The Great Escape

While in Lourdes, I had managed to reserve myself a studio apartment by phone in the Metz centre-ville.

Now came the messy part: Extracting myself from the current apartment with as little confrontation as possible.  The idea of staying even one more night there was humiliating and intolerable to me.  The thought of a mere face-to-face conversation with her, her boyfriend, or her son caused my heart rate to quicken.  The last thing I wanted was to cry in front of her.  I would leave the same day as my arrival in Metz.  There was no other way.

After a sleepless overnight train from Lourdes to Paris, my anxiety began to mount on the brief ride from Paris to Metz. In my mind, I tried to retreat to the tranquility of Lourdes, but by the time the train arrived in Metz, I was sweating profusely.  I headed directly from the train station to the new apartment, where I dumped the contents of my suitcase, and of course paid my first bill for my studio.  Because I had to pay the first month's rent right away, plus the 200 Euro deposit, my paycheck for March was completely obliterated at the reception desk. Fighting back tears, I handed over my credit card, recalling my financial woes of only a few weeks ago.  Now that my rent is three times higher, what the hell was I going to do? 

After settling up at the reception desk, I caught a bus to the apartment I had called home since October.  

With a thudding heart, I climbed the stairs, and sighed with relief to find no one at home.  As quickly as possible, I carelessly hurled my belongings into my suitcases, racing up and down the three flights of stairs, stacking everything on the street level.  I hadn't realized how much I had accumulated in my time in France... books, shelving, art supplies, clothing, shoes... and of course my food in the pantry.  My hasty packing meant that I could fit less into my suitcases than normal.  I had to resort to filling garbage bags.  Seven or Eight trips later, I had evacuated my belongings.  I called a cab, requesting a large car to accommodate my things.  The entire time, my anxiety was affecting my breathing, I was positively petrified that she would return before I had finished.

I raced back upstairs one last time.  I scribbled out a note thanking her and her son for their kindness in taking me in, telling them that I would miss them, and that they could call me anytime.  I signed it with all my love... and then as an afterthought, left a tiny bottle of Lourdes water next to the note, along with my keys to the apartment.

It was the hardest thing I've ever done, taking the high road rather than expressing my hurt, my rage.  I could have sought revenge in a number of ways, quite easily, but even fantasizing about it made me feel queasy.  The spirit of Lourdes was inside of me, and to do anything less than honorable would have made my pilgrimage a lie. 

I kissed the cat goodbye, and left the apartment for the last time.

When I arrived downstairs, the cab driver had arrived in a station wagon.  He stared mournfully at the piles of things lined up on the sidewalk, and I apologized profusely and helped as much as I could. As we drove away, I sighed with relief, realizing I had gotten the worst over with, and had successfully avoided an encounter with her. Within minutes, we had unloaded my things in front of my new apartment building, and I was standing at the base of the stairwell, defeated, wondering how on earth I would survive the agonizing process of getting everything up three flights of stairs.  I couldn't lose momentum, I told myself, and trudged on, gasping and cursing up every step.  

I glanced at my watch.  I had arrived in Metz at 12:30pm.  It was now 3pm.  Impressive.  The confrontation I had feared was simply not to be.  I looked around my place.  I realized that this was my first apartment of my own.  No roommates.  No parents paying the bill.  It was small, but not without a certain charm.  There were two windows that filled the room with light.  A large table, which would be ideal for painting.  Lots of shelving and closet space... a desk, a bed... it was mine.  My own French apartment.  

I collapsed on the bed, overwhelmed by sleep deprivation and ragged emotions.  I thought I could finally breath a sigh of relief, but for some reason, all I could do was cry.  

Officially legal to work in France!

I forgot to mention that as of Thanksgiving day, I'm officially legal to work in France!   Nearly two months after sending my paperwork to the OFII (Office Français de l'Immigration et de l'Intégration), I was finally summoned for my medical appointment and validation of my visa.

The American assistants from Nancy and Metz were herded from one waiting room to another for our respective chest x-rays, eye exams, and medical exams, before having a new visa affixed to our passports, which will serve as our residence permit throughout our sejour in France.  

Admittedly, my puritan American roots made me quite uncomfortable for the chest x-ray, when I was ushered into a closet and told to completely disrobe from the waist up.  No paper gowns here in France! Moments later,  a door on the other side of the closet sprang open, which opened into a larger room where I was asked to flatten myself against a machine for the chest x-ray... It was bizarre to stroll around topless, but I sucked it up and strolled in with a cheerful, collected "Bonjour!" and proceeded to make small talk with the X-ray technician. Mercifully, the technician was a she, and the whole process lasted less than five minutes.

I struggled in the eye exam.  My right eye is perfect, but my left eye is significantly weaker. After a certain level on the obligatory eye chart, I was having trouble seeing the letters with my left eye.  "O?" I guessed.  "Non." replied the unpleasant woman administering the test.  Her pointer remained on the letter.  "D?" I ventured.  "Non." she replied curtly.  "C?" I tried.  "Non."  I explained to her that I simply couldn't see the letters.  At this she appeared exasperated, and went on to a higher level or letters, which I also could not see. I again tried to explain that I couldn't see and for all I knew the letters could be hieroglyphics. She didn't laugh, but scribbled a note on her clipboard.  I was hoping it didn't say "Send the unfunny, blind American back home." Finally, during the medical exam, the doctor told me it would be wise to see an eye specialist, but otherwise, I was in perfect health.  

I will wait until after the holiday chaos for the eye exam, but I have noticed some rather irresistible Chanel eyewear in Metz, and dare to wonder if my French health care would provide it.  I have heard of French national health care covering spa visits, acupuncture, and skin treatments, so why not?  If one has to suffer the inconvenience of glasses, shouldn't it be done in style? I am in France after all, legally!

Almost Famous

Her bag. Her hair. Her shoes. Her smile...

Her every angle was scrutinized by throngs of fascinated citizens of France, several of which managed to break away from the crowd to throw their arms around her and express their undying adoration.

Who was this creature? Actress, dignitary, or supermodel?

Pas du tout! The object of the crowd's affection was none other than moi, the new American English teacher... and the fascinated citizens of France were indeed just that... although they were only 7-8 years old.

I only meant to sit in the back of the classrooms this week to acquire a feel for the four different grades I will be teaching next week in eight classes divided between two French elementary schools.  I wanted to observe the discipline techniques and subject matter covered in my future classes, in hopes to better prepare, and set myself up in the back, quietly jotting down notes. My presence was a great distraction however, and many children simply turned around in their chairs to stare at me throughout their class period, after which many proceeded to hug and (attempt to) kiss me, hold my hands, and basically treat me like a celebrity.  

Walking out into the recreation yard during recess, little girls waved shyly, shrieking with delight when I waved back and scurrying away to peek at me behind the cover of their other companions. I could tell some of the other teachers were none too impressed with the disruption my mere presence caused when they tried to march the children back inside.

The colleagues at the schools seem very nice.  At my first school, Ecole Elémentaire La Plaine, where I will teach 7 to 9 year-olds on Mondays and Thursdays, I was impressed by the discipline of the children. There is a very strong emphasis on penmanship, and the children diligently cut and paste little worksheets into their notebooks, which are periodically inspected by the teachers.  It seems strange to me that they are gluing directly over perfectly unused paper rather than simply putting their worksheets in folders or binders, but this is their way. They use special pens with ink cartridges, no ball points here. Even their notebooks are different! Unlike our lined paper, theirs is a grid pattern. Teachers are called "Maitre" or "Maitress" as a sign of respect.  In America, I don't remember seeing so many male teachers for such a young age group, but in my schools, it seems to be mostly men, which is interesting. The tactic appears to be overly strict, with brief moments of tenderness where the teacher will pat the child on the head.  

At my second school Ecole Elémantaire Van Gogh, where I will teach 9 to 11 year-olds on Wednesdays and Fridays, the colleagues are also quite friendly.  Two of the ladies (who I had met the previous day while eating in the cantine with my colleagues from La Plaine,) greeted me with la bise, the French custom of kissing friends once on each cheek as a greeting or farewell.  I wasn't expecting it, so I kind of mimicked their movements, and let them take over. I made the kissing sound with my lips, but my mouth did not actually make contact with their face. It was more like a cheek brush with sound effects. I was too startled to notice if my mouth was actually supposed to touch their cheeks or not.  I was delighted to be greeted this way, as it was my first time experiencing la bise, and I felt assimilated!  As an American, I don't think I will ever be confident enough to initiate la bise, but will definitely welcome it if someone else does.

Again, I was gawked at, but since this school is an older age group, the response to my presence in the classrooms was less overt.  The first few classes seemed well behaved, but the last class, which had a substitute teacher, looks like a nightmare.  I don't know if it is simply because the teacher was absent, or if they are simply that awful.  They were throwing things, talking over the poor substitute, dashing out into the hallway to disturb other classes, and some even walked brazenly to the back of the classroom, sitting down for a game of checkers.  After being so impressed by the French discipline in the schools, this class has proven to me that people are generally the same wherever you go.  Just like in the States, a substitute teacher is a prime target for abuse.

I officially begin teaching Monday... Honestly, I haven't a clue what I'm about to be doing.  Our orientation wasn't that informative, and I still don't have a clear guideline of what I'm going to have to teach my eight classes by the end of the year.  It seems like all the primary assistants are as much in the dark as I am... which I suppose is reassuring.  

One thing is for sure, I'll have my celebrity status on my side... at least for the first few classes or so!