On my run this morning it was so sunny and warm - pigeons were singing, families were taking their poodles out for picnics, and then a car backed up onto the sidewalk and pinned me to a building.
A woman at a nearby sidewalk café saw the spectacle and screamed like, well she screamed like I should have been screaming. It was like hearing myself die.
My first thought was "It is so nice to finally see someone getting upset about these cars driving all over the sidewalk." And my second thought was "AAAAA MY LEGS."
Here's a photo of the barricades that line 90% of the streets here, to keep cars where they belong:
And here's what happens on the other 10%:
Anyway, I'm fine. Cars like this don't do much damage:
I hit the jackpot today, gifts-from-five-year-olds-wise. Let's start with this sexy portrait of me:
"Those two circles are for you to color, when you get home," the gift-giver informed me. THANK GOODNESS. Yesterday I finally wrapped up every season of CSI, baked the last recipe in The Joy of Cooking, and read polished off the Library of Congress' collection by authors whose last names start with Z, I was really hurting for an activity tonight.
And then there was this awesome home-made envelope. What could be inside?
THIS could be inside:
Count them, seven silly band drawings, seven trompe l'œil envelopes, and one creative spelling of "Brooke." Maybe.
And here's the best present: a brand new cell phone.
The great thing about this one is - oh excuse me, someone's calling. I wonder who it is?
Oh it's my friend!
She has shocking news!
What, she was just kidding! My friend is so hilarious!!
Man, it would be cool to have friends in real life.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some circles to color.
Today one of the kindergarten teachers was so moved by my rendition of "Five Little Ducks" that he slowly stopped grading, quietly came closer to the group, and sat staring at me in awe until his eyes got watery.
One of the kindergarteners was so moved that he began quacking loudly, making the noises increasingly guttural until it sounded like he was dry-heaving.
I'm running a half marathon in a couple weeks, and I'm really excited about training for it.
Does that sentence sound strange? Usually one would be excited for the actual event. The weather's beautiful, you run the course, everyone finishes at their own speed, everyone gets a t-shirt and pats themself on the back and goes home feeling like a winner.
But this is France and in France, we are not all winners. Some people are winners and others are losers and the race is not supervised by your mom. That's why there's a bus that trails behind the runners, and picks up anyone that can't keep up a 10-minute-mile pace. They don't get t-shirts or or stickers, and they go home feeling like the losers they are.
And that's why I'm really excited about training for it.
This morning I ran a mile to work in nine minutes, wearing a backpack and ballet flats, in the rain, and I didn't even break a sweat.
I'm not going to sign up for the Olympics or anything, but as I walked into class (on time) I remembered that in high school when we had to run the mile in gym class, I did it in twelve minutes and then threw up.
I think a reasonable goal for six years from now will be a six-minute mile, backwards.
Check out these puppies I scored for 5 euro at a really sketchy clothing store in Marseille.
Wearing all black and fitting in with the French crowd was fun for a while, but I'm starting to miss my glitter sweaters and rainbow-striped shoes back home. See you soon, glitter sweater. Enjoy my company while you can, goat cheese and macarons.
The other day when I woke up and for no apparent reason my eye looked like this:
"This is a face only a blind person could love." I told the creature in my mirror.
But then I remembered something that happened in the metro my first week in France. A blind man, trapped between two confusing sets of staircases, called out for someone to help him.
"Hey! I can help you!" I answered in my most eager, polite French.
"Can someone WHO ACTUALLY SPEAKS FRENCH help me?" he yelled.
So on second thought, no one loves me. My eyes are fine now.
Me: (holding bus flashcard) What is it? Class of four-year-olds: Buuuus! Me: Good! In English, we say BUS Class: BUS! Me: Good! (holding wheel flashcard) What is it? Girl: A DVD! Me: No, it's on a bus... Girl: A CD! Me: It looks like one, but it's on a bus - it's une roue. Class: Oh! Une roue! Me: Good! In English we say WHEEL. Class: WHEEL! Girl: A DVD!
After a couple months of teaching, I kind of have the hang of it. Every day we learn a couple words, a sentence to use them in, and then I pass out a worksheet and the kids label the new vocabulary. Sometimes I design them on my computer, but most of my schools don't have printers, so most of my worksheets are homemade. And after the kids fill in the new words, they always ask the same question. "Can we color this?" And I love it, for four reasons.
1. Let's be honest: coloring kills a lot of time.
2. It's pretty flattering. My drawings of jeans and rain clouds and ball-point pens aren't masterpieces, but the kids think they look awesome, and it's kind of makes my day that they want to color them.
3. If someone has to color, I'm glad it's not me. Things look better colored but I HATE coloring. I joined the Coloring Club in fifth grade, at a particularly low point in my life I guess. Everyone in it was really awesome, and it didn't involve catching a softball or knowing whether or not Doc Martens were cool, so I thought, why not?
But when I showed up at our first meeting (a sleepover party) and we all compared coloring books, the other girls laughed so hard at my inability to stay in the lines that you could barely hear the Spice Girls cd playing.
"Ha-ha-ha!" I tested out my fake laugh. "I tricked you guys and brought a coloring book I did when I was little! As a joke!"
"Oh, thank goodness! We were going to say, if you really color this bad you definitely can't be in Coloring Club."
"No don't worry, I did this when I was three."
"WOW! That's impressive!"
"Did I say three? I meant, like, a normal age when someone would color at this level."
"Oh, ok that makes sense. Brooke you're hilarious! It's so funny to bring a coloring book you did when you were little, before you knew how to color!"
I never told anyone I had bought that coloring book the week before and spent many sleepless nights coloring as carefully as I could. I did tell them that I sprained my wrist in a fried egg accident and wouldn't be able to color for weeks, if not months. And that was the end of my Coloring Club membership.
4. Most of all, when they ask to color something, it reminds me that they're kids. School in France is so disciplined. And the kids are so quiet, so respectful, so not kids. They raise one finger to ask a question, use rulers to carefully underline titles in their notebook, and call their teachers "Master." Instead of having pen pals or decorating their classroom like a rain forest or designing the ideal spaceship, like I did in fifth-grade, they write long dictations in their immaculate notebooks, carefully blotting out badly-written letters with white-out.
For most of class, I feel like I'm not an elementary school teacher but an accountant, presenting an annual report to a group of shareholders. They listen carefully, taking copious notes as I present "bread," "apple," and "cheese." They adjust their ties. They nod politely.
And then, at the end of the lecture I pass out a bar graph of our spending, and they all raise their hands and ask "Excuse me, Brooke? Excuse me? Can we color this?"
Here's our latest worksheet. One kid made the ice cream pistachio and lemon ice cream with hazelnuts, and if that isn't awesome I don't know what is.
When I applied to teach in France, I was required to send a list of previous teaching experience, time working with kids, and language instruction. What they should have asked for was an acting reel - maybe a stand up routine, or a scene from a silent film.
Today we sang a song about feelings. Each verse has a list of emotions, that I say and act out, and the class repeats. The repeating is fun, because they mimic me exactly. If I tuck my hair behind my hear between words, they tuck their hair behind their ears. If I accidentally shiver for the word "tired" then look embarrassed and somewhat frazzled and quickly yawn instead, I get to see that repeated by thirty children.
And there is always one kid who shouts out the French translation. This is fun because it helps the kids who may not understand, and mostly because it's hilarious when he's wrong. Like in the second verse of the song, which has four emotions:
Me: I'm happy! (point to my face, smiling)
Boy, in French: I'm happy!
Me: I'm good! (thumbs up)
Boy: I'm lonely!
Me: I'm great! (fists in the air)
Boy: I am POWERFUL!
Me: I'm fine (nodding contentedly)
Boy: I'm skinny!
You could argue that even if they don't understand the songs, at least they're getting good practice with English pronunciation. But their favorite English word in "the wheels on the bus" is the sound the windsheild wipers make: swish swish swish. So, at least they like English? And at least my acting is improving.
My kindergarteners have memories so short they often forget what they were saying midsentence. This is ok if their sentence is about an unrelated trip to a pet store over the weekend. But it's terrible as far as English vocabulary goes.
We've sung "Head shoulders knees and toes so many times that my legs are in better shape than an Olympic athlete's, but every time I point to my head they yell LA TÊTE!
We've sung more songs about the color red than my sanity can handle, but every time I point to something red they yell ROUGE!
The only redeeming thing about their short memories, in fact, the thing that makes it all worth it, is when I hold up a monkey flashcard and they yell OUISTITI!
PARISIAN WOMAN AT MY HOSTEL: So, where are you from? ME: The United States. PARISIAN: Cool, which one? California? Miami? New York City? ME: Minnesota actually. PARISIAN: Oh, is that by Florida? ME: No it's by Canada. PARISIAN: I don't know this, what else? ME: It's by the Great Lakes. PARISIAN: I don't know this, what else? ME: I live near Minneapolis. PARISIAN: I don't know this, what else? ME: Well, I guess the next city is Chicago. PARISIAN: OHHHH! You're from CHICAGO! Why didn't you say so?! City of crime, eh? Look out everyone!
On a completely different note than my last post, I never was really obsessed with being an American until I moved to France. I could write enough about this subject to fill a freezer full of ice cream, but since that space could be better spent let me just show you a picture and a thirty-second song.
cheese at the supermarket in Vienna:
I have never watched this show past the opening credits, and wasn't even a huge fan of the opening credits before September. But lately it is my FAVORITE song.
And for anyone who has never walked around France humming it to themselves let me tell you, it just feels right. Especially the part "he's hailing a salute to the American race." Try it sometime.
It's pretty fun to go to four countries in a week, but it's got nothing on going home to my little apartment in a city where I never get lost and know all the good restaurants and bus schedules. While buying groceries today, a homeless man in front of me in line asked the cashier if he could just have something to eat, and she gave him a bag of rolls. A man accused me of stealing oranges at the market and I gave him the business. I saw a one-legged pigeon. The beach, the sun, the puddles of urine, it feels so good to be back in Marseille.
Is it a bad idea to tell the internet the name of the street I live on? Maybe it means I'll get some mail!
Anyway, here's a song about the street I live on. The best street in the world, ask anyone.
I love Marseille enough to be interested in French football, enough to recommend fish soup to my friends, and enough to get misty-eyed when I listen to this song. Do I love it enough to make slideshows with wild yellow letters? No, but bless this person who does. (This video has the whole song! Watch it eight times!!!)
lyrics
Aux quatre coins du monde, indiscutablement
On aime sa faconde et ses mille défauts charmants
Elle a la grâce brune des filles du midi
Il n'en existe qu'une, voilà pourquoi chez nous l'on dit :
On connaît dans chaque hémisphère
Notre Cane... Cane... Canebière
Et partout elle est populaire
Notre Cane... Cane... Canebière
Elle part du vieux port et sans effort
Coquin de sort, elle exagère
Elle finit au bout de la terre
Notre Cane... Cane... Canebière
Comment vous la décrire, son charme est sans pareil
Joyeuse elle s'étire comme un lézard au soleil
Internationale pour l'amour, Tron de l'air !
Elle est la capitale des marins de l'univers
five-second translation for my mom if she even reads this anymore:
In all four corners of the earth, without a doubt
Everyone adores her street-smarts and her thousand charming faults
She has the dark grace of a girl in the sun
There's nothing else like her, that's why around here we say
She's known in every hemisphere!
Our Cane... Cane.. Cane... CANEBIÈRE!
And she's popular everywheeeeeere!
Our Cane... Cane.. Cane... CANEBIÈRE!
She leaves the Vieux Port and then, with ease
She's kind of a rascal, she exaggerates and says
that she goes all the way to the end of the earth
Our Cane... Cane.. Cane... CANEBIÈRE!
The fact that the street is a girl makes it so obvious why I love this song. I have a thousand faults. I exaggerate TWO THOUSAND TIMES A DAY. And I love lizards. Oops, I forgot to translate the bit about the lizard, sorry. The point is, Marseille is so much like me I just want to give it a hug but I just showered so I'm going to think about it instead.
What can I say, I love things that are missin' parts.
