Père Noel, pinch me please.

Nicole's delicious homemade cajun gumbo; 

a fitting choice for a cold winter's night.

On the cusp of this upcoming holiday season, I have awoken each day with an unusually acute sense that I am indeed dreaming. I already feel that I live my dream everyday here in France, but lately, each day has brought something especially exciting.  Back-to-back celebrations of the coming holiday anticipate the future festivities with their own personalized versions of the fun, and leaving very little time to sit still and ponder the happenings elsewhere. I find such distraction to be a great comfort, being as it is never easy to be away from loved ones around the holidays, and I welcome the freeing nature of this never-ending merriment because it allows me to truly take advantage of this unique experience.

Chestnuts roasting on a semi-open fire in Geneva

This past week alone, I made use of my Eurail pass and took a last-minute trip to Geneva, so as not to miss out on any fleeting moment of the season.  Mulled wine and characteristic cuisine was in abundance, and a chilly winter breeze made sure its presence was known, so as to make the experience an authentic one. My return home was swiftly followed by lessons with my students about Festivals of Light around the world, and discussions of their own holiday traditions.

In keeping with our own traditions, our North American crew of english assistants (myself-Chicago, Nicole-Lafayette LA, and Julie-Canada), introduced the concept of the Gingerbread House to the Kiwi and the Frogs.  They ate it up. Literally. Not that I could stop myself, neither; Nicole's recipe for the gingerbread was irresistible, and frankly, put the french "pain d'epice" to shame. Vince and Julie's house took the ginger-cake, leaving us all with a feeling reminiscent of Halloween when Vince's first jack-o-lantern grinned down on all the others in its magnificence.

Nicole and Jeremy had some construction mishaps for all her planning and preparation done on behalf of the group, but despite all their troubles, their "petite maison provinçale" turned out to be quite the charming creation. Lucy and I teamed up for a joint re-working of the "Eglise Francaise" complete with arches, stained glass rose windows, and a priestly inhabitant. Our little candy village was quite the sight to behold, too precious to eat, yet too tempting not to want after, and ultimately each house slowly met its fate in a distant setting.

The church was to be a gift to some colleagues, but never quite made it, the culprit being a young mademoiselle with a sweet tooth and an insatiable curiosity.

Les Lumières de Lyon

I have always had a deep appreciation for Christmas lights around this time of year (or simply any time of the year), being as I rather enjoy the impression that I am viewing the world through a kaleidoscope. The whimsical glow adds a certain warmth to even the coldest of nights. It is the sort of sensation you get when drinking hot chocolate from your favorite mug after sledding, or when you find yourself enveloped head to toe in winter wears watching kids pelt each other with snow.

This past weekend, I had the privilege of experiencing this feeling magnified tenfold at one of France's most luminescent festivals: Le Festival des Lumieres in Lyon. Coinciding beautifully with the commencement of the holiday season, this 5 day long festival of city-wide illuminations adds modern technlogical feats of light to the traditional candle-lit ceremonies of the 8th day of December.  In its humblest beginnings, the Festival of Lights took the form of candles lit on window sills in commemoration of Lyon's deliverance from the Plague in the 17th century.  In thanking the Virgin Mary for saving the city, the city's gratitude is represented in a myriad of forms, not the least of which being the words "Merci Marie" in radiant lights beside her basilica on the hill Fouvière, and in clear sight from anywhere in the city below. She watches over the weekends proceedings from her post atop Fouvière as the tourists file in in droves impatient with anticipation.

First the Hotel de Ville melts away before their eyes, followed a snow storm that mysteriously touches only the building's facade, only to sparkle its way into oblivion as the gargantuan clock ticks away the passing time.  In the Vieux Lyon (Old Lyon) a prodigious hand from above traces the rose windows of St. Jean, sketching each pane to perfection. The work then shifts across the cathedral canvas from pencil and paper to the construction of the church by armies of animated medieval workmen.

Photos of St. Jean by Lucy Hodge

Photo by Lucy Hodge

The streets are lined with temptations of chataignes and vin chaud, the sumptuous pairing of piping-hot roasted chestnuts and mulled wine.  Middle Eastern kebab stands rest comfortably between traditional crèperie carts and sandwich vendors, their allure rivaled only by the aroma of candied pralines wafting through the air from around the nearest corner. And just when you begin to adapt to the overwhelming magic of the moment, you turn to face the Rhone River, only to be rendered breathless once more. Dozens of twinkling buoys grace the river's gentle azure waves, leaving the impression of viewing the night sky at one's feet. It is truly a spectacular demonstration of shear artistic brilliance, and the magnitude of its force is unimaginable.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

I find it somewhat difficult to imagine that Christmas is swiftly approaching. I happen to have a countdown on my desktop, more so as a reminder of time until travel plans, and it reads 24 days left to go. I felt a strange urge to put up my 3 euro-garage-sale-Christmas tree upon my return home from class today, and realized halfway through the process that I must have been in line with the stars; I had forgotten it, but somehow December 1st made itself apparent to my senses. As I sit here listening to Christmas music streaming live from across the globe, I feel warmed by that nostalgia that can only be found in the month of December. My tree is glistening with a bizarre, yet wonderfully charming collection of antique glass ornaments paired with homemade creations and recent plastic additions.
I felt unexpectedly jovial as I assemble its clumsy color-coded limbs, remember the affectionately named "ghetto Christmas tree" of Damen Avenue. I still remember dragging it out to the trash after Christmas one year, and it seemed to be comically resurrected in my new found wonder.  I had to chuckle as I shoved extra branches between boughs, filling in the holes in my Charlie Brown tree, perfectly set to the station skipping from The Chipmunks Christmas Song to Satchmo reading The Night Before Christmas to some artist's new version of Melikalikimaka. At some point I heard a song about "The House on Christmas Street," which I would have normally detested for it being a clear reminder of the extreme commercialist contradictions of the holiday, it made for a good laugh to remember that house with far too many lights that shocks and thrills you all at the same time.

They have been steadily assembling Christmas decorations around Lorgues for weeks, and each time I walk home at night, I am filled with anticipation to see them all aglow.  I have been told that there are very special traditions in Provence during this time of decking the halls. In the true spirit of France, food is an art form; thirteen desserts must be present, each with a special significance. Christmas markets, as to be expected, are an essential part of the holiday celebration spreading across Europe, and I already have plans to indulge in some heart-and-soul warming mulled wine.


The most interesting tradition for me will be the celebration of the Santons [Santouns in Provençal]. It is essentially the manger scene, but imagine it with representations of every member of provincial society present. I am not only talking about the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker, but also the fisherman, the water bearer, the miller, the old couple, and even a tambourine-man (check out Provence Christmas Traditions and for those of you with familiar with french: Les Santons).

Olives and company... we're living the dream

 This past weekend bore witness to me checking off yet one more experience on my life's to-do list: taking part in the annual harvest of olives in Provence.  I cannot express how privileged I feel to be included in such local celebrations and to experience them not as a tourist, but as a neighbor and friend, perhaps even as a long-lost relative. The atmosphere of this part of the world is one of instant family and it seems so strange to me now that I was warned against it by my host family in Paris. It is natural, I suppose, as we all harbor prejudices, but I feel more at home here than I ever did in Paris. I am more excepted, viewed as someone worth knowing and not a simple everyday stranger, or even worse, an intruder.  I would like to think it is due, in part, to my openness and enthusiasm for the culture, a love that runs surprisingly deep for someone with such new and minimal experiences here.  All the same, excitement is contagious and I find that when someone shows interest, the other party reciprocates, and the process that follows carries a snowball effect.  Friendships are formed, dreams are born, and the desire to travel and learn grows even stronger.

The olive harvest held a dreamlike quality for me. As a child, I was always in favor of reliving history, taking myself back to a time before modern conveniences and dreaming up romanticized visions of such a life. While I am now well aware of the less-than-ideal life styles that existed before my time, I still take great pride and pleasure in participating in age-old traditions that have survived wars, plagues, changing political tides, and technological advancement. I feel somehow more connected to the old world, one which took nothing for granted and who truly lived the phrase "waste not, want not." If this trip is teaching me anything, it is to truly appreciate everything I am given, be it time or whatever, and to make everything count for something.

Livin' it up at the Hotel... Existence

In reading Paul Auster's Brooklyn Follies, I came upon a thought-provoking and, according to my students, difficult subject.  Auster addresses the concept of a place called The Hotel Existence. It is, in theory, a place in one's imagination that one uses as an escape from life's everyday trials and tribulations. It is a dream-world, a "happy place," the existence of perfection that we find lacking in real life.  Auster's original description of this place come from the imagination of a character who has lived a life of extreme highs and lows touching on little to no stable ground in between the two. His first Hotel Existence is one of a safe haven for orphans of war, a place of warmth, comfort, and love. As he grows, however, this vision is replaced by a darker, more seductive fantasy, yet nonetheless inundated with the clear and present desire to be loved.

I find that the imaginary existence of such a place of perfection brings to light many questions rarely addressed in everyday life; until being asked about them directly, we dare not dedicate any semblance of conscious thought to such inner thoughts.  I asked my students a number of questions, to which I received mostly vague answers (one cannot expect personal answers from 18 year olds unless they are assured you will not read them), but their reactions to the exercise gave me the impression that they had never encountered such demands of personal reflection. When reading over the questions to myself in their silence (I had given them a few minutes to conjure up some ideas), I found it to be quite a personal challenge. The exercise demands serious contemplation, and in the end, one can learn a great deal about oneself by assessing what one considers ideal or perfect. The greatest question for me was relating to how the dream has developed over the years; where was the imaginary place I frequented as a child, an adolescent, and now and adult? What does that say about what I consider important? After some reflection, how is this surprising? What is not present that I would normally include, and if it is not present, what is the explanation?

Here is the exercise:
1) Why is it important to have a Hotel Existence? What is the importance of dreams?
2) Where is your Hotel Existence? location, qualities, ambiance, your age there, activities? Who else is there with you? What are your needs that are met in this place?
3) How has your Hotel Existence changed over the years? Reflect on what you admired in the past, your hobbies, your likes/dislikes, activities with friends. What were your needs? Where/what did you dream of visiting? Was it set in a fictional place in history (distant past or future)?
4) How and why does the Hotel Existence change/develop over time? What are external forces that drive our dreams, beliefs, needs? How does our perspective/our attitude towards life change over time? How does our concept of time and history change?
5) Why is it important to promote imagination and creativity in children's minds in early years of life? How would that be helpful later in life?

Are you up to the challenge? Where your Hotel Existence?

Vive le potimarron!

For those across the pond... this is the "pumpkin" that has become my new best friend.  It is the puree in my latest french versions of pumpkin pie... not to mention the skin tastes great salted and baked. Below is the first recipe I tried to have a taste of some traditional North American tastiness; it calls for honey, for which I used honey from the Maritime Alps, and the pie retained a slight hint of lavender. Interesting to say the least...still tasty, just a bit unexpected as far as flavor is concerned.

Fresh Pumpkin Pie 

Original Recipe Yield 1 - 9 inch pie

Ingredients

         1 medium sugar pumpkin

         1 tablespoon vegetable oil

         1 recipe pastry for a 9 inch single crust pie

         1/2 teaspoon ground ginger

         1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

         1 teaspoon salt

         4 eggs, lightly beaten

         1 cup honey, warmed slightly

         1/2 cup milk

         1/2 cup heavy whipping cream

Directions

Cut pumpkin in half, and remove seeds. Lightly oil the cut surface. Place cut side down on a jelly roll pan lined with foil and lightly oiled. Bake at 325 degrees F (165 degrees C) until the flesh is tender when poked with a fork. Cool until just warm. Scrape the pumpkin flesh from the peel. Either mash, or puree in small batches in a blender.

In large bowl, blend together 2 cups pumpkin puree, spices, and salt. Beat in eggs, honey, milk, and cream. Pour filling into pie shell.

Bake at 400 degrees F ( 205 degrees C) for 50 to 55 minutes, or until a knife inserted 1 inch from edge of pie comes out clean. Cool on a wire rack.

Finalement, ça fait la realité

A few weekends ago, I took my bi-weekly trip to Sospel to spend some quality time with my favorite people in this country, Patricia, Roland, and the family. Lucy (the assistant from New Zealand teaching with me at the Lycée) joined me for a weekend of adventures that we will both remember for the rest of our lives.  As we drove home, I realized that with each passing visit, I end it with the declaration, "This was the best weekend EVER!" I don't believe there is a limit to the number of "best weekends" one can have when one is surrounded by such splendor and warmth of spirit.

With cooking lessons and nature trips upon each visit, I find it increasingly difficult to pull myself from Sospel's niche in the Maritime-Alps at the end of each weekend.

This trip was particularly meaningful because it held my very first personal experience in the places I had only seen until then in my grandfather's black and white souvenirs of the Second World War.  Of these historic places, I knew their names, their stories, their men, but I had never seen them in person, let alone in color.  Et quelles couleurs! Manifiques! Splendides!

We had celebrated the liberation of the village of Sospel just the day before our voyage into the mountains in the WWII relic of an American jeep, and at certain moments, the sensation of walking the path of my grandfather's footsteps 65 years later gave me chills.






















I was feeling the hallowed ground beneath my feet at nearly the exact moment that he was doing the same over six decades before, and it was though I was seeing the mountains through his eyes and the eyes of his comrades, my heros, luminous with the changing of the colors, as if nothing had changed.

Imaginez-vous.... oui, je sais, vous êtes jaloux.

For the sake of recording some images of my travels by way of this blog...
The following is a series of photos of my adventures at the Festival des Brebis in La Brigue (a small french town on the Italian border, that, until the Second World War, belonged to Italy).

I never cease to be amazed by how much charm illuminates the corridors and alley ways of towns like La Brigue.  While modernization is boisterously apparent in the grandes villes (big cities), these small towns closely guard the remnants of their own histories, right down to the ancient crafts and traditions.

Cheese and pasta (gnocchi) artisans demonstrated their crafts for tourists and interested parties, while gypsy style musicians set the mood with their enchanting melodies.

While the French revolution produced a highly secular modern French nation, it is impossible not to notice the towering testaments to its religious roots.

 Even the horses couldn't resist the local choir concert, with it's intriguing presentation of hauntingly beautiful Bulgarian and Italian chants.

Tout ce passe trop vite!

I find that it is becoming difficult to write these days because I am no longer focused on the recent past or distant future, bur rather what tasks I need to accomplish for tomorrow or the following day, week.  The thought of missing a single second is daunting and time seems to be passing all to quickly. It is exactly one and a half months this past Monday that I first set foot in the high school, and I already have plans for every vacation from now until the end of my contract in April.  I purchased a Eurail pass for Spain but was unable to make the trip, and the pass (still valid) lies glaring at me tauntingly from the corner of my desk as I grow more impatient to make use of it with each passing day. I have no doubt that I will see countless sites throughout Europe between now and April, but I have become acutely aware of the time slipping away as I never have before.

Here is the list of ventures already booked or at least in the works:
December: Lyon: Festival des Lumieres (2 days)
                  Vienna (3 days)
                  Budapest (7 days)
                  Sospel (at least Christmas eve and day)
                  Paris (at least 3 days, possibly New Years)
January:     Sospel: Récolte des Olives (at least 2 days)
                  Geneva (at least 3 days)
Feburary:   Morocco: Fez and Marrakech (10 days)
March:       Spain (two weekends)
April:         Germany and France (two weeks) (possible visit to Ireland or Scotland)
May:        Possibilities: Rome (one week), Turkey, Greece, or Egypt
June:        Sospel, Possible trip to Britain (London, England; Inverness, Scotland)
                  HOME

Much traveling made possible by Eurail passes and RyanAir.com.

While I feel like I have not filled every moment with travel and exploration, I feel it necessary to give myself a small amount of credit regardless. Transportation to and from Lorgues is frustratingly limited, which can be nice because we are not inundated with tourists, but can be extremely irritating when one wants to see something other than the local café (however adorable it may be). I have so far managed to "bouger un peu" as the french would say (that is: move around a bit), by way of my gracious fellow teachers and friends with cars.

Places I have already visited:
Lorgues
Tourtour
Chateau Sainte Roseline
Chateau de Berne
Abbaye de Thoronet
Draguinan
Les Arcs
Frejus/Saint Raphael
Toulon
Nice
Marseille
Monaco
L'Ile des Porquerolles
La Brigue

Au sujet de....

Rap music, horror films, and New York City. Their common ties? They are all elements of current popular culture, of course, but who would have guessed that they are also current subjects of study for high school students at the Lycée Lorgues, France?  I was shocked to find the history of rap music to be a fundamental area of study in more than one class during my week of observation.  The reasoning: it keeps the students interested.  My personal revelation came in the realization that french high school students are not that much different from their american counterparts, and the romanticized notion of french students as overly assertive enthusiasts who eagerly take up their mountains of homework (a notion seeded in my mind by my french professors throughout my years of French studies in the US) quickly evaporated into thin air. That is not to say that my students are entirely disinterested, nor that they have no opinions or desire to express them; rather, it simply means that it takes just as much effort to keep their attention as it would any other students of 15-18, raging with hormones and daydreaming about the next big soccer match or the next time they have the chance to see the girl/boy they admire.

My job at the Lycée (high school) is to "get the kids talking." I am to coax them into practicing, using nearly any subjects necessary to provoke ideas, opinions, and conversation.  In some of my classes, I work separately from the teacher to give lessons that focus on topics I think the students would find interesting, while in others, I follow the subject matter addressed with the teacher, branching off into relevant subjects to save them from the exercise of simple repetition of the facts discussed in class.

Firstly, a breakdown of the French education system, then secondly an explanation of my classes and subjects. My students fall in the  lavender and light blue sections (ages 15-18+).

This is a list of my classes, original subjects the students are studying, and my offshoots:

• Terminale ES: The novel Brooklyn Follies by Paul Auster
  
• --identification of images of NYC
• --Relation and importance of the images to characters and plot 
• --Studying the NY boroughs: geography, characteristics
• --Purgatory (in relation to a specific chapter with much religious imagery; being as the french are forcefully non religious, the students expressed much confusion with the chapter): definition, relevance to characters, lists of religious words and symbolism in chapter, discussion 
• --Human Follies worksheet: name two follies expressed in the book, write one of your own personal follies (or one you personally observed)

• Terminale Euro: Pulp Fiction by Quentin Tarantino
• --their own personal refilming of the opening scene in the diner, and the "Royale with Cheese" scene
• --extensive work on pronunciation, inflection, gestures, and memorization
• (note: THIS IS HYSTERICAL and they love it!)
• --reference list of recommended famous films focusing on American and British accents, culture, and history (Thank you to those that contributed to my formulation of this list).

• 1e ES: My choice of topics
• personal introductions
• Describe yourself in a negative way; all you faults (can be false)
• Poverty in urban America:
• --describe the photo (young girl in housing project looking out onto distant cityscape); foreground/background, emotional response
• --discussion of welfare and the "Welfare Trap"
• --origins and focus of rap music
• --vocabulary: impoverished, pride, fear, etc
• --Gangsta's Paradise by Coolio; vocabulary, discussion
• --(humorous offshoot) Amish Paradise by Weird Al Yankovich; vocabulary, discussion 

• 1e Euro: Stereotypes
• --Flight of the Conchords: Foux de FaFa; french stereotypes as viewed from native English speakers
• --Discussion of American stereotypes as viewed by the French; breaking through stereotypes
• --internet search: find answers to questions by way of suggested websites
• ----cultural differences between America and France; academic attitude, approach to child rearing, etc; Stereotypes in Walt Disney Pictures: why are they "politically incorrect"?

• 2e ES: Horror Genre
• --word association with "Horror": fear, shock, amazement, death, etc
• --history of the Horror genre in popular culture (origins in gothic novels)
• --games: crossword puzzle, word search 

• 2e Euro: Irish Nationalism
• --Discussion of common knowledge about Ireland and Irish stereotypes
• --History of Ireland's struggle for independence (discussion beginning with 19th century regardless of the fact that Ireland has been fighting for battles between its own tribes or against England since before there was written history)
• --The term "Nation" in "Nationalism": Word association
• --Independence from Britain and America's success in breaking away
• --Irish immigration and pride in America; Irish struggle in America
• --The founding of Chicago (1/5 population Irish 15 years after its incorporation as a city 1850)
• --SouthSide Irish Theme Song

L'Halloween n'existe pas en France? C'est pas vrai!

In the attempt to make a timely come back from my blogging hiatus, I am going to start by highlighting some of the most entertaining recent happenings here in Provence that will most likely interest those of you at home.....

While America's beloved Halloween may have its roots in far and distant ancient European traditions, it should be noted that it is hardly celebrated on this side of the pond, especially in France.  As I understand it from the locals, the celebration of this folkloric, yet commercial and very much American holiday has only come into fruition in France (speaking about Provence here) in the past 3 years or so.  It is hardly a part of the culture, and one can therefore imagine the trail of shocked and confused facial expressions left in the wake of a parade of costumed americans and canadians wandering the streets the night before a somewhat solemn holiday when people buy flowers for dead loved ones. "Mais QU'EST-CE C'EST que ça?!!" That is to say, "What on earth is this nonsense?!!"

 For we North American folk, Halloween can (for some) be considered as monumental a celebration as commercial Christmas, and therefore it is imperative that it is commemorated no matter where one is abroad at the moment of its passing. The following is an account of our mischievous festivities and the forging of a new cultural frontier. I felt privileged to have been present for, and active in, our french friends' first exposure to the holiday of ghouls and goblins. I must say that I was quite impressed with their creativity, and I felt as if I was, by way of their enthusiasm, that much more inspired to explore the event's haunting traditions.

Our pumpkin carving adventure was an absolute success, complete with Lucy's (New Zealand) version of Jack from The Nightmare Before Christmas, Vincent (France) and Julie's (Canada) Monsieur Serge Machismo, my french "jean"o'lantern aptly named Pierre the Pumpkin (complete with beret and cigarette), and Jeremy (France) and Nicole's (Louisiana USA) N'importe Quoi. One might notice the drastic difference in the size and shape of two of our "pumpkins." This is due to the fact that American style carving pumpkins are not readily available, as they have no taste and are useless for cooking, and are thus twice as expensive as their smaller relatives seen here, the potimarrons.  The potimarron is a gourd or squash with the look of a pumpkin and the slight taste of chestnuts when cooked. The skin, when peeled and baked with salt, puts potato chips to shame and wins a perfect 10 for flavor. The experience would not have been complete, of course, without the toasting of pumpkin seeds, and the boys got a taste of the real thing, far better than the lonesome store-bought alternative offered in this country.

No, this is not the food network, nor is it an excerpt from Allrecipes.com, (though I do recommend the site), but the spread of treats to match our tricks at our clandestine Halloween gathering was to die for. It was truly a sight to see--a true testament to the foreign nature of our situation, a smorgasbord of olive and tomato tampanades, popcorn balls improvised with personally imported Canadian maple syrup, American candy corn, and strange little french cookies with sayings that reminded me of candy hearts at Valentine's Day.

Julie's finger cookies were the life of the party, competing only with Jeremy's outstanding performance as the "Fée Clochette" ("Tinkerbell").  A staging of the final epic battle between Captain Hook and Peter Pan captured our imaginations with my kitchen serving as a modest backdrop, and the Crock even made an appearance... minus the tragic ending.

No one was eaten alive... this time.

beaucoup de photos artistiques

Port of Marseille with the Bonne Mère standing watch in the distance

Moon vanishing above the dome of the Infirmary's chapel in Marseille A taste of Lorgue's colorful personality and charmOne of my favorite sights to behold. I suppose I love its simple aethetic appeal.

Not so sure what to call this one... but I found a series of these chalk images of Christ around the parking lot at the base of the Basilica in Marseille

Tile roof of the Infirmery in Marseille that now houses the Musée des Arts Primitives Fountain in Lorgues's town center

Shutters are multifunctional in Toulon: dry your chilis AND your laundry

être enseignant est un plaisir

I find it curious how certain fields of work simply run through certain family’s veins. Even in this modern age where it is not necessarily a matter of survival, we are often still tied to the fields of work most practiced in the family, even subconsciously. I find that this is especially true with teachers. Ask any teacher and they can most likely name at least one member of their immediate family that spent their life in the same field. From a very young age, I was surrounded by teachers in my personal life—my family members and consequently most of their friends—and spend a great deal of time listening to all the nuances of the métier. I grew up rejecting the idea of picking up the family practice of struggling with administration and dealing with estranged parents, all for the greater good of a child that is often oblivious of the circus revolving around him. I always saw the passion trough the tears, but ultimately it was the tears that made the greater impression. I promised myself that I would save the world in some other way—perhaps one more unique to myself and forcibly more exotic. What I failed to truly notice, or rather, acknowledge, was the fact that it is in my blood, and thus a talent with which I am endowed, and whether or not I prefer to admit it, I have been making use of it all along. In all the positions of leadership I was privileged to have held, it was the teaching aspect I most enjoyed.

Funny thing… when I originally wrote this, I had a typo for “leadership” and instead wrote “learnership.” I believe this Freudian slip speaks greatly to the true nature of teaching: the never-ending cycle of learning. When teaching someone something new, it is imperative to adapt to his or her style of learning and to sculpt the material to fit with his or her interests. This forces the teacher to be constantly thinking in new creative and innovative ways; it demands a certain openness and flexibility, often times unperceivable which is why often times we only remember the very best and worst teachers, and perhaps remember more of those whom we disliked. Personally, in my memory, the teachers were those that were seldom boring because they used the book for the information but not necessarily for the exercise. They kept my interests because they themselves were interested. They not only helped me to better comprehend that material with which I was working, but also opened my eyes to greater possibilities, wider points of view, and more complex understandings.

I believe that the greatest moments in the field of education are those of connection. That is to say that we make connections in academically, emotionally, and emotionally about academics. This takes some explanation (We are speaking solely of those moments that transpire in the field of education):

Emotional—When a child of 6 years old says his first words to his mother who otherwise thought he would never have the capacity for speech. The connection: teacher-student, student-parent, parent-teacher.

Academic—When writers block lifts from the heavy fogs of library dust and all idea suddenly collide to create a perfectly complex concept where all elements work together. The connection: teacher-student, student-ideas, ideas-concept-more advanced intellect.

Emotionally Academic—When a student is able to connect multiple elements of subject matter taught in numerous different classes, as well as adding personal observations about his or her own personal understandings of life, and finds that there is a very powerful common thread running through all these studies. The students may be a historical period apart from the material with which he/she is working, but they find themselves to be a continuation, in a sense, of its original movement. The connection: research-ideas/concept, concept-students approach to life and learning, student’s approach-new ideas, new ideas-new research… the cycle continues. One of my students recently used the phrase and concept of “drawing a parallel” between the material and one’s own life, and I was stunned. Not only had she realized the importance of comprehension and retention of the material, but also she was able to touch upon a key concept in the very basics of education that is all too often overlooked. When we “draw a parallel” between ourselves and our academic focus, it becomes personal; it becomes something we retain and carry for the rest of our lives. The best teachers are those that can unearth this for and with their students and inspire them to continue this approach in other aspects of their lives. For me, I have always taken great pride in knowing that I was able to help someone learn something new—even if it was a single word—and I always cherish my relationships based on what I have learned from others.

I currently feel a bit overwhelmed by all the information I am absorbing on a daily basis, but in my time with the students, I feel strangely at ease and natural, as though the possibilities are endless. They are blank canvases waiting to be painted with new discoveries and I am looking forward to helping them chose their colors.

Address

Just in case anyone has the burning desire to googleearth my apartment in France, or finds some incredible newspaper articles that are worth sharing with french students to better represent the United States.... here is my address in France:

L’atmosphere familiale au Lycée Lorgues

I really believe that I could not have it any better than I do here at the Lycee Lorgues (perhaps a better mode of transportation to the outside world, but that is all that is lacking). I have already mentioned how floored I am to find the teachers in such warm and welcoming spirits, but I need to take a moment to focus on one couple in particular that has taken it upon themselves to help the new assistants (Lucy and myself) feel truly at home. Gerard and his wife have taken us in as sort of adopted nieces or perhaps lost stray pets very much in need of some tender loving care. It was they who offered to drive us to the outing in the Ile de Porquerolles and made sure we were properly introduced to all those accompanying us on the hiking adventure. Everyone was incredibly talkative—a trait of the south, and of the French in general—but the pleasant surprise was their interest in us, the newest additions to the school. They never stopped informing us of their opinions, nor of asking us questions regarding our backgrounds, interests, and viewpoints. Yet even after our delicious communal lunch, complimented by local Rosé, of course, I still found myself a bit ill at ease with my new friends, but felt flattered to have them feel as though we fit right in.

I must admit that I was struggling a bit to keep up with the conversation and took much time observing the landscape and minding my step. I feel that in new places, I have a tendency to fall into the role of observer. I think this may be in part due to my insecurities surrounding the language, but it happens in English-speaking settings as well. I prefer to analyze my surroundings to truly get a feel for its dynamics. While this does set me back a few paces in the race to be social, I feel that it can give me a sort of advantage. It is simply the way I learn. Lucy is a go-getter, and her outgoing nature is at times intimidating for me, who, though I hate to admit it, enjoys watching before doing. I like to know how deep the pool is before I jump in head first and fail to orient myself. Is this a good trait? The answer depends upon the situation and I find my extroverted counterpart’s enthusiasm to be ample inspiration to change my approach. She was an assistant last year and her French is significantly more developed than my own—or at least more confident—and I plan to learn all I can from her to truly profit from the time I have been given in this new exciting place.

As for Gerard and his family, Lucy and I have found true friends in them—and it is a friendship that makes our entire experience that much more enjoyable. This weekend they proved themselves yet again to be infinitely generous and caring to a point that would put our parents more at ease than any blog or phone call. Yesterday’s journey to Marseille marks our second outing with them and I believe it might just become a sort of tradition. We accompanied them on a family outing to the Museum of Primitive Art in Marseille where they know the curator, and, as if I needed any more reason to want to go to Africa, seeing its incredible art never fails to conjure up dreams of safaris and treasures traded for chewing gum. Following our exotic adventure through history, we settled down to the most filling lunch I have had since I have been here—a bit comparable to my meal in Strasbourg in the spring--,as well as dessert to top it all off. We then attempted to walk off the calories by climbing the sloping roads to the Basilica over looking the city. It is the beacon of Marseille, a true landmark and symbol, and a spectacular view. With each step I felt that I was getting even more of an education than I was expecting on this trip. From her perch atop the Basilica the Bonne Mère stands watch over all that lies before her, and I was grateful once again for the panoramic feature on my camera to be able to record the magnificence of her birds-eye view. The view was not the only breath-taking element of our elevated seat; Le Mistral—the infamous wind stream from the north—blew gusting across its usual path catching us in the middle and setting me right at home in Chicago, if only for a few moments. The day finished with some leisurely drinks with the family and a car ride home sharing musical tastes with Lucy. I feel as though I keep ending these journeys with scenes written for Hollywood and I am eager for he next episode, knowing that this is only the beginning.

Beaucoup de soucis en bureaucratie

If I neglected to touch on the following subject in my entries from my last stay in France, I would like to take a moment to touch on the two elements of life in France that demand the most patience and acceptance. These issues are those of the impossibility of the Internet and that of the bureaucratic system of government. It is, for all intents and purposes, impossible to get anything done in regards to any paperwork or getting any answers about time sensitive issues, especially when it is virtually impossible to find a reliable Internet connection. Last week, all the language assistants for the Academie de Nice assembled at the Rectorat for a day of filling out paperwork and having questions answered. Unfortunately, the outcome of this reunion fell short of many of our expectations, and many assistants were left with the sensation that they still had absolutely no idea what was to transpire in the coming months, let alone weeks. It did not help that the entire seminar for the high school level assistants (who, keep in mind, do not necessarily have all that much experience in French because they are to teach their own native languages) was performed entirely in French. Certain paperwork was heavily emphasized, but very little to no information was given about how, where, or when we were to receive said documents nor to whom we were to send or give them. I, personally sent emails to the coordinator posing my own questions, but, of course cannot check my receipt of any messages via email because I have no viable access to my email account nor to the internet. The Lycee has blocked gmail (and practically all other email servers), facebook, and blogspot, among many other sources of communication to ensure that students to do use them during class time or to pirate information, and so, my only free form of Internet is futile. My subscription at the town mediateque includes 2 hours per week of Internet usage, which, of course, can only be dispensed using their computers. This is a practical application for updating pre-typed blog entries and checking emails, but is otherwise impractical being as it takes me three times as long to send an email, as well as having the inability to post photos, communicate using facebook, and the mediateque remains closed Sunday and Monday all day, and is only open two hours on Tuesday. It is absolutely absurd according to this urban inhabitant.

To make matters worse, there is a new Proviseur at the school due to a very recent shift in administration, and the timetable of classes remains unsettled. It has been changed five times since the beginning of the school year, nearly 1 month ago, and the professors are rallying to do it themselves. This also means that the timetable for the assistants (myself and Lucy) remains a complete mystery—more a problem for her than for myself, as her time is split between two different schools. In the words of my fellow comrades at the school…<> (Translation: It is truly a nightmare.)

Marcher au Marché

In the past few days, I have gotten a fairly strong taste of Provincial life. A few days ago, I planted myself beside the fountain at the heart of the town to spend some time outdoors journaling while taking in the sights and sounds of my new home. Little did I know I would soon be taking in 45 minutes of uninterrupted conversation (more so lecture) with an elderly man from the region. In fact, he was from Alsace in the northeast, but a transplant to warmer climates, much like the many elderly Americans that inhabit Florida in their retirements. He walked past me doing a triple-take and proceeded to strike up a conversation as soon as we made eye contact. Ultimately, he told me much of the second half of his life story, or at least the part concerning family in the States, as if I were to know where they lived and who they were. Entertaining, really. He jabbered about how expensive life is in France and how much more expensive he felt the euro is to the franc. He ranted about this aversion to certain ethnic groups in France—which I have found to be quite common among the traditionally French. I learned a great deal about the weather in France in relation to where you are geographically, and in such great detail that he had it down to one particular hill and specific measurements in kilometers… which would all be great information to know, if I had a true sense of how far mileage is in kilometers. He lectured me about how important it is to watch what you eat, and how to do so on a budget, which turned out to be quite helpful at the supermarket. He also advised me of the hour to arrive at the marché so as not to be too early nor too late. All in all, useful advise and a formidable introduction to the culture of the region.

My second round of moments of experiential learning came the following day at the weekly marché (ie an open-air market of local vendors). Lorgues hosts the largest marché in the Var region and thus draws crowds of vacationing tourists from England, Holland, America, and Italy who hold houses in the area. I learned the other day from my local bus driver that Lorgues is home to more foreigners than French citizens due to mounting housing prices, that is to say that wealthy vacationing families from abroad have bought up the town and it is now too expensive for its original inhabitants. Fascinating…the current housing market crisis is indeed international.


I digress. I took my provincial friend’s advise and wandered down to the market around 10am to find it bustling with people, though still overflowing with tempting merchandise. I stocked up on my fruits and vegetables for the week, some local dried duck sausage, a new sweater, and a basil plant (multi-faceted purchase: good smells, good cooking, good “house warming” feel). Hopefully France with turns my brown thumb into a green one and I will not kill this basil like I did the one before it. I lost myself in the vibrant colors and cries of the market, while taking in the smells of fresh seafood paella, seasonal legumes, and locally grown garlic and lavender (not as one, though I did discover them to be similar in color in this part of the region). The avoidance of the unending array of artisan cheeses (ultimately too expensive for a new implant who has not yet received her monthly pay) took my utmost self-control, and I dared not even taste the samples for fear that I would be immediately drawn into a sort of fantastic-tasting cheese trap. The best part of the entire marché experience, however, was the village accordionist. Amply situated where a loud speaker was lacking and no market-wide music could be heard, he stood playing while his cat sat perched atop his instrument, placidly enjoying the vibrations of his guardian’s notes.

Photos de Lorgues et mon appartement

Apartment slideshow






















*Funniest little screen to keep the cats out*











Lorgues Slideshow