Holidays

I celebrated thanksgiving with a cornucopia of nationalities including Americans, Indians, Brits and French. I was not aware that there is an international fascination with this holiday, presumably because of the tv show Friends (at least four people recounted to me memories of Joey walking around with a turkey on his head as their connection to Thanksgiving). Below is a photo of Camille surveying her first Thanksgiving experience while Fenouilla, Irish, draws a bottle of wine and celebrates her second ever Thanksgiving. You may notice that there are turkeys on the board; the one under the "giving" is my handturkey. This is a skill that I did not know could be considered as such until I met the French. Now there are at least four frenchies who can whip out a handturkey with skill that counters the handturkey drawers of Ohio (if you want to blow a frenchperson's mind and have already tried out your handturkey, I suggest carving a pumpkin. People of all sophistication levels lose their shit).

Here is almost the entire Thanksgiving gang. We went around and each said what we were thankful for. Despite not hosting the event and only making one dish, everyone included me in their thanks because I am American and therefore intrinsically responsible for Thanksgiving. Halfway through the meal when the tryptophan started to kick in, Nupur (an Indian friend) mentioned to a Frenchperson that Thanksgiving is actually for her and Sonam (another Indian friend), since she had been told by a Frenchperson that "Indians started Thanksgiving." I did not join the conversation because I began choking on a green bean.

(Thanksgiving took place in a classroom because we mostly have tiny European homes.)

This past weekend, Cambray came from Limoges. We spent her visit drinking Christmas ale at a bar that reminds her of Minnesota (her home), watching Miss France with eighteen year old boys who put "chocolate cookie flavored sirop" in their beer, running to catch buses with the desperation of people who have felt the cold enter their bones, telling each other what to wear and then borrowing clothes instead, and drinking Hot Chocolate lined with Nutella. Below, Cambray is trying to break into the 12th century castle near my house. No luck.

We also went to Clermont-Ferrand to visit Amanda. She took us to one of the Christmas Markets going on in C-F. Unlike the Christmas Market near my home, which looked like White Elephant gifts and Etsy knock-offs had been impregnated by neon wool, this Christmas Market was full of appropriate amounts of christmas cheer and vin chaud.

And here are Cambray and Amanda buying the vin chaud (warm fruit infused red wine).

And here we are feeling enchanted.

This is one of the main squares in C-F, looking festive. I took this picture while eating roasted chestnuts for the first time. They taste grilled (and delicious) and look like small brains once unshelled.

After spending the day in Clermont, I came home alone and met up with Sonam and Nupur. Sonam invited us over for dinner where she taught me how to make an Indian dish (!!!) and now I am determined to stop being someone who eats the same dish for weeks at a time.

I told Sonam and Nupur that I would make them a "traditional" dish in return, thus screwing myself because I do not know any traditional dishes. I am considering making chili, but will probably end up doing burritos for them and then providing homemade guac and salsa (last week, my landlady had friends over for dinner and she handed out a small jar of salsa as a fancy garnish. After personal investigation, I found it to be a jar of slightly sweet ketchup masquerading as "salsa a la mexicaine.")

I probably will not update again until after Christmas, since Jake is coming to visit me and I am so distracted by happiness I could run into a wall.

Homelife

1. The Manor

Our home, yellow and covered in ivy with Yusuf (pronounced you- soof) modeling the gate. The house is four stories and has four water closets, five bathrooms, and three kitchens. We refer to it as the "manor" when Marianne is not around. It's probably the most spacious house in crowded parts of Western Europe, but alas veers on hoarder-esque. I mean, I'm not exactly known for organization and anti-bacterial soap and I have kind of grown accustomed to the clutter but still, sometimes I feel unclean when I look around the house. There are trinkets covering the surfaces and if you find something you can be sure there are at least nine more of it (past trinket collection discoveries: old shoes, empty perfume bottles, rugs that once had a pattern, singing animatronic stuffed plush ducks). That being said, I feel like Madeline sans Nun (which has been my favorite halloween costume to tell people I'm going to do and never do for years).

2. Laura

Here is Laura, the newest colocataire. She is a "kine" which means nothing to you and that's fine. She's here studying to add "osteopathe" to her title of "kine", a two-year process. She comes home every night at 5:30 (18h30, ahem), asks me to lay on my stomach, and proceeds to crack and stretch my limbs with the ease of someone who is still learning how to do something. This is dinner table talk:

"Today we studied (insert body part here)" - Laura

"That's good!" - Me

"Yeah, I am so tired."

"Oh really, that's hard."
"Yes and those two pregnant girls had trouble."

"Really?"

"Yeah but you know, we're all comfortable now."

"That's cool."

As you can see, my French vocabulary is vast and intimidating.

Laura is great to live with because she offers me chocolate after every meal, is not easily swayed when she has already made a decision (allowing me to follow suit if, say, my ladylady is trying to make us eat pumpkin soup with mold on it), has read every Nicholas Sparks book, is currently keeping up with eight tv shows (she has a chart on a post-it, incredible), has a juicy relationship that I feel part of due to nightly updates, and is close with her Dad and sympathetic towards her Mom. She is from Strasbourg, by the way, so she speaks German in addition to French and eats a lot of saucisson.

3. Yusuf

Sorry about the terrible quality of this photo, it does not reflect the quality of our relationship. When I am being real with myself, I must acknowledge that Yus is the reason I have friends, the reason I know how to buy produce at the grocery story, and the reason I am not late paying rent every month. Unfortunately (or as the French say: malheureusement), he is also the reason I yell understated threats such as, "If you ask me that one more time I am never answering your questions again" and "I'm going to hurt you."

Yusuf is 19, hails from Franche Comte (which, for the first week living here, I thought was him just saying "French Country" in English with a crazy French accent), gets a lot of pleasure out of planning daily events, loves Grey's Anatomy, speaks great English, and has a tendency to misuse cuss words. He also loves to say "Americans are the gendarmes of the world" and "You are not in America, you know" when I do harmlessly American things like eat couscous with a spoon and forget that I can't go shopping during lunch (everything is closed during lunch).

This is a common conversation between us (it should be noted that he speaks to me in English usually and I speak to him in French. I will try to inject the awkward language we both use but that is mostly showcased in our accents):

Yusuf walks into my room.

"Hello! You are tired?" Yusuf

"No?" Me

"You are sick?"

"No?"

"...Okay. You want to eat in ten minutes?"

"It's 6:30!" (The people of Vichy eat at 8, okay)

"I am hungry!" - Yusuf

"Ok, we can go downstairs to eat at seven if you want." - Me

"You ask your friends to come tonight?"

"I don't know, maybe."

"Johannah! Fucking business!"

....

"Johannah, I invite my friends, you invite your friends."

"Yusuf I said maybe!"

"Call them."

"I don't know."

"Call them!"

"How do you say 'nagging' in French?"

"What? I don't know this word. Johannah! Call them!"

"If you ask me again, I will never do it."

"Fuck yourself! You know, in class today we did only crosswords." He then comes and sits on my bed and tells me a lot of stories about class in which I reply:

"That's annoying, how boring."

"Okay, dine at 7. Chao."

An American reading this might be jostled by the expletives, but pay no mind. He doesn't really understand the connotations and the first week in which he said "fucking business" I laughed so hard every time I have erased any possibility in his mind that this phrase could be offensive or just weird and nonsensical.

These conversations both make it seem like I am spoken at and never offer up my own experiences, NOT SO. I chose conversations that I think of as "classic Yusuf" and "classic Laura." Classic me is, well, I don't really know but anyone reading this probably does.

Dinners lately have just been me, Laura and Yusuf because Marianne has been busy and/or out of town. Yusuf speaks some German, though not as well as he speaks English, so one night we had Yusuf tell Laura things in German, Laura would tell them to me in English (she's rusty but really good I think), and then I would repeat it back to Yusuf in French. This was mostly hilarious and not super productive and the moments when we all laughed made me think of a camera gently pulling back from a dinner scene in Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants in which all the girls look shiny and happy.

I would give you a little clip about Marianne but I have just scratched the surface of her personhood, pretty sure. I think this about a lot of people and usually discover that still waters run normal depth, but with Marianne I'm betting my bottom dollar that there's a lot going on.

Proof: She's been to tons of countries (none of which sound lame), her husband died of cancer when he was 30 and when she told me the story I was having a harder time keeping it together than she was, she shares a dog with her best friend, her son and his wife and her two granddaughters lived in Japan for two years, and most depth-indicating: she started a university 25 years ago in Vichy and still runs it.

I am sorry that I also do not have a picture of Marianne. Maybe next time. Speaking of next time, maybe it will be sooner than later since I'm on a facebook hiatus and the internet means nothing to me now.

Missing you, loved ones!

People

German best friend (standing) of my landlady (not pictured) serving us tea at her country home. She used to own a tea shop and this tea is from her tea garden. The town has 200 inhabitants and is turning into an artist colony to avoid extinction.

Cambray, with whom I lived in Paris and traveled to Normany, Mont Saint Michel, Slovakia, Austria and Italy, is now an assistant in Limoges. A morning spent looking at old awkward travel photos inspired an afternoon of new awkward travel documentation, this time in Limoges:

Paths

Walk home to Vichy after working in Cusset; this is the bridge over the train station.

Where I run every day along the river, across the street from my home.

Your Name Here

Still lacking a cord for photo uploadation, so I'm just going to continue to say that photos are coming.

HOWEVER, today I taught students! alone! in a room! twice!

First, I had 5emes (12 -13 year olds). Then, I had 4emes (13 - 14 year olds). They're split up as 14 students to each group, 50 minutes for each class.

My first move as teacher (inspired by the aid of Morgan Miles, happy birthday!) was to have them all choose English sounding names so that I would not have to reveal to them that my french accent is inferior to their french accents, thus losing my credibility as a language teacher. I wrote names on the board and let them choose from the list or make up their own.

I decided to super cleverly not split the list of names into boy/girl categories, thereby radically shaking up gender norms, unbeknownst to them. BUT ALAS, globalization ruins all the fun and these youngsters already knew which names were for boys or girls.

When I say globalization ruins all the fun, I only sort of mean that because I still had another half of fun tacked on to this activity: me getting to choose the names for the list. I made it full of names of my loved ones, as an homage to all of you. Now, not every name got chosen, no offense, but out of the names that did, here are the ones that will interest you:

5emes

Julie, Liz, Caitrin, Melanie

Some of the more imaginative but ill-informed students chose the following:

Donald, Bob (as in Marley), Tony (as in Parker)

4emes

Jake was the soul name chosen from the board.

This class had repeats from the 5emes, as well as celebrity-inspired picks:

Tony, Bob Marley (except he chose the full name, not just "Bob", and also happens to be the most talkative student in class so every twenty seconds I am forced to say "Yes, Bob Marley?" and then have to pause so the peels of laughter can subside), Selena (as in Gomez. This decision didn't last long because a girl who chose to be "Jazmyn" kept throwing pens at "Selena" and saying 'No! I hate her! I love Justin Bieber!' so the student formerly known as Selena was cajoled into the grossly unattractive "Jenna").

After all the names were chosen, we made a list of questions on the board that they were supposed to ask each other interview-style. They would then present their partners to the class. The 5emes suggested questions in which everyone had the same answer (age, birthplace, nationality), so that by the third presentation I was daydreaming about watching paint dry.

The 4emes, however, used their questions to draw conflict lines in the classroom. This began when Jazmyn, previously mentioned for her ability to express emotion, asked that a question for the interviews be: "Do you love Justin Bieber?" In order to win her affection and rile up the class I dotted the i's with hearts.

Bob Marley, whose coiffure must have inspired Bieber's, said, "Write the answer is: No, I hate him." And then did a little hair-flip.

Jenna added, "Write the answer is: Yes, I love him."

These answers were both written on the board; I believe in the people.

Bob Marley, not satisfied with supplying hate as an option for the previous question, asked that the next question be: "Would you be happy if Justin Bieber died?" Let it be known that it took a solid three minutes to piece together that question, during which time he pooled the collective English knowledge of all the Bieber-haters in the class.

Jazmyn began foaming at the mouth so I turned the moment into a lesson about the concept of a hypothetical, like the conflict-killer I am.

The rest of each class passed without incident, except for a moment when a student asked me for the definition of "fondle" and I had a mini ethical query in which I was caught between wanting to lie and say it was something with non sexual connotations or to take the opportunity to promote sex-positive classroom behavior. Luckily, I checked her paper before responding and discovered that she meant "fondly", merci Dieu.

Viching

Due to a lack of photos, I will share anecdotes from Vichy! I promise to have photos in the future, I've been takin pix.

My first week in Vichy, I spent 75% of my time alone in cafes. It was awesome. Four days into my cafe-squatting, while being slowly killed by second-hand smoke, a smoker on my right started talking to me. Our conversation felt a little bit like watching the outline of a large rodent pass through a snake's stomach: uncomfortable. He asked me what I was writing, and would I write something about him? why not? and would I be here tomorrow? and finally, would I ride his motorcycle with him?

This question left me momentarily overwhelmed by my inner Lizzie McGuire who dreams of riding a motorcycle with a rando' in Europe. When I begrudgingly responded "Non" he asked why, and I told him that he was a stranger. What I actually (unwittingly, mind you) said was "because you are a foreigner." A kind of ironic thing for an American in France to say to a Frenchie. However, he was of North African origins and clearly (understandably) thought I was making some You Are Not a True Frenchman claim. First week in France and I mistakenly declared myself a xenophobe. On the upside, this comment killed our conversation and his creepin'. On the downside, that cafe has the best free chocolates in town and now I will never return because he is a regular. Or, as the french say, he is fidèle.

In other anecdotes, I have begun my job as an English Teaching Assistant at a lycee and a college. The lycee is comprised of 900 students between the ages of 15 and 21 (although I believe there are a couple who are older than that). The college has students as young as 9 and as old as 16.

I began my stint (of 8 months) at the lycee on Tuesday, and met five of the nine classes I will be working in. Each classroom asked me questions about myself in English (British English, which I'm quickly realizing I don't understand, merde). Most students asked where I am from, how old I am, what are my "studies", but one clever 17 year old asked me, "What is it you think of Bin Laden dead?" I gracefully responded by starting three sentences and finishing none, opting to avoid an answer by asking him what he thought. He said "it was a good choice for the world." This comment reveals something I have been hearing a lot: what America does has a global impact. I know I know, how original to discuss globalization on a blog about international living. So, I will leave that thought there.

Later in the Meeting Everyone at Work day, each student presented themselves to me (when I meet someone in French, the person introducing me says "I present to you Johannah", it feels very important). A 19 year old said he was from Cantal and the next classmate was from Dijon. For lunch, I had packed a Cantal cheese and Dijon mustard sandwich! I was immediately moved to do what all Americans do when they're excited: smile, gesticulate and anticipate affirmation. However, this is not French, so I mentioned the sandwich like I didn't even enjoy it and moved on with the questioning. I will blend into this nation.

A recurring moment in my teaching career (heh heh) that has garnered a barely perceptible reaction from the students is saying I'm from Ohio. I have actually taken to saying I'm from California; my passport says I was born in California so it has spread around that I'm Californian... sort of true, but also not... but I'm letting that little seed grow because the teachers think it is more exciting for the students/me/them. Also, saying I'm from California never fails to get one of the students to yell "cah-LI-fohna guhl!"

I'm going to end here because I'm busy watching "Secret Stories", allegedly Big Brother of France but even less respectable. In this episode, the three women have danced in front of large mirrors while adjusting their faces (there are cameras behind the mirrors, ergo some high quality angles) and the men are seeing how many tires they can put around themselves. There may even be a plot before the episode ends.

J'habite a Vichy!

I just moved into the biggest room I have ever called home. It is also the most drab (yellow walls, green carpet... wool curtains?). But that is no matter because it's huge (!!!), not just in size of space but also in size of bed and size of windows. And here I was, expecting everything in France to be small per the stereotype.

Unfortunately, I lost my camera cable so I can't upload pictures. Not that I have taken any on my camera, but maybe I would have if I had a cable. Here are a couple from my high quality photobooth cam to prove that I actually ended up in the place I've been talking about for 6+ months.

My bed, desk, closet and one of my chairs (currently holding all my winter wear) being modeled by my super chic french housemate*.

And there are my windows. Yesssss. The desk is also being modeled... for stylistic purposes.

If you're reading this, give me ideas on how to make my room brighter/lighter plz. I have already taken a couple measures, such as pulling back the curtains as far as they would go (genius, I know) and also tying back a tea-colored wall hanging that covered a white door (seen in both photos behind the desk). The hanging is being held back by a computer cord, so maybe this innovation isn't an upgrade. I am considering buying a rug in a "happy" color, as well. Ok, begin brainstorming!

*in all seriousness, I do have a french housemate. He is a 19 year old from the East of France who will henceforth be referred to as my "coloc", a french term for housemate.