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…

Sorry is the hardest word

Two notes have appeared in my pigeonhole in the staff room over the past few weeks. They are letters of apology written by students from one of my classes.

“To mademoiselle l’assistante,
Hello. I’m sorry. I want apologize for missing your hour one week-ago. It’s very stupid, but with the holidays, the end years parties, I forgot it. Please forgive me. I can’t find another words.”

“Madame l’assistante,
I pray you will forgive me for my absence (or blackout). Unfortunately, I forgot that my number was up. Because of, on one hand, the holidays mades me lost my head, on the other hand, I had this day the “girls thing” I had a real bad stomachach. I’d like to save myself, but how? In conclusion, I am really sorry.”

The lesson they are both referring to happened in January, during the first week back after Christmas holidays. That week was quiet; several students from different classes were no-shows. However, this one group of 1e students (equivalent to Grade 11 back home) was particularly bad: all but one student skipped the class.

Upon hearing this, their outraged English teacher instructed them to apologise to me. I suspect the method of delivery was left up to the kids, which is why I received letters (the students here being extremely self-conscious and worried about their spoken English, especially when speaking to a native English speaker). However, I have received only those two to date (a fact that has outraged their teacher even more). Still, I find them interesting, and unintentionally hilarious. The misuse of certain expressions, the willingness to talk openly of personal issues, is charming. And their rather cryptic use of English is even somewhat poetic or philosophical at times (who hasn’t asked the universe, “I’d like to save myself, but how?”).

These notes serve a dual purpose: they make me smile, and they also give a hint as to the areas of grammar we should be working on in class! But perhaps most striking is their very existence. Think about it: when was the last time you heard of a 16 year-old offering a hand-written apology to his instructor when he skips school?