Classes started last week, giving me enough new material for a thin novel. I'm not sure if anyone, even my parents, will have the tenacity or interest to get through this MONSTER of a blog post, but there is some good stuff in here, at least in my opinion. This more than makes up for last week's decidedly short post...so go ahead: read, skim, or just look at the pictures, but send me your good vibes (and iced tea)!
I finished blogging around midnight last Sunday night and woke up 6 hours later to get ready for class, which was at 8. I arrived about 20 minutes early and was greeted by a locked building and a few students who told me they were
grand débutants -- beginners in Italian. We were all waiting outside the Italian department, which is located down the street from the actual university, and I had only seen one classroom in the department. My class wasn't supposed to be for beginners, so I began to wonder if I was in the right place. More students showed up for different Italian classes, but no one mentioned the title of my course. Hmmm...
Of course, the sun hadn't yet managed to peek above the buildings and it was probably the coldest morning yet (although I can't say I've seen 6AM many times since getting here). Around 7:55 a man let himself into the building. We started to follow him in, but he turned around to tell us that the building wasn't open yet. "But it's cold!" we pleaded. Everyone had dressed his/her best for the first day, which meant lots of ballerina flats and light sweaters. The man grudgingly agreed to let us wait in the lobby. We piled in and, against his orders, called the elevator down so we could start our ascent, about 4 students at a time, up to the 5th floor where the Italian department is located. Just as the elevator doors opened and people started to get in, a woman came to the door, explaining she was a professor in the department, and asked us to follow her to another entrance to the building, where we could take the stairs. Well, that door was locked too, and when we returned the first door, it had indeed re-locked after we left. By then it was 8 o'clock, time for class to start, except we still had no access to a classroom...and I was still confused as to why students from at least 3 different courses, all starting at the same time, were all waiting outside a department with only 1 classroom. The professor headed over to the actual university to find a custodian and they returned around 8:15. We all filed up the stairs and into the 5th floor classroom. I asked the professor what class this was. "Literature of the 19th and 20th centuries," she replied. So it was my class. But not anyone else's: upon hearing the news, every single other student filed back out of the classroom, back down the stairs, and over to the university to look up his/her class on a big board where class times and rooms are posted. Left alone with the professor, who started grilling me, in Italian, about my background in the language ("what Italian authors have you read?"), I was grateful when one other student showed up about 5 minutes later. I hadn't spoken Italian in a couple weeks and was having serious trouble pulling it up to the front of my brain. It's the French infiltration!
About 10 more students showed up around 9:30. The class-time had changed from 9 to 8, which they weren't aware of (but I somehow was), and no doubt those students had wasted at least 20 minutes wandering the halls of the university center down the street...lo and behold, I was actually more prepared than the French students! So that was my first day of Italian, yeehaw!
French class later in the day seemed like a breeze. My Balzac reading at Place des Vosges last Saturday paid off!
Tuesday was another Italian class: Renaissance Literature. The nice thing I've discovered about the Italian department here is that everyone knows each other, including the professors, who taught many of the students last year. But the downside is...everyone knows each other. As if my ridiculously blonde hair and pale skin don't draw enough attention, I am also usually the 1 person that wasn't in class last year. The Renaissance professor was super nice, though; she even asked me if it was okay if she spoke French! ...I'm not sure what would have happened if I had said no, but it was nice to receive a warm welcome in any case. First she discussed the class syllabus and grading in French...and then we opened our brochures and she...continued lecturing in French. Oh no. Italian literature taught in French?! Not only was this too much for my brain to handle, but it definitely wouldn't transfer as an upper-division Italian credit. I quietly sat through the rest of class then sent the prof an email explaining my situation. So next week I'll be adding a class...after that I had lunch with a might-be-new friend, Maëlle, who is French but has lived in Germany, Spain, Uruguay, and Mexico. Her dad is an engineer, I believe, and she's followed him around the world as he's been transferred. Now she's in Paris, where she says she feels a bit like a foreigner. She doesn't speak much English, although I think she speaks more than she lets on, but she's worked writing the French subtitles for media in English. As is usual with the French people I meet, she wanted to know what I think about Paris and what I've found to be the main differences between France and US culture. I still haven't found a good way to explain that, not even in English...
I can already tell that
Wednesday will be my weekly happy day: it marks the end of my school week AND is a day of exercise and hilarious french phonetics!
Having stayed up into the wee hours of the morning finishing a UT scholarship application (which will probably, like all other UT scholarships I've applied for, pan out into nothing), I dragged myself out of bed around 7:30 to get ready for yoga. One thing I've discovered about the French is that they really love extracurricular activities; Maurice is a member of a sailing association here in Paris (although they obviously have to do some traveling to sail), and Laurence is on a softball team, plus she recently informed me that she takes yoga classes at the Museum where she works. Still haven't deciphered exactly how that works, but I gather it's some kind of benefit for the employees, who pay very little for the classes. Most universities offer similar opportunities to their students (they are free at Paris III), which isn't all that unusual for a university, I suppose...but the method of getting into the class was pretty interesting...
I arrived right on time at 9AM to yet another locked door, except this one was heavily surrounded by girls who were clearly also waiting for the class I had come to take. The other girls were all sitting or leaning against the walls of the hallway around the door, which left me little choice but to wait directly in front of it. That turned out to work in my favor. Within seconds the teacher arrived, babbling something about traffic and fumbling with a set of about 20 keys. Luckily she found the correct key quickly, and we all piled into the room. The course description said something about hot yoga (yoga in a 96-106 degree fahrenheit room, which is what I did all last year in Austin), but I figured that was too good to be true. Indeed, the room was freezing, and some students rushed to shut the half-open windows while the teacher began to call names of students who had pre-registered for the class and who would be taking it for credit. I wasn't on that list, so I signed another one she had started for those taking the class for
loisirs - hobby/pleasure. Being one of the first people into the room, I was also one of the first on that list, and thus was able to change, grab a mat, and claim a spot on the floor while at least 30 girls waited to do the same. The room filled up rapidly and when the teacher could see that there was no more space on the floor, she had to turn at least 15 girls away. I felt guilty, but my muscles were already rejoicing in their first real streching in literally 6 weeks, so I stayed put. The instructor began the class with a short introduction to yoga, since many in the class are beginners, only some of which I caught, being seated at the back of the room and...not being fluent in French, much less the more specialized terms of yoga. I'm pretty sure she said something derogatory about how "hip" yoga is in the States these days, having preceeded that statement by asking if there were any Americans in the room, to which I did not raise my hand, not wishing to draw unnecesary attention to myself (and possibly my non-fluency) in front of 40 strangers with whom I'll be passing many hours during the rest of the semester. Attention would be drawn to me soon enough, however, when about 10 minutes into class she asked me to demonstrate a pose. Bruce, my instructor at
Bodhi Yoga, where I took class last year, wasn't really keen on making examples out of people in class. So as many yoga classes as I've taken, it WOULD be during my first one in France that the professor asks me to demonstrate a pose!
After lunch that day, I headed back over to Paris III to try to get into a dance class. I had told myself to arrive early, since there would probably be just as much interest, just as little space, and I couldn't expect to get so lucky twice in a row. Well, I arrived right on time anyway, and this time the door was already surrounded. My individualistic instincts took over as I kept my eye out for the teacher and pushed toward the door as soon as she arrived. This instructor was smart, however, to stop everyone at the door. She began calling down the list of pre-registered students who would be receiving a grade, of which there were 15 or 20. She finished the list and took a look around at the remaining 30 or so of us who were all hoping to take the class as
loisirs. "The first day is always rough," she grumbled. There was really nothing else to do but let the people in front into the room. She started counting us off in 4s and I miraculously was in the second group to go in. I couldn't believe my luck as I went into the dressing room before taking a spot on the floor.
The class was a nice follow-up to my morning yoga, although there are a lot of
grand débutants, so the pace was pretttyyyy sloowwwwww. Oh well, it's a chance to focus on technique, keep those muscles loose, and make some friends.
Right after that was my first phonetics class, for which I was pre-enrolled, a good thing because the class is more-than full. It's a class with ERASMUS (the European exchange) students, complete with another
Alina. :)
The professor is hilarious and very well-suited to teaching foreigners, which she's apparently been doing for years. She had us cracking up with her imitations of Italians speaking French (pronouncing all the mysteriously silent syllables) and re-tellings of her dealings with French university administration. One of those was a year-long battle to get our current classroom fixed, a process which involved a petition from last year's students. Apparently the windows had no blinds and wouldn't open, while the doors wouldn't close. I guess Madame Capps is pretty adaptable if she could teach 50 students (in a classroom meant for 30) in that environment. She's pretty quirky; she told us that she hates blue pens and that she doesn't use the blackboard at the back of the room because one panel is green while the rest are black. She also does a very good, if cringe-worthy, American accent, having spent time on the west coast. I think it's going to be a fun year.
France is a place where if you ask the same question 3 times to the same person, you will probably get 3 different answers, in the bureaucratic world at least. I saw this process at work during my phonetics class when a German student showed up to take the class, claiming he had pre-enrolled but not appearing on the roster. Turns out he had been dropped from the class because he hadn't scored highly enough in a placement exam of sorts. "The director of the program told me, there can be no exceptions, we must drop all students in groups A and B. The class is too advanced for you, I'm sorry," said Madame Capps, indicating that Johannes should leave. Well, Johannes didn't leave. Either he's very stubborn or he didn't understand that he was supposed to leave (more likely, since Capps gave a pretty wordy explanation). Capps continued to take roll and deal with other late-comers. Later during class, when Capps noticed Johannes copying down the assignment for next class, she again explained that he must leave. But then something happened. Literally in the middle of her request for him to leave, Madame changed course and told him she would take him on as a trial student. So it looks like "no exceptions" is really just an invitation to make one. Or two: did I mention that I never took the placement test?
Wednesday night Anja and I headed to the Stade de France on the outskirts of inner Paris (if that makes sense) to see France play Austria in SOCCER, duh! Pauline, who lives near the stadium and also had tickets, met us at the metro and we walked to her place for dinner. It was nice to see Pauline and Mamadou again; I haven't seen them since early September! Yikes! But all that time between visits made it all the more obvious that my French is making great strides; I found it much easier to converse with them, and Pauline never got frustrated enough to switch to English. Success!
I'm glad I got to experience the atmosphere of a european soccer match, although the conditions could have been better: it was FREEZING, and our tickets were at the very very top of the very big stadium. I will say that security actually seemed more evident here than at (the few) sporting events I've been to in the States: people dressed in neon orange coats were seated around the field at perhaps 5 meter intervals, and there were plenty more neon coats strategically placed within the stands. We got there just as the French national anthem was playing, but apparently right before that, two guys had run onto the field only to be chased down by some guards. During the game, I watched as a fight broke out in the stands below me, only to be broken up by more neon coats.
Food seemed to play a much smaller part in this event than it does at MinuteMaid or Reliant stadium. Most food stands were actually outside the park, and I only saw 2 cafes, both at ground level, within it. No vendors wandered the stands and no one around us was consuming anything. That's fine with me, as I don't exactly have the budget for stadium-prices. A hot chocolate would have been nice, though!
And yeah, France won :)
Thursday flew by as I ran around town picking up books, notebooks, and folders for class, inscribing myself at a library right next to the Pantheon (sweet), and doing I-don't-even-remember what else. I seem to be experiencing good karma lately; in my jam-packed day I left myself just enough time to get to the library and pick up my card upon presentation of my proof-of-residence. Unfortunately there was a group of about 6 german-speaking students in front of me. Time was ticking, the line wasn't moving, and I had another appointment in 30 minutes. I figured I'd used up all my good luck getting into the dance and yoga classes and was just about to dash off to my appointment sans-library card when one of the german students said something that caused the entire group to leave the line. Suddenly I was next in line, and thus made it to my next appointment early. Life semi-on-my-own here is sometimes hard, but little lucky breaks like that make the day so much easier.
Thursday night I met another new frenchie friend, Parvine, who studied in New York with the MICEFA and was kind enough to contact the American MICEFA students to offer her friendship and advice exploring Paris. I'm always nervous before these 1-on-1 encounters, because so much hinges on each person. It's not enough to merely follow the conversation, as I often do at dinner, for example; I have to contribute nearly half of the material! Luckily, Parvine is super nice and understands the difficulties of learning a new language. We chatted over our 4.5 euro coca-colas until it was time for me to head over to
Los Mexicanos, a mexican restaurant where some MICEFA students had organized a surprise birthday party for our friend Analeise, who is from Louisiana. The Texan in Andy - and partially in me - came out in full force as we criticized the utter lack of
enough chips and salsa and the inauthenticity (by tex-mex standards, anyway) of our burritos. Has anyone ever had mushrooms in a burrito? Didn't think so.
The piña colada was good, however ;)
It was quite an enjoyable evening; the loud music and live dancing in the middle of the floor gave us an excuse to be the loud, obnoxious Americans that we are.
Friday I had the much-needed opportunity to practice some Italian when I went to visit my new friend Stefania (Italian) at the house she is taking care of this month (not a bad deal). Stefania wants to be a teacher, and it shows: her patience was amazing as the Italian wheels in my brain began a slow and unsteady rotation. Each time I would get flustered with a grammatical construction or vocabulary, which was approximately every 5 seconds, it was
"tranquilla" -- calm down -- as she helped me search for a way to express my thought. She claims she'll have me talking like an Italian by the time she leaves in February...I'm doubtful (of my aptitude, not hers), but willing to participate in the experiment!
Tranquilla -- this post is almost over.
Saturday night I joined the Texas Exes France chapter to watch UT claim victory over OU. I'm not much of a sports fan, but this is a game that I usually give at least a moderate amount of attention, partially because of family tradition (my dad was born and raised in Austin), and maybe also because I had a friend in middle school who was a Sooner fan. Marshall is a big guy, but for his birthday way back when I bought him a tiny little Sooner tank-top (spaghetti straps, made for a girl). We've lost touch since, but the rivalry remains. The game was broadcast live at the Great Canadian Bar near Place Saint Michel, where all the waitresses are American or Canadian and I spoke English without qualms. It was nice to meet some fellow Texans, some non-Texans who took interest, and even a Danish guy who was invited by friends. I think he and the few French people in the bar were pretty confused about the rules and pretty horrified at the violence of the sport...and by our sloppy but enthused renditions of TEXAS-FIGHT and "The Eyes of Texas".
And that's where I'll end. Time to do homework...
Oh yeah, it's 16:03 in Paris and OU STILL SUCKS!
Hook 'em,
Alina :)
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