Classes

Today is a Thursday, which means I have my favorite students. Inspired by an article about Japanese rent-a-friend agencies, I asked an intermediate class what they would rent if they could rent anything in the world for any amount of time. Here's some of their answers:

a midgit, to be launched into the air as a human missile;
a midgit, to finally feel taller than someone else;
BB King, to lend some guitar skills;
Obama, to remove him from his presidency, take over the U.S., and thus the world, as a totalitarian dictator;
a body, to step out of one's natural sex or appearance altogether and into someone else's.

I liked these, because none of them were things that came into my own head. Also I realized that being funny really is an essential stage in the process of becoming fluent.

In a very advanced class, I had them explicate some poems in pairs, looking for diction, rhyme schemes, repetition, symbols, and meaning. I used a section of Dylan Thomas's "Fern Hill," Elizabeth Bishop's "One Art," part of Robert Lowell's "Skunk Hour," and T.S. Eliot's "La Figlia Che Pianga." Obviously, Contemporary American Poetry with Wyatt Prunty left a mark of nostalgia in my heart. Somehow, even though I thought I picked these poems at random, all of them seemed to be linked together by that very theme. In one of these classes I had the treat of two Italian Erasmus students, who could actually say the title of Eliot's poem. And, even better, they interpreted the title as being both the "Girl who weeps" and the "Daughter who weeps," which made for different versions of what was actually happening in the poem. Lizzy, what is your interpretation??

The other level of students I had today were first years, so I chose to talk about something I thought they would understand, Facebook. But, as I was informed after class, I spoke too soon, and too fast. After reading an article aloud that no one understood, I made them create a Facebook profile in English on any well-known character they could think of. Spongebob and Superman were picked alongside George Clooney and Brad Pitt. Cartoon characters and Hollywood hunks, now linked by Buddhist beliefs and an interest in happy endings. Superman is an anarchist. This is what happens when French people are asked to used their imagination.

Looking back, it was a pretty good day considering I showed up to work without any lesson plans in a department with a broken printer and photocopier, with just a few scribbled notes and four poems. Improvisation- that's life.

Note to self: a dance in France is never just a dance.

First of all, sorry, internet hasn't been working!

A few days ago...

It was one of those days when you wake up knowing you won't go back to sleep before the pigeon coos, you've already forgotten your dream, and you realize you bought coffee beans instead of grounds.

I go out to do some errands before my afternoon classes. Off to the Tour de Bretagne, the only excuse for a skyscraper Nantes has to offer, and the likely place to do some business. Not unlike the Tour de Montparnasse of Paris, this building is a late seventies icon of modernity. In other words, it's an eyesore. The stark rectangle of metal and glass seems to be a proclamation, saying "Look at me, stand in my shadows, this is an urban center!" But, compared to the comfortable skyline of roughly six floors of creamy, Haussemann style buildings with little cherub faces under swirly iron balconies, this building just doesn't fit in, it's not French enough. In fact,the closer I get to it, the more I feel like this building could be anywhere in the world, and nowhere in particular.

Inside, it's actually even less welcoming than its reality-obscuring glass exterior. An unfriendly person at the welcome desk ignores you until he looks at you like you're an idiot. After you tell him why you're there, he kindly presses something which lets you pass through the barriers, which are like entrances to subways that block you if you're ticketless, in this case blocking you for coming in the door.

After all that, and five more steps forward, I wait for another door, the elevator. There's other people gathered there, also nervous, confused, and no doubt likewise irritated at having to wait for the one elevator that works at such a "modern" building.

When I show up where I'm supposed to be, I'm in an office. But, it's no ordinary place. Even before I enter, I notice unusually loud elevator music coming from the speakers of a desktop computer, classical instruments playing unrecognizable, light melodies. Behind the L-shaped desk, and it's ill-fitting desk worker, plants are bursting out from different sized pots on assorted platforms. You can tell he really cares about them because they've all got little self-printed name tags, which somehow classify one thin-leaved green plant from the next. I wonder if he's into Zen or New Age. Maybe he's following a holistic prescription to cope with anxiety or anger management. His figure doesn't match his office. He's the kind of person who rests his arm on his belly when he talks on the phone.

Anyway, I find out my visa has, in his words, "conneries" written on it. Okay, great, just my most important official document. After an interlude of phone calls, he tells me I have to go back to the very same Prefecture that sent me to this ugly building in the first place, now with some freshly stamped documents in hand. Then I should be fine, legally. After a long sigh, not quite one of relief, I decide to temporarily put that out my head and head to work.

Promise I'll write about that subject next.