It’s that time of year again. Everyone’s posting reflections and resolutions. I don’t really do resolutions, or “lifestyle changes” just because it’s the beginning of the year. I’m thinking this year I might try a couple of things though. Nothing that’s going to be life altering, because really that should be a solid decision, and not something I’ve said just because it’s a new year. [By the way, I can't believe it's already 2010, this is the 4th decade my life has touched - the 80s, 90s, 00s & 10s]. The two things I’m thinking about are both photography centered, but I’m hoping that they end up being more than that.
Take photos each week – I figure this year should be interesting to look back on. By 2011, I should have, if all goes to plan, lived in three separate countries. I’d like to put together a time lapse video of it, or a poster. Something to show the extent of what I did.
Blog more frequently – I’d like to have at least two blogs a week. There are many people that I know what to hear about what I’m doing, and unless I document it in some way it really won’t get back to anyone. So. Here’s to documentation and commentary and thought and observation.
A photobook about my year in France – This will of course be helped by the above, but I think that it could be a statement on culture and various kinds of living.
There are other things of course that I plan to do in 2010, but they aren’t resolutions, just goals and plans.
- Take dance classes again once I’m back in Oregon
- Get in grad school
- Get a job for the summer
- Move to London for grad school
- Find a dance studio in London
- etc.
This last year has been a whirlwind of defining moments. I went to NYC and found out exactly what kind of advertising I was willing to do, what kind of people I wanted to work with; my mom passed away; I graduated from college; I moved to France; and I applied for grad school in London.
So, just to catch you up on the last month or so. We had a cold snap at the beginning of the month and previously we hadn’t even seen frost. Needless to say it got really cold, really quick. Then, right as we were supposed to be heading off for the Christmas holidays a bunch of snow dumped down on northern France and southern England, shutting down the channel tunnel and the Eurostar for a few days. S, C & I all made it back to England in pretty good time though, at least as far as our plans were concerned. Though our plans were all separate. I headed back to London to visit M, in theory. I did end up in London in M’s flat, but I didn’t get to see much of her as she worked all but three days I was there. The first half of my trip I spent with bronchitis, so lounging around and not doing anything wasn’t such a bad thing. After that though, I didn’t get to do a whole lot because of the weather and shops being closed on account of the holidays. Honestly, aside from some pictures of M dying her hair, I don’t have much to show for the trip. It was nice to be out of Dunkerque for a while though.
and the cold snap starts
the Christmas market in Lille
S - playing with my camera
snow on the beach! (after the first snow)
and then it snowed again!
my backyard covered in snow
M died her hair
I had been planning to write about the cold snap here in Dunkerque, and then our subsequent blanket of snow this morning, as well as the fact that my online portfolio is finally online, but then I decided to run my errands before sitting down to write.
All I had to do was run down to the local MGEN (medical insurance) office to drop off some paperwork to be reimbursed. No big deal, that went easy and exactly as it should have. In that trip there’s a quick little anecdote about me almost falling on my butt about thirty times because old stone walks + snow = slippery. It’s the return trip that I want to talk about; that and French men.
Here I am in my peacoat, giant scarf, slightly damp from the slushy-not-quite-raining rain, plugged into my ipod. I’ve made my way to the back of the double long bus and found and empty seat near the door. I’ve only just sat down when I see movement out of the corner of my eye and hear Quel heure est-il? Ok. so I didn’t so much hear it, as I said huh? and the elderly gentleman repeated himself and pointed at his wrist. Being polite I respond in the affirmative and start digging for my phone, even though I knew it was somewhere around 11 am. I tell him it’s 11:10 and proceeded to put my earphones back in assuming the conversation was over. But this is France and this is French man, and this is me whom French men have decided that some combination of my looks and accent are fascinating. [sidenote: I've had more compliments, cat calls, propositions and come-ons in the last three months than I've probably had in the last three years.] Having noted my accent, or my language mistakes (definitely said C’est onze heures dix and not Il est onze heures dix), he probed further De quelle origine êtes-vous?. I told him I’m from the United States. His eyes lit up; the French either love or hate the US and it’s citizens – there is no in between. Usually it’s the elderly or the young that love the US and adults or middle-aged folk that are adverse or numb to it. Half of me thought, ok, random stranger who is excited to meet a foreigner, the other half is thinking that he should move a little off of my half of the aisle. So far, the conversation had been pretty normal, but then he hit me with Vous-êtes vraiment très belle. Oh. Ok. Old man thinks I’m pretty. Not the first time I’ve gotten that one, so I muttered a thanks and turned back to stare out the window. Seconds later he stood up, and moved inches away from me to wait by the door for his stop. Great. I’ve put my earbuds back in, again, and hope he’s finished with the chit chat. No. Now he’s telling me that San Francisco is beautiful and asking me if I’ve been. I tell him I have family there. My new friend went silent again for a few moments before he decided to try telling me how pretty I am again. As he was standing and I was sitting I had to tilt my head up to see him. It’s just easier to understand French people when you can see their mouth moving. He took this opportunity to stroke my cheek and tell me I have stunning eyes. Oh dear. I’m definitely trapped where I’m sitting as he’s standing in the way of me getting up and changing seats, and no one seemed to care that the old man is hitting on a girl that looks like jail bait on some days. Then he leaned down, his intention definitely to kiss me. I averted my head and hoped he got the idea as I sputter out a polite non merci – what is it about the French that make me be polite when in English I’d be giving them a verbal lashing? Still trapped, and now flustered and mildly disturbed I turned up my iPod and stared at my knees hoping he’d just leave. No luck though, because he then started talking about New York and how it’s wonderful and you have to love it because it’s so different from San Francisco even though they’re in the same country. I decided to not look up and just ignore him until one of us gets off the bus. He reached his stop first and nodded his head in my direction and left me with a Bonne Journée. I replied likewise. Why? Why?! How is it that I’m so polite in French when clearly I’m creeped out and want nothing to do with this old man?
It’s not like I don’t know how to be rude in French, I do, but it all seems to go out the window when I’m talking to the elderly, or angry store clerks. Help me that I never run into an elderly angry store clerk.
S and I decided it was time for a lazy day in which we did nothing but lounge around and watch movies, cooking wasn’t even going to be allowed. We made it until about 3pm before restlessness set in. So after dressing in proper clothes, and not lounge clothes, we went for a walk on the beach (I really should stop forgetting my camera). We walked to the end of the Malo plage where we normally turn around and decided to keep walking as there was still quite a bit of waterfront/pavement left.
The tide was quite high today, higher than we’d ever seen it before. It was coming up to the cement breakers, which is about 100 meters closer than I’ve seen it at high tide. The waves were much larger than they’ve been before as well, it was like the beach back home almost. I found another couple sea shells for my collection – the shells here are almost all intact because of the calmness of the channel – and we ran up and down bits of the shoreline.
We walked about an hour and actually made it to the next town (Leffrinckoucke) and the end of the paved walkway. As we were contemplating walking up into the dunes we ran into one of S’s teachers who has invited us out dancing on several occasions. She promptly invited us back to hers for coffee and homemade chocolate mousse. It was quite good, and a lot of fun. We got to meet her daughter and were invited to come back for dinner after the vacation.
They tell us to say yes to all invitations. And really we haven’t found much of a reason to say no to anything, because, honestly, what else would we do? We’re here to experience the culture and practice our French. Yes, sometimes it’s nice to just hang out and speak English with the other assistants, but it’s fun to be able to say yeah, I made some French friends, I learned about a different culture.
You know what I miss, that they don’t have here in Dunkerque?
Lawns.
Not even having lawns… just their existence. What I wouldn’t give to see a green square in the city of grass that wasn’t fenced in inside a walled in park.
Okay, so remember my two disastrous trips (as far as suitcases and trains go?) During the second one I forgot to mention that I had to carry one of the broken suitcases (with two people’s stuff in it) up a broken escalator that happened to be two stories worth of stairs. Well, my family pooled some money together to send me and I was able to replace my suitcases! Now I have a matching set, that are well made, and they’ll be easy to find at the airport.
Maybe my next trip will go more smoothly 
I haven’t really been posting as much as I had planned to. I figured that with only 12 hours of work a week I would have plenty of time to sit on my computer, because with much more to do than that back home I spent a lot of time on my computer. Here though that isn’t so much the case. I think though, that was helped by the month and a half without internet. Though, now that I do have internet, I am on more often. On week As I spend about 25 hours, going to, going home from, teaching and sitting around the school; on week Bs I spend about 20 hours doing that. Then spread throughout the week is approximately an hour of lesson planning. So still, barely part time, and a lot of that is me sitting on the bus or in the teachers lounge – six hours a week of that is me on the bus.
So how am I spending the other 150 hours of my week? Probably about 50-60 of it is sleeping or attempting to sleep, theoretically. That leaves me with 90 hours a week minimum to do whatever. I’m not sure where it goes. I cook dinner nightly and eat with S & C. Then we do washing up and watch TV. We sit around and talk, usually getting into a debate about British vs. American English. We complain about our schools and teachers, and how everything in France seems either disorganized, involves too much paperwork or both. There’s going to the market, which happens twice a week – as soon as we make it on a day that doesn’t rain and I remember my camera there will be pictures. Walking on the beach takes at least a couple hours a week, as does eating crêpes at the wonderful Brettonne Crêperie we found.
That’s most of the big, hey let me tell you about what I’m doing, type stuff that happens each week. And really it isn’t much. I’m enjoying life here, but mostly because of the people, not because of the place. Dunkerque is, well, small, and not in the quaint sort of way.
To be honest, the one thing I didn’t post about was Thanksgiving. A few people took photos, but I’ve yet to see any of them – I think because their mostly on my roommate’s camera and she doesn’t have a computer. S and I invited the assistants over, expecting maybe 10 of us, and ended up with 17 guests! Four were from out of town/country but I’m glad Thanksgiving is the holiday of overeating or else we wouldn’t have had enough food. Somehow we still managed leftovers. I cooked a lot of the meal with the help of S & C and others brought dishes to contribute. The food was really good and so was the company. People showed up around 4 and didn’t leave until 8:30 when we all left to go set up a surprise birthday party. And before I forget, not only were two of our out of town guests from Oregon, they went to the U of O with me! I think I had French with at least one of them, but I’m not entirely sure. Of all places to run into people you went to college with, Dunkerque, France.
I’m torn about wanting to return to Eugene. I want to see the people, but I don’t really want to live there again, not yet anyway. What I am looking forward to (aside from my friends and family) are my dance classes. Not dancing here, not regularly is awful. There is only so much that twirling around your room by yourself does. A dancer needs a studio. And then there’s not wanting to leave here because I know that I’ll have friends here that I will miss. But thus begins the life of a world traveler. Friends everywhere and not yet a place to call home.
all this for a sore throat
When I first told everyone I would blog about my life in Dunkerque I figured that I would be writing pithy little pieces about French culture and life and how those things differ from Oregonian life. I haven’t been doing to much of that. But really, I’m feeling the need to share. Maybe it’s just the medication…
In the states, in order to go to your doctor you need an appointment, proof of insurance, identification, etc. You also have to pay at least a copay (if you have insurance) or the full amount. If you just need to see a doctor, you go to urgent care, or if it’s really bad the emergency room. In France you can walk into just about any doctor’s office and they’ll see you when your turn is up.
So this morning after leaving school after helping out in one class (I had four today – it just wasn’t happening), I sat around to get through the lunch break and wait out the rain. Around one, when things just start to open back up and I had a list of address and vocabulary in my notebook, I walked approximately one minute to get to nearest doctor, and it took that long because I had to wait for the cross walk. I sat down in a waiting room which boasted nothing but typical doctors office decor: uncomfortable chairs, magazines, a coffee table & fake plants. There wasn’t even a receptionist. For a few minutes I sat in panic, what if this was one of the few doctors that insisted on an appointment? What if? If… Oh, I just sat there for a while, oddly enough, across from my landlord’s mother, who happens to be a very nice lady and I respect. So, this doctor must be good if she goes here. Yes. I sat. Not knowing what to expect or if my French would make sense to someone not expecting a foreigner.
I didn’t wait long, maybe half an hour. She showed me into her office and asked me what was bothering me. Here’s where I started, stopped, having forgotten the vocabulary I had so diligently looked up. Some days it’s like being in school all over again, you have to prepare before you can do anything. Tonsils, les amygdales, lymph nodes, les ganglions lymphatiques, painful, douloureux, itchy, irrité, swollen, enflé, swallow, avaler… and so on. Actually there were only a couple more words on my list, but I already knew them, they were there just in case I became nervous and my speaking ability flew out the window. Though I didn’t really need to worry, the doctor was incredibly nice and spoke very clearly. So the only times I didn’t understand her was when she used a few words I didn’t know. Oddly enough most of the medical terms I could understand. For example le streptocoque: strep throat. It sounds enough like the latin that I could pick it up. Apparently since I’ve had strep throat so many times it would be best if I took antibiotics every time I have a bad sore throat. She was also very patient with my ‘eh, c’est quoi cela?’s.
Of course, you can’t be billed in a French doctors office, you have to pay upfront. That’d be great if I’d had more than 16€ in my purse. So I had to walk down to the ATM and back, which was fine with her. I’m a sweet little american with a sore throat, of course I’ll be back. So 22€ later, 16€ of which I should get back from la securité sociale (health insurance), I’d made it out of the doctors, prescription, doctors note, and reimbursement forms in hand. I walked down to the nearest pharmacy, maybe 5 minutes away. Only to find out that it would be easier if I had my carte vitale (which I may not get) but at least if I had my attestation with my securité sociale number on it I could pay the cheaper price for the pills. Fine with me. I walk the 6 minutes back to my flat, and the 6 minutes back. The nice pharmacist comes out from the back with six boxes of pills. Here I am thinking, hmm.. how much money do I have left this month? when she asks me for 18€50. That’s it. What would have been around $60-80 with decent insurance in the States was less than 20.
I’m still not sure why people are so afraid of socialized medicine.
Yes I understand that you may have to wait sometimes, and that no it isn’t a panacea. But it is better than having to pay exorbitant amounts to be cured. Me, a foreigner, who didn’t even have her health insurance information with her, could go see a doctor (not in the hospital, no emergency room for this cold), could go to the pharmacy and not have to wait. Something about that makes a bit more sense.
Just a bit.
notice the lack of door handle on the outside
As the story goes, I had the window open because I was dancing in my room and it had gotten rather warm. My keys were sitting on my desk, where I had left them last night after I went to bed. Now my keys usually includes my room key because I lock my door when I leave the house. Keep in mind I live in France so of course I have ancient locks on all the inside doors. These locks actually happen to be off the ship that my landlords great, great, great grandfather owned before he built the house. So really, they’re not house locks, their ship locks. At any rate. Remove the key and you can’t get into the room even if the door isn’t locked.
So here I am, sweaty, ready for a shower and some more productivity. I’ve just emerged from my room in naught but a towel and have turned to partially shut the door when a blast of wind decides to rush through my room and slam the door. The door inches from my face, me, in a towel, in the hallway, my keys on my desk. Hello freshman year*, do you remember me? because I’m remembering you.
This is about 11am. By 1pm we’ve managed to get our landlord’s mother to come over [our landlord lives & works in Paris, but is here on the weekends] to see if she can sort out the door. I’ve work at 3pm, which means I need to catch a bus by 2:15pm in order to get there on time. But this is France. And from 12-2 or 3 everything is closed. [yes I mean everything... well almost everything]. After about what must have been ten or more phone calls over the course of a few hours we get someone in saying they’ll come by in about half an hour. It’s about two, so I know I’ll at least be late to my first class, but maybe I can make the second class. At 2:55 I finally get back into my room. By 3:05 I’m out of the shower. Yeah, still didn’t make that next bus to make my 4pm class.
We’re having second keys cut, because apparently they don’t exist. At least I won’t be locked out for more than a few minutes in nothing but a towel again. As much fun as that was, I’m sure my school would appreciate me showing up to work.
