a REAL english christmas, part 2

If you’re back for more, after the somewhat overzealous previous post, you’re in for a treat. Remember, all this that happened so far goes only up until we PULLED INTO THE DRIVEWAY. The real English Christmas hasn’t even begun. 

Sophie's family's house was quaint, homey and beautiful, everything you would want in first, an English home, and second, a place where you are spending Christmas. Warm and cozy, with lots of tea and Christmas decorations and blankets and thick socks, I felt very well taken care of. After a shower and a nap, I was ready for whatever England had to throw at me.

 

Pretty much the first thing that Sophie and her dad mentioned that we needed to do when I got there, was to take me to a “real English pub”. So we climbed in the car to make the 15 minute drive, this pub was apparently worth it, to the most quaint drinking establishment I have ever seen. I would have never thought alcohol could be turned into such a cutesy, christmasy, family-style activity, but it was. there were decorations, dogs babies, even a fireplace with a cozy fire that we sat by as we drank our pints. It wasn’t even 4 o’clock in the afternoon, but I went with it.

For those who make fun of the food in England, I will forever differ with you on that point. Perhaps at certain restaurants, or in some of the bigger cities, you might find a lower quality of food than say Italy or France, but the home cooked meals I had at the Baird’s house transformed me in to the biggest ally England will ever have on this subject. And as always, there was plenty of wine with dinner, champagne with breakfast, cider with lunch, another pint at the pub in the afternoon (as soon as it struck noon we were discussing when to schedule it in) and more wine for dinner and after. Between the food and the alcohol, I was pretty much comatose by the end of each day.

They managed to make me feel right at home for all of their Christmas traditions, those specific to their family as well as the widely held British traditions. For example, we did Christmas crackers at dinner. They are cheap papery plastic things that pop when you pull on them from each end, and then whoever gets the bigger side (like the wishbone) gets the even cheaper little plastic toy on the inside. I also was introduced to Christmas pudding, mincemeat pies (which are amazing and definitely contain no trace of meat whatsoever), crumpets, “real” English tea, and Boxing Day. Still not sure what that last one is, but you can’t win ’em all. 

I’m almost done, I promise, but I’ve saved the best for last. One of Sophie’s traditions with her family is going on long walks/hikes through the fields and trails just on the outskirts of their town. We went on a short one on Christmas, so I got a small taste of what was in store for me, then the next day I got the real deal. Within ten minutes you get out of the town center and into the real pastures, with the low stone walls and the sheep in the distance and the bald trees sprinkling the hills. There used to be an old quarry in the town, so we walked first through the huge holes in the rock left by that part of their history, then walked up in the hills to where the old train tracks went through town. It was fascinating to see how the natural and industrial history of this region collided, and the result centuries later; it was part museum and part state park, part eulogy to mankind’s insistent growth and part testament to the power of nature to reclaim.

All that aside, it was incredible to breathe again in the wide open air, with the smells of winter and trees and mud. Paris does a lot of things for me, and has given me many experiences I’ve never had and will never have again, but there is something about the countryside that will always call me back. This was truly a wonderful way to experience Christmas, and though I missed my family I can't say that I wanted for anything, not food, not holiday spirit, and least of all, not good company.

a REAL english christmas, part 1

I know it's been a while, but I'm finally back on track! By all means, lie to me and pretend like you missed my posts. Here is one of many that I have been thinking about and meaning to write for weeks:

When the first few days of December came along, I hadn’t actually thought about the fact that I’d be completely alone in my apartment for Christmas until a girl on my lacrosse team invited me home with her family. It was the first Christmas I'd be spending away from home, and while my Thanksgiving was great with a few friends I was happy to have a family to spend this holiday with.

Sophie’s family doesn’t live in London; they live in a region of England called the Midlands. It is exactly what it sounds like, the land in between the North, i.e. Manchester, and the South, i.e. London. I of course had no idea what any of this meant, not even after being lectured by my British friends multiple times on the differences between all the regions of England and the accents that go along with them. So, naturally, I pictured a mix of Pride and Prejudice and the Holiday in my mind. Despite all rationality that says that Hollywood overstates national and historical stereotypes then overstates the overstatements, I was not at all disappointed.

Sophie’s dad and I drove through the town of Derby (don’t make the same mistake I did, it’s pronounced Dahby) to get to her family's home in the countryside. As soon as we got out of the town (which was slightly industrial for my tastes) we were on small country roads winding through rolling hills. I know, it sounds cliché, but it was real! Even I was prepared for my naïve delusions to be let down, but it was just as I hoped it would be. It reminded me a lot of central New York, in the late summer or fall, though even more cloudy and grey (if that is at all possible). The more I live in Paris, though, the more I find myself in general attracted to grey landscapes, because for some reason I find this city to be the most beautiful in monochromatic color schemes. But in this one, it managed to balance a warm greyness but also display rich contrasts: the grass looked that much greener, the landscape that much more textured, and the clouds disappearing into the distance lent it an even more palpable depth. I hadn’t realized how much I missed the openness of the countryside until I found myself lost in it.

I was still taking in the views around me when we finally arrived in the quaint, one-main-street town of Wirksworth, where I was once more rewarded for hanging on to uninformed assumptions. The buildings nestled together with a hint of the green pastures just on the outskirts felt like a fairy tale. The old brick, cobblestones, and ancient but somber church next to Sophie’s family’s house was almost too much. I’m only just hearing how this sounds, and you are probably shaking your head or cringing at my reactions but there just is no other way to describe it. It was too good to be true, too fairy-tale like even for the fairy tales. It was a comfort to me to know that at least one of those stereotypes, wished for and hoped for about a far away land, the stories of which built the foundation of your childhood, is not completely baseless. Yeah yeah, I’m laying it on thick I know, but TRUST ME. Wirksworth’s legit.

 

Translation please

The most obvious difficulty about being in Paris that I think everyone realizes is the language barrier. What I never realized was that there is another language barrier entirely, that exists between me and an unexpected group of people: the English.

Other than the Americans in my program, the other foreigners living in Paris that I interact with the most are British people. They make up the majority of the players on my lacrosse club team, and there are a significant number of them in the english teaching program with me. At first, it seemed to me to be a way for me to "broaden my cultural horizons", without going through the hardship of learning/speaking (or stumbling through) a different language. But little by little, I realized that their language can be almost as foreign to me as the French language sometimes. It has gotten to the point where, when I am with a large group of them, they are constantly looking at my face to make sure I understand what they are saying. They often even immediately translate, because they know that there are certain words I won't understand. For example, they refer to sweaters as "jumpers", college is "uni" (that is more confusing to them than to me, so I have to be sure to refer to school as "university"), long spandex for exercising is not spandex (I still haven't gotten a specific translation yet), french fries are chips, chips are crisps, cookies are biscuits, and "have you got" is a perfectly grammatical and even more sophisticated version of "do you have".

The most recent one that caused a lot of problems was when my friend was talking to a few of us about her friend's wedding, and how she has to be home in time for her "hen-do". Embarrassed by constantly having to ask for translations, I just sat quietly hoping to get some clues from the conversation as to the meaning of this word. I couldn't even spell it, let alone figure out what it would be. I thought it was some exotic word borrowed from another language. Finally, noticing my furrowed brows and relatively spaced-out look, my friend looked to me and came up with the translation: bachelorette party. Apparently, a "do" is the equivalent of like a party or a get-together (ex. "just a little Christmas-do", this is a direct quote of an example of this word used in a sentence. it is the only one they could come up with). And apparently, "hen" is a colloquial phrase for women, and "stag" is for men, despite the fact that the species don't exactly match up (though I guess there is a reason they don't call it a cock-do).

To add to this whole struggle, most of the time the teaching materials my French counterparts have for their classes are based on British-English. So they hear someone speaking from a CD or singing a song, and then they have to listen to me pronounce it in almost a completely different way. Just trying to keep these 7 year olds on their toes I guess. But it wasn't a struggle for me, really, until I started teaching classroom objects. I held up the flash-card for eraser, and said the word. The teacher looked at me confusedly, however, and showed me that in her book they had written the word "rubber". Now I have a hard time saying the word "rubber" to a classroom of 7-9 year olds, because I'm pretty sure in America it has nothing to do with writing, pencils, or school. Nothing AT ALL. And I couldn't explain that to the teacher in French, in front of the entire class, because my vocabulary is not sophisticated enough to do so, and neither is my poise. So I was left blubbering nonsense for a few minutes, until the teacher realized that it was something to discuss at a later time. Though I now say rubber, because I realize it is easier for the kids to pronounce, I've never quite gotten comfortable with it but c'est la vie.

So I feel like I am learning just as much about the English language here as I am about the French. Though it doesn't have anything to do with the difference between British-English and American-English, the 11-year old students I tutor today asked me why we use, and how to categorize, words like "eaten", "taken", "been", "chosen", when we already have the past tense form: "ate", "took", "was", "chose", respectively (and why every verb doesn't have an equivalent form). I made some crap up, and eventually ended the explanation with something like "it's too sophisticated for you to understand". Tutoring is usually the only time during my week when I actually feel like I have the upper-hand on someone, but today Maybe someday their more qualified english teachers will explain it to them, and they can come back and tell me the real reason.

Thanksgiving turkey: 0, Me: 1

As many of you that know me know, I am not by any stretch of the imagination an expert in the kitchen. Yes, I may have perfected the art of spaghetti with butter or cheese and crackers over the years, but I've grudgingly come to realize those meals just aren't enough. I've discovered that if I just relax and open my mind a little bit, Paris brings (drags kicking and screaming, more like) a lot of that adventuresomeness right out in me. It peeked out two years ago, when my friends taught me how to sauté chicken and make risotto. But these last few months have made me into someone most people wouldn't even recognize back home.

 To begin with, the art of shopping for food in Paris is enough to make anyone want to get involved in cooking. You can't walk down the street and not look in the gourmet fromageries (cheese stores), boulangeries (bakery), patisseries (pastry shops), boucheries (butchers), or chocolatiers (speaks for itself). And the markets with their fresh produce is enough to make anyone crack a cookbook. Once I became familiar with the produce market across the street, I knew that the next step would be buying fresh meat from the butcher, instead of getting it frozen or vacuum-packed at the supermarket. When two friends from home came to visit, I figured it was now or never. So we bought some farce aux tomates, which seemed to be the inside of sausage or something (that was Jeff, I wasn't feeling that adventurous), and some prosciutto. We made omelets for breakfast, which turned out to be delicious! I was finally starting to feel like a relatively grown up Parisian person. Little by little I've built up my confidence, and made shopping at the markets on the next block a regular outing. I have actually looked up the different uses of thyme, parsley, and oregano; I can now tell the difference between a zucchini and a cucumber without cutting them up. My roommate and I even worked up enough courage to have some French friends over for a little dinner party. We roasted potatoes, zucchini, and Brussels sprouts, and made pan-seared salmon with a Hollandaise sauce. Yep, you read that right. HOLLANDAISE SAUCE.

Now that I had tackled fish, risotto, roasted vegetables, the local boucherie, and some simple sauces, the next task was a monster one: Thanksgiving. My roommate and I and a few of other american teaching assistants from our program wanted to celebrate the holiday together, and because the rest of them had small apartments or studios, we offered our apartment up. I, feeling brave in my utter ignorance, decided to cook the turkey. I had heard they were difficult to find in Paris, expensive, and of lesser quality than most American turkeys, but I decided it would be worth it. I stopped at a few places that seemed promising, until I discovered that it was 18 euros per kilo, and not 18 euros per turkey (a 5 kilo turkey is about 11 lbs). I finally decided order a 5 kilo turkey for 40 euros at the butcher's near my apartment. So on saturday morning, I waited in line at the butcher's and then lugged my 11 lb turkey home to begin the preparations. I had consulted multiple google sources, and my roommate and I had compared notes from our grandmas (which turned out to be eerily similar). Although I was thoroughly grossed out after lathering butter all over this turkey, inside and out, the actual preparation wasn't really stressful or complicated.

Three hours later, juices running clear and skin crispy on top, we sat down to actually eat. Our friends had brought all sorts of dishes: homemade mac'n'cheese, stuffing, mashed potatoes, pumpkin risotto, brussels sprouts, green beans and almonds, and cranberry sauce (which is surprisingly difficult to find in Paris). I finally cut into the turkey breast, with more than a little trepidation, and was pleasantly surprised to find it white and juicy, just like it was supposed to be! We were all thoroughly impressed with ourselves, and commenced a meal that really felt like thanksgiving, and almost felt like grandma's house. We had a lot to be thankful for!  Especially the three plates full of turkey leftovers... and my newfound confidence in the kitchen. Maybe it was beginner's luck, maybe I just needed to actually have some motivation to try it, but there is no denying that cooking something and it coming out how it was supposed to, not necessarily even fantastic or perfect, but just right, is a pretty empowering thing for me. And it is a great way to come together with friends! I just can't wait to come up with the next big adventure.

The kids I babysit are now addicted to Temple Run

I may have mentioned in earlier posts, but to supplement my income as a teaching assistant I have taken several additional tutoring/babysitting jobs. Working for four different families as well as the 12-15 hours a week I do at my schools fills up my weeks pretty quickly, but I like it that way. Anyways, I love every family that I have worked with so far, though it is fascinating to me to see their differences and thus the different ways they want me to interact with or tutor their children.

The family that I work with most often has two children, boys aged 8 and 6. I babysit them three days a week after school. But aside from picking them up from school and watching them while their parents are at work, my main job is to speak to them in English. They do understand me pretty well, seeing as how they've been learning English in school since kindergarten, and they go to class at the British Council on weekends. So it works out pretty well, and they always surprise me with how quickly they advance even from day to day. They're speaking isn't that great yet, so mostly I just speak to them in English and they speak to me in French (which often leaves me tongue tied, as my brain continually tries to respond to them in French also). Though I am not explicitly teaching them English, this approach seems to coincide with all the research I have read and studied regarding acquisition of a second language at a young age. And I really do see results; it is evident to me that each and every day they improve.

However, their parents insist that I do exercises with them in their workbooks, and make them write out sentences, and basically assign them homework in addition to their full week of school, the homework they do for about 30 minutes after school, and the hours they spend on Saturdays at the British Council.  I must remind myself that I am in no place to argue with the parents on how to raise their children, yet it is hard for me to force myself let alone to force them to do this much structured work. Especially when even in my training sessions we are taught to avoid teaching writing to the youngest learners (6-7 years old, who barely even know how to read and write in French) and we are taught to rely on games or more "dynamic" learning strategies. And thus, after an hour of excruciatingly slow and dull French homework and then English lessons, I somewhat reluctantly gave my iPhone to the youngest to fool around with while the oldest finished his homework... and lo and behold, he discovered Temple Run. Now they can hardly talk about anything else. They keep saying that my game is "trop bien", which is similar to "très bien" but instead of being "very good" it means "too good".  I justify it by saying that I only let them do it after they've finished their homework, and that I have been teaching them the phrases "turn left", "turn right", "jump over that", "slide under that", and "quick get those coins!". That's legitimate vocabulary, right?

This general philosophy seems more espoused in my interactions with another family I work with, a family with four kids (ages 3-9) with whom I work once or twice a week for two hours. The parents are still in the house, so I am not babysitting, my job is purely to expose them to a native english speaker. We play games, we read books, I tell them stories, we play dress up, basically anything as long as it involves speaking english. These children do have an advantage, because their mother spoke to them in English so we communicate almost seamlessly. As opposed to the other boys, the only writing or spelling involved in their play is hangman; I use monopoly to teach them about money; I am reading them Roald Dahl to help expand their vocabulary. These approaches couldn't be more different, and while one is definitely more fun for me (even after all of my education I'm still basically an 8 year old inside) I must make them both work. I guess we won't know which is better until the end of the year...

Watertown is absolutely gorgeous this time of year

I feel like being in an elementary school in the suburbs of Paris has awarded me a really unique opportunity to see a different side of French life, different especially from what I encounter just by walking around Paris, going to museums, going to bars, or anything else. I work in coordination with French primary school teachers, I sit and eat with them for an hour and a half at lunch, and I of course get to deal with French children. The children are adorable for all the expected reasons. Whenever they see me they immediately shout "hello!" and four or five of them will try to hug me all at once. They are all incredibly eager to try out any English words I say in class, and are always repeating whatever I say to the point where I have to hold up a sign with a question mark on it to indicate that I'm asking a question that they have to actually answer, as opposed to saying something for them to repeat. I couldn't be happier to be with elementary school children, their excitement and ability to just soak things up keeps me on my toes and always keeps it fun. I don't envy high school teachers for one second.

What I've also come to appreciate is my time with the teachers, either planning lessons or sitting and eating lunch for an hour and a half. They are all incredibly welcoming, even the ones I don't work with. I love speaking French with them, it is hard at first to follow their conversations when they are just relaxing during lunch. I mostly just nod and smile when they are all talking together, because I don't know the students they're talking about or don't understand exactly what they are saying. At each school they seem to be very tight-knit, despite their different ages and different teaching styles. Especially at one school, I feel like I have something fundamental in common with them, and I have even worked up enough courage to chime in the conversation every once in awhile. We talked about iPhones the other day (and how people are usually either staunch Apple fans or diehard PC advocates), about the movie "Taken" (and "Taken 2"), the election of course, and the hurricane that hit NYC (they were all very concerned about my family, so I had to explain that where I live hardly got touched by the storm).

Sitting around talking with these teachers, some not much older than me, I get a wholly different taste of French people and French life from what I experience in Paris. The atmosphere of aloofness that many people associate with Parisians has no place in this school, with these teachers. They stop at nothing to find common threads with me, and to bring my world into theirs. One teacher who has traveled pretty extensively in the U.S. even knew a little bit about Upstate New York; she said her favorite area is Watertown. Yeah, you read that right. She said, direct quote (translated obviously), "I love Watertown. Absolutely gorgeous". At first I thought she was joking, but then had to turn my snorting laugh into a fake cough. Not a point of view I have a lot to say about, but I appreciate the connection she is trying to make (and that she is the one French person who, when I say I live four hours north of NYC, doesn't think I live in Canada). All in all, I am really excited to see how my relationships with all these teachers grow in the next few months. And yes, I am unabashedly desperate for French friends, which may have something to do with my gushing for this entire blog post.

Obligatory election season blog post

*groan* I know I know, everyone and their brother and then his step-cousin twice removed has something to say about this year's election, but I'm hoping that mine will at least give you something new to think about.

Bear with me while I set this up a bit: during my recent vacation time I had two good friends from Syracuse visiting. One of them (Andrew) just came back from spending three months in Jerusalem, doing something related to the film industry. We had many many interesting discussions about the different ways that a lot of the Jewish people he met approach their own faith, and the demonstration of that faith. In a nutshell, if I understood correctly, he met a lot of people who either were born Jewish or converted later in life who had or have devoted a significant portion of their lives doing detailed research on religion and the history of their faith before converting or in order to better understand and represent their heritage. My friend, and the people he met in Jerusalem, was constantly in the process of debating aspects of the Torah, Jewish history, and how the religion is used on a daily basis even today. It was this inquiry, this passionate, in-depth, probing journey that actually solidified these people's faiths and allowed them to share ideas and explore new facets of Judaism. Questioning, and research, and reliance on fact do not negate their faith. Andrew even told me that many rabbis or students of religion in Israel openly accepted both the Big Bang theory and the story of the Genesis in the Torah, and developed theories of time that allowed the six days of the Genesis to actually represent the Big Bang itself. He seemed really in awe of this espousal of faith, and I was too.

I'll admit, like many other young people (and just people), that I have been severely disillusioned by American politics of late, and I think in discussing my friend's experiences I have finally come to a concrete conclusion of why. In America, obviously largely Christian, a lot of the every day values and morals that may or may not relate to government have been derived from religions precepts. And rightly so, because in the past that was the source of everyone's morality, whether you were Christian or Jewish or Muslim or Buddhist. It isn't a coincidence that they match up a great deal. However, what has troubled me and what I find too often goes hand in hand with today's version of Christianity in the US is a disapproval related to inquiry, probing, or questioning. Sometimes it is more subtle than others. Yet to me it seems starkly clear now that whether you talk about religion, patriotism, political stance, oftentimes a questioning attitude is seen as subversive, atheistic, or tantamount to an act of betrayal.

I thoroughly and utterly reject the validity of this notion. I believe, and it seems from talking with my friend Andrew that a lot of Jewish people (and probably others that I don't know about) believe this also, that questioning can be a form of supporting one's faith. I believe that deep inquiry can allow and actually forces people to be stronger in their faith. Then, discussion and debate are not ended by the phrase "that's just what I believe", but the discussions are opened with statements like that, and people seek to understand the nuances of another person's faith or political stance or patriotism, instead of trying to convince the other of supporting unquestioningly one side or another. In America, I see a lot of differing views and opinions which at one time in my life would have thrilled me. But watching people continually unable to share and explore their own or other views in a diplomatic or even remotely civil manner is abhorrent to me, and renders social interaction practically pointless. Let's not be afraid to question oneself, or to find out that one's view is not the only "right" view out there. It seems to me that a much richer personal and social existence is within reach with this simple change of heart.