'Nicholas Sarkozy is very 'petit' in England?'

Ask any English person and they’d be able to spot a group of francophone tourists from a mile off. The backwards caps, colourful rucksacks only suitable in the U.K for eager year sevens or quirky backpackers, the thick-rimmed glasses....I could go on. But one French trend I have only recently discovered is the undying love of the tracksuit. Now I’ll be the first one to admit that we all love a good pair of ‘Tracky B’s’ from time to time. Perfect for recuperation purposes, all-nighters in the university library, perhaps even a comfy evening in with a film and a Dominoes pizza. But there can be too much of a good thing, something which French schoolchildren have not yet picked up.

             Walking into either of my school playgrounds is like being the odd one out in an Adidas advert. Both boys and girls flaunt a variety of tracksuit styles, often a different brand for each day of the week. And I’m not just talking bottom half. I mean matching jacket, cap, trainers, the works. All that’s missing is several metres of bling and perhaps a stud or two. As a result, I’m half expecting my students to communicate through the medium of rap....perhaps there is a legitimate reason for Britain’s school uniforms after all.

            Whilst I’m on the subject of fashion, NO-ONE wears leggings here. Ever. Considering how nine times out of ten, they’re my garment of choice, I probably could not look more foreign if I stapled Yorkshire puddings to my legs. But I’m hoping this will change, and if I have it my way, by the end of April I’ll have become a style icon in Le Havre, instead of a ‘comedy act’  (as my own mother frequently likes to tell me). C’est la vie.

               I am starting to wonder if I’ll ever achieve the year abroad student’s ultimate dream and be mistaken as a French person, but if the leggings are anything to go by, it currently looks doubtful. When I visited Rouen yesterday for instance, the 50 cent public toilets confused me so much that when I finally escaped after several minutes of fumbling with the lock, the woman on duty immediately headed into my cubicle armed with rubber gloves, bleach and several types of air freshener....Sadly, my French was not good enough to explain the real reason for my prolonged length of time in the toilet, so, flustered and embarrassed, I scuttled off in search of some form of home comfort, which in this case happened to be a nearby New Look store (yes, they have New Look in Rouen! Amazing).

             Fortunately, my first week of teaching has been a lot more successful than the aforementioned incident. My students have largely been very attentive, and seemed to enjoy my powerpoint presentation about England and fact file game about myself, particularly when I challenged them to come up with the most bizarre question they could think of, the goal being I wouldn’t be able to answer. Such an activity was always going to be risky, but I’m glad I took the chance as it prompted some absolute gems, such as ‘did you die and be reborn?’ (no), ‘are you the mother of your boyfriend?’ (no) and, slightly morbidly, ‘when is your death date?’

               Of course, there will always be some words they are unsure of. One such case today was the word ‘famous’. Seeing me floundering in my role as a walking thesaurus, the class teacher thankfully intervened. However, perhaps unwisely, the example she chose to use was ‘it’s like Nicholas Sarkozy is very _____ in England’. Oh dear. As you would expect, there were some incredibly imaginative responses, including my absolute favourite; ‘is very.....petit?’ (small?).

             So all-in-all, my lessons have run fairly smoothly, the only hiccup being on Monday, my first day, when I accidentally made a year seven child cry. Wait. It sounds worse than it is. We were working on a simple dialogue, asking about mobile phone numbers and e-mail addresses, and after several rounds of choral repetition and partner work, I decided to spice it up a bit. I told the children to choose a location within which to base the dialogue, such as in a café, a restaurant, in the park, etc, and gave them ten minutes to turn the conversation into a little roleplay. Of course, as year sevens generally are when confronted with the prospect of performance, they were enthralled by this idea. Two boys chose a Chinese restaurant, complete with hilariously accurate voices and even a little tai-chi style bow to each other at the end- for the record; a French person doing a Chinese accent is pretty impressive.

              However, in the third and final group, I received an altogether different reaction from one boy. Whilst his classmates rejoiced in the thrill of imagination, this child proceeded to burst into tears. And I’m not talking a little sniffle, I’m talking full on water works- runny nose, red face, sobs, everything. Carefully following my Language Assistant Training, I took care not to alienate him, and while the other students began to prepare, I asked Pierre what was wrong. My Sympathetic French not being particularly well-tuned, what I actually said was ‘qu’est-ce que c’est le problème’ (what’s the problem?), but I said it in as soothing and reassuring a voice as possible, and it just about did the trick. Anyway, the ‘problème’ was simply that Pierre did not want to do drama, nothing more. I’d just like to add at this point that I was by no means physically forcing the children to perform (dance monkey, dance!), nor was I suggesting they all go and enrol at RADA. It was merely an idea to try and animate what was otherwise a ridiculously dull dialogue.....but hey, at least Pierre provided me with a moderately amusing story to tell!

                First full teaching week over, on Saturday I will endure a five and a half hour ferry trip back to England for half term, scoff my fill on roast dinners and salt and vinegar crisps and attempt (though no doubt fail) to work on my year abroad project, before returning to La Belle France refreshed, rejuvenated and full of amazing lesson ideas. Oh, and try not to make any more children cry. À la rentrée mes amies!

J'ai un grand jus d'orange dans mon sac.....

............has to be by far the strangest (though miraculously grammatically correct) sentence I’ve said so far this week. It happened during my Colombian flatmate and I’s first expedition to the local hypermarket, a twenty-five minute walk away from my apartment. ‘Pas loin’ (not far), my tutor had previously assured me. Knowing the French’s obscure reluctance to provide any form of carrier bag in their supermarkets, I’d planned ahead, though unfortunately not far enough ahead to anticipate just how much cheese and pain-au-chocolats I would end up purchasing. Hence, wheezing and panting, I arrived back at the apartment almost two hours later. ‘Pas loin’, it seems, does not account for a Quasimodo-style walk, bright red fingers and a grumpy Colombian with absolutely no sense of direction.

           This week has certainly been all about finding my feet. With the exception of several anonymous insect bites and an onslaught of what I like to call ‘Frenchers’ Flu’, it has been a largely successful few days. I just about know my way around both schools, have been made to feel extremely welcome by all staff (their hellos became even warmer when I produced a tin of cakes from my bag), and have even prepared some lessons ready for the commencement of my teaching next week....so keen.

            My lesson observations have consisted of a variety of different subjects, the eventual goal being to give me a true taste of the French schooling system, which, to continue the culinary analogy, I would perhaps compare to a slightly over-matured Saint Agur on the cheeseboard of education; not something I would personally choose, yet once you’ve got used to it, it doesn’t seem quite so bad. That is to say that slowly but surely, I’m getting used to my 7am alarms, despite my envious knowledge that just across the water, the vast majority of my fellow Southampton students (with the exception of the nurses!) are still tucked up at 6am, no doubt dreaming of late night curry or cheesy chips if they’ve recently returned from an ‘epic night out’.

The lessons themselves have been a mixture. In 6e (year 7) music for instance, I felt for all the world like an extra in Les Choristes, and really relished the teacher’s offer for me to come along to the school lunchtime choir and help out with the pronunciation of the trickier words in Dirty Dancing’s Time of my Life. 3e (year 10, the final year of the French collège) however, was a different kettle of fish entirely. Coupled with my awkward fumbling French when I was made to stand at the front of the class and announce who I was and why I was there (believe me, I’d much rather have been in ANY other subject), was the fact that I spent the whole lesson completely and utterly lost. I’d love to blame it on the language barrier, though I fear that in all honesty it was more my total lack of mathematical know-how which proved the more difficult obstacle. I had no chance of helping poor textbook Sandrien and Julien find out the price of one lemonade if five lemonades and two orange juices equalled fourteen euros. That said, I did learn what ‘x squared’ is in French.

           As for the English students, they are a mixed bunch. Questions have ranged from ‘how your favourite colour?’ to ‘do you know Kate Middleton?’ and from one particularly bold lad; ‘do you like Nicholas Sarkozy?’ My tactile (and admittedly true) answer to this last one of ‘je n’ai pas beaucoup d’avis politiques’ seemed to satisfy both pupils and teacher, who, incidentally, then gave me a sneaky thumbs-up when the children weren’t looking.

           I’ve also had many a meal in the school canteens, and one thing is immediately clear; the French definitely don’t need Jamie Oliver. Both of my schools serve three course meals every day, including a cheese and biscuit course, and enough baguettes to fill the arms of at least fifty French men. Certainly a far cry from turkey twizzlers and powdered chocolate custard. Last Friday for instance, I turned up wondering what would be the French replacement for traditional English fish and chips. Their equivalent consisted of vegetable quiche, ‘lapin à la moutarde’ (rabbit with a mustard sauce), crème brûlée and finally brie, grapes and biscuits; all of which I devoured with vigour, much to the amazement of an elderly maths teacher, who told me later that I was the first English person he’d ever come across who would eat rabbit. In case you wondered, I’d now like to report in a standard English manner that yes, yes it did taste like chicken. While I’m on the subject of food, I found (and sampled) a ten euro all you can eat Chinese buffet in Le Havre today. And as a little aside from my ravings of France’s culinary genius, it was not as good as England.

           So, the plan from now on? Tomorrow I have another training day in Rouen, and then next week will be let loose in the classroom, armed so far with a ‘find someone who....’ icebreaker game and my entire country summed up in a five-slide Powerpoint presentation. Given that in one of my classes, only around seven out of twenty children raised their hands when I jokingly enquired ‘levez la main if you like English’, I think I’m going to have my work cut out. 

Cars, keyboards and milk....my first week in Le Havre

 A week of being in la Belle France, and I’ve already managed to sum up in three succinct words exactly where it is the French repeatedly go wrong. Firstly, driving on the right is unnatural, not to mention confusing, and as a result every time I cross a road I automatically place myself into situations of mild peril. My mum’s answer? ‘Well I shouldn’t turn left out of here, but I’m going to do it anyway’. A plausible, if somewhat dangerous solution, which, after following this maternal wisdom, has so far led to two ‘accidentally’ free bus journeys and several plees of ‘je ne comprends pas, je suis anglaise’...Always a classic line if in doubt, and one which the teachers at my schools absolutely loved when used it with reference to a lonely Martinique man at the bus stop offering me his number so that I could go back to his flat and ‘manger un peu de gateau’. Still wondering whether that was a euphemism.

Secondly, computer keyboards. What is the logic in having to press shift for numbers; some of the most commonly used keys, when the pointless symbols such as ^ (which I can only assume is some form of French beret emoticon) are readily available! I was actually laughed at in the library when trying to type an answer to a facebook message as it definitely appeared as though I’d never seen a computer before.  And milk? Well, that needs no explanation. Yes, UHT is long life. But frankly I think I’d rather take my chances with a day out of date pint of Asda semi-skimmed. 

       Aside from that, my first week in Le Havre has, all-in-all, been good. Of course, there have been ups and downs, a particular down being the faces of my eleven year old boy students when I announced during a class interview session that I didn’t play video games or have a pet snake in my house. The assistant training on Monday in Rouen proved semi-useful, although the staff insisted on welcoming us in all fifteen languages. The atmosphere created was thus not unlike a Eurovision song contest; with less dodgy jokes and sequins yet equally long-winded. One thing which struck me was the (very French) attention to detail. Each and every nationality representative who spoke at the front of the lecture theatre had their own cardboard desk label, which resulted in fifteen lots of faffing around to find and construct the appropriate name, something which to my mind was both incredibly farcical and largely pointless as only the front few rows had the privilege of even attempting to read said labels. This, coupled with a ridiculously friendly Mexican on my left (who could described to some of you as a Mexican Chris Harper- no offence Chris ;)) consistently trying to exchange looks of camaraderie did not do an awful lot to make my morning enjoyable. However, the afternoon was a lot more useful, and the free lunch and opportunity to actually find some friends made for a largely worthwhile day out.

          My schools are very different in terms of area and capability of the students, yet both are full of lovely, welcoming staff, who are thankfully patient with my often slow-moving French and frequent errors. I’ve had lunch with them in the canteens, and even managed to hold conversations for more than five minutes, something which I never thought I was capable of (in a foreign language anyway). Their encouragement that I ‘parle très bien’ has boosted my confidence no end, meaning I am no longer scared of making mistakes, definite progress I think. I was worried my personality wouldn’t show through in a foreign language, but my tutor Céline has already started to form the French equivalent of ‘banter’ (le banterrrrrr possibly?!) with me regarding the amount of time I spend on the phone and internet and how often I’m out when she rings me, so probably nothing to concern myself with on that front. For the next two weeks, I will simply be observing lessons, learning how the system works before I then begin teaching the little darlings what it means to Be Oh So British, Yah, which currently for them seems to be the odd ‘allo’ in the corridor and an intense love of Britain’s Got Talent. Sounds about right.