I’ve decided that we are very coddled in American schools. I can remember most of my teachers encouraging us to raise our hands if we have a question and to make sure we understand everything.
“There’s no such thing as a stupid question,” I was often told, “If you are wondering about something, chances are your fellow students are also confused, so make sure you raise your hand and ask questions!”
Teachers always encouraged us to participate and voice any problems we were having.
So you can imagine my surprise when during one English class, the head teacher became frustrated with the students and said, “Would you stop asking stupid questions!”
The kids didn’t even bat an eye. I guess there are stupid questions in this country.
April 10, 2010
April 4, 2010
Vingt-troisiéme annivesaire!
I decided to be the best girlfriend ever and throw FBF (French boyfriend) a surprise 23rd birthday party. My studio is rather spacious, especially once all the furniture has been pushed to the walls, and I had yet to have one. I figured, if it was a horrible disaster and my landlord got mad at me, I was allowed to at least have one party. I could just apologize for it later.
Having been the Events Director for my college club and thrown parties with upwards of 300 attendees, I thought I had the whole surprise party thing in the bag. Then France happened.
As an UCSB graduate, the first challenge for me in throwing the party was coming up with a theme. I wasn’t sure what kind of theme to do, nor what kind of themes French people found appropriate, so I consulted my French coconspirator. “We need to pick a theme!” I said.
He replied, “…..FBF’s birthday is the theme.”
So I put aside my dream of some crazy costumed party, and decided to focus on what every birthday party needs: a cake.
This proved to be quite challenging, however, as an amenity that is commonly missing in French studios is an oven. My studio is no exception. In lieu of baking a cake for FBF, I thought I could make Jello shots and write with frosting “Bon anniversaire” (Happy birthday).
This was also a no-go. Jello does not exist in France. I googled about it, double checked with my French coconspirator, and looked around at the grocery store. So having a special birthday snack also went out the window.
On the day of I went over to the store to pick up the necessary snacks and drinks, as well as things to decorate my studio with. I had already hand painted a Bon Anniversaire sign, and was looking for some streamers to drape around the place thinking that decorations had to be the same everywhere. I had no such luck in this category either. In the end, the only things I had to decorate my studio with were the signs I had made, and some balloons.
Although my French surprise party was not going at all how I imagined a surprise party should be in my American brain, I was successful in importing one very important American party pastime.
I taught all my French friends Beer Pong.
Having been the Events Director for my college club and thrown parties with upwards of 300 attendees, I thought I had the whole surprise party thing in the bag. Then France happened.
As an UCSB graduate, the first challenge for me in throwing the party was coming up with a theme. I wasn’t sure what kind of theme to do, nor what kind of themes French people found appropriate, so I consulted my French coconspirator. “We need to pick a theme!” I said.
He replied, “…..FBF’s birthday is the theme.”
So I put aside my dream of some crazy costumed party, and decided to focus on what every birthday party needs: a cake.
This proved to be quite challenging, however, as an amenity that is commonly missing in French studios is an oven. My studio is no exception. In lieu of baking a cake for FBF, I thought I could make Jello shots and write with frosting “Bon anniversaire” (Happy birthday).
This was also a no-go. Jello does not exist in France. I googled about it, double checked with my French coconspirator, and looked around at the grocery store. So having a special birthday snack also went out the window.
On the day of I went over to the store to pick up the necessary snacks and drinks, as well as things to decorate my studio with. I had already hand painted a Bon Anniversaire sign, and was looking for some streamers to drape around the place thinking that decorations had to be the same everywhere. I had no such luck in this category either. In the end, the only things I had to decorate my studio with were the signs I had made, and some balloons.
Although my French surprise party was not going at all how I imagined a surprise party should be in my American brain, I was successful in importing one very important American party pastime.
I taught all my French friends Beer Pong.
April 1, 2010
Chez médecin
I was rather sick over the weekend, and this provided me with the opportunity to take a peek into the French health care system.
One difference is how personal the care is. It is truly between you and your physician. In order to make an appointment with the doctor, I called him directly. I called his cell phone, he himself picked up, and he himself told me to stop by at 17h30.
Upon entering the salle d’attente (waiting room), there was nowhere to sign in. There was no reception. There was no one to give me papers to begin filling out. The doctor simply opened his door, and in the patients went. I guess the French don’t need a piece of paper to tell them what order they showed up in.
Upon entering his office, we exchanged pleasantries and then he asked me what was wrong. Although the medical examination was pretty much routine, he didn’t take my temperature, nor did he weigh me. He also didn't get any tests. It kind of weirded me out, but the medicine he gave me seems to have done the trick so ça va.
I can’t tell you what I had as he told me in French and I do not have the necessary French medical vocabulary, but he did give me a doctor’s note to get out of work!
The biggest surprise for an American like me, who has grown up in a health care system driven by insurance companies, was when I went to pay the man. I was expecting it to be expensive as I had to pay out of pocket and then be reimbursed.
It was 22 euros.
Total.
That’s less than $30.
My co-pay, when I was under my parent’s insurance, was $30! But €22 got me a doctor’s visit without any insurance!
And as if that wasn’t shockingly cheap enough, the next step was to pick up my prescription antibiotics. I had to buy 4 different medicines. Again, I had to pay out of pocket.
It cost 19.30 euros. 19.30!!
So let’s review:
Doctor’s visit: €20
Prescription medication: €19.30
Knowing you’re going to be reimbursed anyway because France has universal healthcare: Priceless.
One difference is how personal the care is. It is truly between you and your physician. In order to make an appointment with the doctor, I called him directly. I called his cell phone, he himself picked up, and he himself told me to stop by at 17h30.
Upon entering the salle d’attente (waiting room), there was nowhere to sign in. There was no reception. There was no one to give me papers to begin filling out. The doctor simply opened his door, and in the patients went. I guess the French don’t need a piece of paper to tell them what order they showed up in.
Upon entering his office, we exchanged pleasantries and then he asked me what was wrong. Although the medical examination was pretty much routine, he didn’t take my temperature, nor did he weigh me. He also didn't get any tests. It kind of weirded me out, but the medicine he gave me seems to have done the trick so ça va.
I can’t tell you what I had as he told me in French and I do not have the necessary French medical vocabulary, but he did give me a doctor’s note to get out of work!
The biggest surprise for an American like me, who has grown up in a health care system driven by insurance companies, was when I went to pay the man. I was expecting it to be expensive as I had to pay out of pocket and then be reimbursed.
It was 22 euros.
Total.
That’s less than $30.
My co-pay, when I was under my parent’s insurance, was $30! But €22 got me a doctor’s visit without any insurance!
And as if that wasn’t shockingly cheap enough, the next step was to pick up my prescription antibiotics. I had to buy 4 different medicines. Again, I had to pay out of pocket.
It cost 19.30 euros. 19.30!!
So let’s review:
Doctor’s visit: €20
Prescription medication: €19.30
Knowing you’re going to be reimbursed anyway because France has universal healthcare: Priceless.
March 24, 2010
Vous avez voté!
There was an election in France last Sunday, and FBF took me along with him so I could see how it all works. As with almost everything else, the French and the Americans do voting differently.
The first obvious difference is that we went to the polls on a Sunday. There seems to be no “first Tuesday after the first Monday” for the French. How much more convenient is that? You don’t have to be late for work, or wait in a long line after work hungry and annoyed about the whole voting process. Why did our Founding Fathers decide we should vote on a Tuesday? I wonder if more people would go vote if it happened during the weekend.
In both countries, you have to register in order to be able to vote. In France, after you register, you get a little card that allows you to vote multiple times. After you vote, they stamp your card in one of the available slots.
All you get in France for voting is a little stamp with the date on it. In America, we get “I Voted!” stickers, which are way cooler. FBF agrees.
Although most of the differences between the two voting systems didn't dramatically alter the voting process, there was one in particular that surprised me.
As we were getting ready to go to the polls, the FBF said, “hurry! I don’t want to get there too late and be forced to help them count the votes!” Apparently, in France, if you are one of the last people voting, the poll workers can force you to stay and help them count the votes. In America, our poll workers don’t even count the votes themselves.
I doubt any American would go to vote after work if they knew they might be stuck there for the rest of the evening. It’s bad enough we have to vote during the week!
The first obvious difference is that we went to the polls on a Sunday. There seems to be no “first Tuesday after the first Monday” for the French. How much more convenient is that? You don’t have to be late for work, or wait in a long line after work hungry and annoyed about the whole voting process. Why did our Founding Fathers decide we should vote on a Tuesday? I wonder if more people would go vote if it happened during the weekend.
In both countries, you have to register in order to be able to vote. In France, after you register, you get a little card that allows you to vote multiple times. After you vote, they stamp your card in one of the available slots.
All you get in France for voting is a little stamp with the date on it. In America, we get “I Voted!” stickers, which are way cooler. FBF agrees.
Although most of the differences between the two voting systems didn't dramatically alter the voting process, there was one in particular that surprised me.
As we were getting ready to go to the polls, the FBF said, “hurry! I don’t want to get there too late and be forced to help them count the votes!” Apparently, in France, if you are one of the last people voting, the poll workers can force you to stay and help them count the votes. In America, our poll workers don’t even count the votes themselves.
I doubt any American would go to vote after work if they knew they might be stuck there for the rest of the evening. It’s bad enough we have to vote during the week!
March 22, 2010
Learning British
So the French government hired me to help teach English knowing full well that I am an American (God damnit). What they failed to consider is the fact that French children learn British English in schools. This means that all of my English teaching colleagues have learned British English as well.
This can sometimes put us in awkward situations, as I do not speak British.
About a month ago, one of the students said, “footballer.”
I replied, “Footballer?? Do you mean football player?”
The head teacher then said, “You don’t say footballer? I thought I read it somewhere and I taught it to them.”
I replied with my typical response to any vocabulary dispute, “Well… I’ve never heard the word ‘footballer’ before, but maybe they say it in Britain.”
The teacher then decided to use my American, native speaker vocabulary and went with football player.
Fast forward to a couple of weeks later. My best friend came to visit, and we spent one night in Paris. Her British friend met us there, and we all went out to dinner. During dinner, the Brit began dishing details about her current crush, where she let known this little tidbit, “and he has an amazing body because he’s a footballer.”
I guess it is a word after all.
This can sometimes put us in awkward situations, as I do not speak British.
About a month ago, one of the students said, “footballer.”
I replied, “Footballer?? Do you mean football player?”
The head teacher then said, “You don’t say footballer? I thought I read it somewhere and I taught it to them.”
I replied with my typical response to any vocabulary dispute, “Well… I’ve never heard the word ‘footballer’ before, but maybe they say it in Britain.”
The teacher then decided to use my American, native speaker vocabulary and went with football player.
Fast forward to a couple of weeks later. My best friend came to visit, and we spent one night in Paris. Her British friend met us there, and we all went out to dinner. During dinner, the Brit began dishing details about her current crush, where she let known this little tidbit, “and he has an amazing body because he’s a footballer.”
I guess it is a word after all.
March 18, 2010
Rangez-vous.
I am an English teaching assistant for the French equivalent of middle school. I teach students ages 11-16. The French do a few things differently than either middle school I attended did.
After recess, students line up outside by class, and the teacher goes to fetch them. Although I sort of remember this happening during elementary school, by middle school we were expected to find our way to our teachers’ classrooms all by ourselves.
Once the French students and the teacher have made it to their respective classroom, the students are expected to line up in pairs along the wall next to the door. As they enter the classroom, they say “Good morning/Good afternoon” to their teacher. Once inside, they go to their seats, take out their classroom materials, and then remain standing until the teacher says, “you may be seated.”
Again, this is a totally different experience than my own. When I was in middle school, we were expected to find our seats without greeting the teacher, and sit down as soon as possible. I only remember lining up outside of my classroom in 4th grade.
During my first days as a French English teaching assistant, I made the mistake of allowing the students to sit right away without giving them permission because I was unaware of the cultural differences in showing respect towards one’s teachers. Needless to say, the students were unruly monsters.
Although they continue to be horrible sometimes, I now follow the proper French protocol when receiving students. I think it has helped me some.
After recess, students line up outside by class, and the teacher goes to fetch them. Although I sort of remember this happening during elementary school, by middle school we were expected to find our way to our teachers’ classrooms all by ourselves.
Once the French students and the teacher have made it to their respective classroom, the students are expected to line up in pairs along the wall next to the door. As they enter the classroom, they say “Good morning/Good afternoon” to their teacher. Once inside, they go to their seats, take out their classroom materials, and then remain standing until the teacher says, “you may be seated.”
Again, this is a totally different experience than my own. When I was in middle school, we were expected to find our seats without greeting the teacher, and sit down as soon as possible. I only remember lining up outside of my classroom in 4th grade.
During my first days as a French English teaching assistant, I made the mistake of allowing the students to sit right away without giving them permission because I was unaware of the cultural differences in showing respect towards one’s teachers. Needless to say, the students were unruly monsters.
Although they continue to be horrible sometimes, I now follow the proper French protocol when receiving students. I think it has helped me some.
March 17, 2010
La galette des Rois
One might think that after New Year's Eve, the holiday season is over. This, however, is not the case in France. They have one last holiday tradition up their sleeves.
The family who's studio I am living in invited me to accompany them to the neighborhood galette des Rois party. A galette des Rois is a pastry cake with a tiny figurine inside. The cake is divided up between all the guests, and the person who discovers the figurine inside their cake becomes the king for the day, complete with a crown. It is somehow related to the Three Wise Men visiting Jesus in the manger.
At the party, I mingled with the neighbors. There was coffee, tea, and three delicious looking galettes just waiting to be cut up and served. I chose to try the apple filled galette, and unfortunately was not chosen to be king. As more people were served their slices, it seemed as if no one was to become the king. Not that anyone was particularly interested. It seemed to me that people were there to mingle with their neighbors and enjoy each other's company.
Sitting in a chair next to the cake-table, enjoying my cake, I noticed the 5 year old daughter of the host checking out the remaining cakes. Spying something suspicious in one of the slices, she took her finger and dug into the cake, fishing out the trinket. Immediately after securing the prized possession, she ran to her parents, and told them she had found it in her slice of cake. Everyone cheered and she put on the crown.
I had two more chances to become king, but sadly never got to wear the crown. Maybe I should have employed the five year old's strategy.
The family who's studio I am living in invited me to accompany them to the neighborhood galette des Rois party. A galette des Rois is a pastry cake with a tiny figurine inside. The cake is divided up between all the guests, and the person who discovers the figurine inside their cake becomes the king for the day, complete with a crown. It is somehow related to the Three Wise Men visiting Jesus in the manger.
At the party, I mingled with the neighbors. There was coffee, tea, and three delicious looking galettes just waiting to be cut up and served. I chose to try the apple filled galette, and unfortunately was not chosen to be king. As more people were served their slices, it seemed as if no one was to become the king. Not that anyone was particularly interested. It seemed to me that people were there to mingle with their neighbors and enjoy each other's company.
Sitting in a chair next to the cake-table, enjoying my cake, I noticed the 5 year old daughter of the host checking out the remaining cakes. Spying something suspicious in one of the slices, she took her finger and dug into the cake, fishing out the trinket. Immediately after securing the prized possession, she ran to her parents, and told them she had found it in her slice of cake. Everyone cheered and she put on the crown.
I had two more chances to become king, but sadly never got to wear the crown. Maybe I should have employed the five year old's strategy.
March 11, 2010
Dating Customs
I am now another American girl dating a French boy. I am currently living out the fantasy of many an American girl who comes to this country.
This probably has to do with watching Beauty and the Beast when we were little. Dating a French guy, however, is not all enchanted castles and magic spells. Dating someone from another culture is weird a lot of the time.
I met my own personal prince charming at the New Year's Eve party I went to. We spent most of the night talking to each other, and before the party was over he had asked for my number.
He invited me to go to another party with him and his friends, which I gladly accepted. I wasn't sure at this point if he was actually interested in me, or just wanted to be friends with the American girl.
Once at the party, he pretty much ignored me (I later learned this was his strategy). While being ignored, I talked to the other French people at the party, and I asked a privileged few if they knew anything about the cute French boy who invited me to their party.
Because in America, when you're interested in someone you hang out with them, kiss them, and see where it goes before having the conversation about whether or not you want to be "exclusive," I decide to take matters into my own hands. I gave Monsieur France a kiss just as the night ended.
He called me shortly there after and invited me to see Avatar. I thought things were going on track, and was waiting to see how things went before having the exclusivity talk. He, on the other hand, was already exclusive.
I realized this when he used the word "girlfriend," referring to me, maybe a week later.
My immidate reaction was, "when did we talk about whether or not I wanted to be your girlfriend?"
I was then informed that when you kiss someone in French culture, that means you're really seriously interested in them and want to be their petite amie/petit ami. The label is automatically applied, unless, of course, it's for a one night stand.
Since ours clearly wasn't a one night stand, I was automatically his girlfriend in his weird Frenchy brain.
Their way of doing things seems outdated to me, as if I'm suddenly in the 1800s and whoever I kiss I need to be serious with.
My American way of doing things seems childish to him. He thinks it's really weird to have different steps.
I believe our way of doing things allows you to get to know someone before you decide whether or not you want to "take things to the next level." They seem to skip over that in France.
FBF's reaction to that was, "typically in France, you already know the person pretty well before kissing them." Not that I believe him, of course, as he clearly didn't know me that well.
Regardless of which dating system you prefer, I definitely am his girlfriend, and am quite content to have the label.
This probably has to do with watching Beauty and the Beast when we were little. Dating a French guy, however, is not all enchanted castles and magic spells. Dating someone from another culture is weird a lot of the time.
I met my own personal prince charming at the New Year's Eve party I went to. We spent most of the night talking to each other, and before the party was over he had asked for my number.
He invited me to go to another party with him and his friends, which I gladly accepted. I wasn't sure at this point if he was actually interested in me, or just wanted to be friends with the American girl.
Once at the party, he pretty much ignored me (I later learned this was his strategy). While being ignored, I talked to the other French people at the party, and I asked a privileged few if they knew anything about the cute French boy who invited me to their party.
Because in America, when you're interested in someone you hang out with them, kiss them, and see where it goes before having the conversation about whether or not you want to be "exclusive," I decide to take matters into my own hands. I gave Monsieur France a kiss just as the night ended.
He called me shortly there after and invited me to see Avatar. I thought things were going on track, and was waiting to see how things went before having the exclusivity talk. He, on the other hand, was already exclusive.
I realized this when he used the word "girlfriend," referring to me, maybe a week later.
My immidate reaction was, "when did we talk about whether or not I wanted to be your girlfriend?"
I was then informed that when you kiss someone in French culture, that means you're really seriously interested in them and want to be their petite amie/petit ami. The label is automatically applied, unless, of course, it's for a one night stand.
Since ours clearly wasn't a one night stand, I was automatically his girlfriend in his weird Frenchy brain.
Their way of doing things seems outdated to me, as if I'm suddenly in the 1800s and whoever I kiss I need to be serious with.
My American way of doing things seems childish to him. He thinks it's really weird to have different steps.
I believe our way of doing things allows you to get to know someone before you decide whether or not you want to "take things to the next level." They seem to skip over that in France.
FBF's reaction to that was, "typically in France, you already know the person pretty well before kissing them." Not that I believe him, of course, as he clearly didn't know me that well.
Regardless of which dating system you prefer, I definitely am his girlfriend, and am quite content to have the label.
January 13, 2010
Bonne Année!
This New Year's Eve, I decided to integrate myself even further into the French culture, and went to a new year's eve party with one of my friends in Lille, in lieu of staying in Paris and partying with my brother.
I was told that the party was '80s themed so I went to my closet and tried to pull together an appropriate outfit. I ended up wearing my neon blue tights, a denim skirt, and my purple sports bra with a shirt that I could pull off of one shoulder. I also put my hair in a side-pony, of course.
I got there only to discover that '80s themed means disco in French.
The night continued, despite my costume debacle. Midnight, and 2010, were fast approaching, and being dateless (as well as recently dumped) I was feeling bummed about not having someone to kiss at midnight. To make matters worse, a lot of the people at the party were coupled off.
The dreaded count down began: dix, neuf, huit, sept, six, cinq, quatre, trois, deux, un! But instead of everyone ferociously making out with their significant others as I expected, people were turning to each other, faire la bise-ing (kissing each other on both cheeks), and saying, "Bonne année! (Happy New Year!)" Then champaign was served. Nobody kissed anybody on the lips.
It seems that being alone on New Year's Eve is not such a big deal in this country so often thought of as the place for lovers.
Next time I get invited to an era themed party, though, I think I'm going to ask for costume suggestions first.
I was told that the party was '80s themed so I went to my closet and tried to pull together an appropriate outfit. I ended up wearing my neon blue tights, a denim skirt, and my purple sports bra with a shirt that I could pull off of one shoulder. I also put my hair in a side-pony, of course.
I got there only to discover that '80s themed means disco in French.
The night continued, despite my costume debacle. Midnight, and 2010, were fast approaching, and being dateless (as well as recently dumped) I was feeling bummed about not having someone to kiss at midnight. To make matters worse, a lot of the people at the party were coupled off.
The dreaded count down began: dix, neuf, huit, sept, six, cinq, quatre, trois, deux, un! But instead of everyone ferociously making out with their significant others as I expected, people were turning to each other, faire la bise-ing (kissing each other on both cheeks), and saying, "Bonne année! (Happy New Year!)" Then champaign was served. Nobody kissed anybody on the lips.
It seems that being alone on New Year's Eve is not such a big deal in this country so often thought of as the place for lovers.
Next time I get invited to an era themed party, though, I think I'm going to ask for costume suggestions first.
December 15, 2009
Vous n'êtes pas d'ici?
A couple of weeks ago, I was waiting for the 25 Bus when a woman approached me and asked, "est-ce que le bus a déjà passé?" Has the bus already gone by?
"Non, je crois pas." I don't think so.
"Vous avez un accent! Vous n'êtes pas d'ici?" You have an accent! You're not from here?
So I explained that I was from California. While riding the bus we had a conversation, in French of course, about what it was like to move here and what I was doing for Christmas. Her stop came first, and she wished me "bonne chance."
Despite being singled out as a foreigner, I still felt like a part of the country. Here I was, answering an ordinary every day question and turning that interaction into more than a simple utterance of "no."
"Non, je crois pas." I don't think so.
"Vous avez un accent! Vous n'êtes pas d'ici?" You have an accent! You're not from here?
So I explained that I was from California. While riding the bus we had a conversation, in French of course, about what it was like to move here and what I was doing for Christmas. Her stop came first, and she wished me "bonne chance."
Despite being singled out as a foreigner, I still felt like a part of the country. Here I was, answering an ordinary every day question and turning that interaction into more than a simple utterance of "no."
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