les photos

I wanted to add some photos that I took from my phone but don't feel like writing another long blog entry... so here we go instead...

the sanitation workers went on strike for a few days -- this is what I saw upon getting out of the metro

really... really quite disgusting. in other parts of town, they decided to take full bags of trash and empty them along the sidewalk causing the most retched stink which then caused all the nearby restaurants to close because nobody wanted to eat near stinking garbage.

view of the sunrise from my apartment. (i'll add pictures of the apartment itself once I've stopped rearranging furniture everyday)

 what I did all weekend. mm, love those Prince biscuits.

the only halloween decorations I've seen so far

the canal down the street where lots of runners and bikers go

my english/american friend Kat and I in Albi

it was nice outside

ah, my little love brioche from bannett. can't get enough.

Ohp, la!

As a side note, I wrote this on October 15 because I knew I wasn't going to have access to internet for a few days. So, like the big dork that I am, I wrote it from Word and saved it until now.

I can proudly say that I am currently writing this entry sitting at a clackity old imitation wood desk at my very own apartment in FRANCE! Mm, the sweet smell of address. But I should really tell you the thrilling story of how it happened. OHH, it's exciting.

This apartment might not have been my number one pick when I was on the apartment hunt, but now that I’m here and have added a few personal touches, I’m starting to experience less buyer’s remorse and more a sense of relief. I moved in yesterday at 5:00 and spent an hour or so with the agent doing the inspection for damages that were already here and signing away my life. Or that’s what it felt like. Though it’s really not that permanent because I can move out pretty much whenever I want, as long as I give them a couple weeks notice. And this agency was really accommodating; in fact, all they wanted from me was a copy of my RIB (bank statement) and a photocopy of my passport. Other agencies wanted proof of my parents income, proof of my previous living arrangements, letters of attestation from my boss, letters from my parents in English and in French saying they would act as the guarantors if I didn’t pay plus, THREE WHOLE YEARS worth of rent put into a locked bank account in case I didn’t pay each month – yeah, you can go ahead and shove that up your ass.

Anyways, I moved in yesterday and I immediately needed to buy some essential things, like linens for the clic-clac (sofa bed) because I was teaching class at 8:00 and the shops would be closed by the time I finished. I went to Gallerie Lafayette Maison which is basically like Bed, Bath and Beyond but way more fabulous. For real, I walked in and I was in awe of how well presented everything was which is incredible as I’m not really much into the domestic houseware type crap. They were having a huge sale (thank goodness for me) so I bought everything I needed using the dimensions that the agent gave me because God knows I don’t understand the metric system. Only to return home to discover that nothing fit. P-u-t-a-i-n.

So, cut to me panicking for about ten minutes, stretching the fitted sheet as far as it would go in each direction with no luck and then realizing I had five minutes to get to the school – though, it’s alright because now I’m only just around the corner. When I get there, I explained to my boss what had happened and he was kind enough to lend me a couple sheets to sleep on and I’d have to return to the store the next day to exchange all the stuff I bought. Which I did, and now, needless to say, everything is fine. But the French have this weird system for bed linens that makes absolutely no sense. My bed is 140X190—so I thought that meant everything I needed would fall under the same category, much like for a double bed, you buy double sized sheets and a double sized duvet. Ah non non, mes cheris. For a 140X190 sized bed, you must buy a fitted sheet of a different size, then sheet of another different size, etc etc (which, of course, a fitted sheet is a different size than a regular sheet – but there I was in my American everything-is-straightforward mindset) and of course, everything was wrong. Stupid.

So, I come back from class with only couple sheets to sleep under because I intended to return everything I bought. But wouldn’t you know that on the night I only have a sheet to sleep on, it suddenly becomes winter? I’m not kidding around, here. It’s been about 20 degrees during the day the past week and I’ve been wearing sleeveless shirts and light sweaters. But wow. Apparently, the temperature got to about 7 degrees centigrade which is pretty damn cold, especially considering my building has yet to turn on the boiler system so everyone can access the heat. So, I had a miserable first night sleeping in my coat and all of my dirty laundry piled on top of me to keep warm on this little clic-clac in a scary new apartment.

Sigh. I am absolutely certain that in maybe a year or two I will look back on the adventures I have experienced in the last month and get a good laugh out of it. But man, talk about adventure.

Anyways, if any of you lovely friends of mine feel like writing a snail mail letter and then overpaying for postage, just lemme know and I'll send along my address.

A tout! xoxo

"mieux vaut faire, et se repentir, que se repentir, et rien faire"

"You shouldn't give up.
Fight for yourself and
who you are. You've got
to go through the worst
times in life to get the best."

- This weeks postsecret

"mon coeur ne bat plus sans le rythme du tien"

(my heart no longer beats without the rhythm of yours)

- A photo I took in the small village of Albi 

tes boyaux me manquent

This last week has been absolutely nightmare-ish, so I'm sorry that I left my enormous fan base with little detail about what was going on (Andrea, I think you're one of three people that habitually read this. Oh, and hey Butthead and berk-a-lerk). In a nutshell, the apartment hunt has been so unbearably dreadful, I cannot even stand it anymore. I don't even want to go into detail about how much it absolutely sucks trying to find an apartment in a country that is completely unwilling to deal with foreigners -- it doesn't even help that I'm technically "European" anyways (with my British passport). So, needless to say, I am still homeless. But most certainly not from lack of trying. At least I have a bank account, I guess.

In other more positive news, I have taught my first three classes this week at the school. They're all adult classes--the first two are pre-intermediate and the other is intermediate level, all of them 8-10 pm. They both take place at the "school" which is really just a small room in the directors house on a round table which fits eight people, but the classes have been about six students each. There is a huge range of ages, from about 20-60 which makes for some great discussion, but so far, I think this job is pretty rad. Everyone is there because they're paying good money to be and a surprising number of them are doing it because they genuinely want to learn English. I only need to spend about half an hour before the class preparing something and all the classes are aimed towards a more discussion based lesson which makes it incredibly easy. This is because, from what my boss has told me, in the French public school system, the kids learn English through reading, writing and memorization and barely learn to speak it at all. So, though they have learned English for many years in school, they are barely able to speak or understand it. This is probably the reason for the Assistantship program (who I still begrudgingly shake my fist at) and the reason why companies like the school I work for have been so successful.

So, then, after an hour and fourty-five minutes, we stop using our materials and I go into the kitchen to prepare for "tea time" which they all love because it is so incredibly British. Then we'll spend the last fifteen minutes having a casual conversation about whatever, sipping on herbal tea (because despite drinking loads of super strong coffee everyday, the French won't have a black tea with 1/4 the amount of caffeine so close to bedtime) and nimbling on biscuits. And all I have to do is speak the language I grew up knowing. Great, right?

Next week, I'll start with a class of little kiddies aged 3-7 which I'm both simultaneously terrified and excited for because the only English I'll be using is "hello" at first. And maybe some primary colors. But man, I hope they're all as cute as Capucine.

Then, I'll have two more private tutor students a few times per week because at the moment, I'm the only native speaker available and most people, understandably, prefer to work with teachers who are native. Which is silly because the other teachers were raised by English/French parents and they technically are native. But I'm not complaining. Cause it means I'm getting some good hours! Hooray!


All I need to do now is get the paperwork sorted and get my status as an "auto-entrepreneuse" established which is, of course, more difficult than it should be. But once it goes through, I bill the company for the amount of hours I have done at the end of each month, then get paid in full -- no taxes taken out initially. Then, at the end of three months, I'll send the government a cheque for about 5-10% of what I have earned. This is a new program Sarkozy established earlier this year for people like me to be able to get on their feet which apparently has been very well-received. And I think it's pretty sweet.

Now, I just need a friggin' place to sleep at night and I'll start to feel more like a human being because as much as I love living out of a suitcase for nearly three weeks... it makes doing laundry difficult. Amongst other things.