone so that I don’t have to rely on the vagaries of the school’s WiFi connection.

I have stayed close to home, not having been back to Paris since moving day. Sceaux is a lovely little commune, its houses a strange mix of architectural styles. There are shockingly modern office buildings and retro-looking houses scattered among the typical 17th-century stone shops and cottages. New, paved streets and bike paths cut through old cobblestone sidewalks and narrow, winding roads and driveways. Apparently it costs more to live in this town than in several arrondissements of Paris. Speaking of the capital, my town is a mere 7km from the Porte d’Orleans, the nearest entrance to Paris. Many of the teachers in my school live in Paris, or other surrounding communes. (I suppose none of them can afford to live in Sceaux!) I feel very fortunate indeed to have scored this apartment, which is so close by and therefore requires no commute (and means I don’t have to buy a 100-euro monthly transit pass), rent-free.

It should be noted, as well, that as there is so much space, I can easily accommodate several sleeping bags or a pull-out sofa in the bedroom, if anyone cares to pop in for a visit…