"I Never Knew This Could Happen To Me"

[I wrote this yesterday.]

Life is very different without guaranteed internet access. I feel like I need it less and want it more. Ha.

I’m writing this from under my new blanket in my now frigid room in Bordeaux, relishing the tranquility of the moment after a long day of great activity. My suitcase looks like it’s exploded, and I wish I cared more. This was my third day real day back and I’m exhausted. Everything feels the same, and everything feels different. I notice new businesses have opened (and therefore replaced those that’ve closed,) and each revelation seems like a shock to my delicate system. Change happens, Anya.

Aside from having the same job description, and unfortunately with it the same low pay, everything about this year seems entirely different. For one, someone actually picked me up [in a CAR!] from the train station to help me!

I need to type that again: someone – a French someone – helped me. Extraordinary! And not only did she transport me and my luggage to my school / new apartment, she practically begged me to allow her to take me grocery shopping! She wanted to drive me on any errands I might’ve had! I say this with no sarcasm and less bitterness than you’d expect, but that is a revelation. No one did jack shit for me last year. Not the administrative forces who hired me, not the teachers who saw me struggle, not my nightmare of a landlady. So to have such an overwhelming outpouring of kindness, and most of it extended to me in my own language, is incredible. I thanked Laurence (another one) for her generosity and eventually made my way into Bordeaux Centre to see Laura, my former roommate and partner in crime, Kate, our friend who also returned for Round Two, and a new assistant at Kate’s school. It was great. But more about that later.

Yesterday I met my contact teacher from the collège (middle school) I’ll be working for. I noticed to begin with that all of the emails we’d exchanged have been in French, and when I called her to arrange our rendez-vous, I wasn’t shocked to be conducting that conversation in French as well. Even teachers are self-conscious about their accents, and though I can’t say my French improved over the summer in LA, I do feel like I magically care a lot less about my fautes and therefore am feeling delusionally more fluent. It’s a relief not to care. I feel better about myself, I feel better about the language skills I do have, and the accent I have sharpened. Formidable! Bring it on, France.

Anyway. Back to Christiane, my contact teacher. I’m almost feeling at a loss in describing that piece of my yesterday. She picked me up in her little blue car, and I noticed immediately that she’d brought a passenger with her. Her autistic daughter, she explained, who would understand our conversation, though unfortunately wouldn’t be able to participate. I know a little about autism, thanks largely to my brother’s girlfriend who’s worked with autistic kids extensively, but I’ve never interacted with anyone personally. I’ll spare the details, but the love between Christiane and her daughter was so obvious and so overwhelming. I’m not sure what it was, but I just knew that Christiane was alone – whether widowed or divorced – and that she’s spent a lot of her life giving herself to her child. When we arrived chez elle and we all got out of the car, Christiane asked Rapha if she’d looked at me in the eyes and said hello. She asked it a second and a third time, and Rapha looked at me – in the eyes – and we held one another’s gaze. I know that there are no “rules” in terms of how one should feel, but I still feel a little ashamed in my immediate thought: what is she seeing in me? We walked to Christiane’s house and I immediately noticed the Star of David shaped grill of their peep hole in their door. I asked Christiane about it and she shrugged and said “yes. It’s a very old house.” She seemed a little uncomfortable; I almost wanted to reassure her that I’m not in the Hitler Youth. She suggested we drink our tea on the patio table outside in the sun and as I was walking through the living room to the back door, I noticed a small collection of fur moving across the wood floor. A dog! I love dogs. I tried asking it over, but Christiane saw me and said “Chipi is practically blind. She must’ve felt movement, but we need to call her over. Chipi! Chipi! She is fifteen years old now. She loves being pet.” I almost started crying right then and there.

Here is this woman (divorced) with a twenty five year old autistic daughter and a fifteen year old blind dog, welcoming me into her home and into her life with as much compassion as she can summon. I know she doesn’t want my pity, but holy hell. How much can one person give? She teaches at a middle school. How much nourishing energy does one person possess? She settled Rapha in her sun chair and then called me over and said “I sense that you like animals. This sleeping creature is Diego.” (Grey cat snoozing in the sun under a raspberry bush.) “And now you’ve met the whole household!” We drank our tea and ate a few biscuits. Miraculously I’d bought a little raspberry tart at Chartrons a few hours before and only had it with me because I hadn’t been home to deposit it yet. We split that and talked a lot about genetically modified food and alternative energy. Christiane asked me about my travels and told me she’d lived for many years in central Africa where her husband was a doctor. She talked about teaching in classrooms that had neither electricity nor chairs. She also told me that she’s Basque and that she only learned French when she started school. We talked a little about Fournier, our soon to be mutual place of employment, and its students and teachers. She apologized that I would most likely be working with her and “two other grannies,” and only “one young male teacher.” She sort of eyed me and said “and I’m afraid to tell you that he got married last year. To an American.” What a shrewd woman. She asked me half an hour later if I’d “left a boyfriend at home.” When I said I hadn’t, she said “well, don’t worry. You’ll find one this year. I’m sure of it.” Ha. Bordeaux isn’t huge and I thought it might be best not to slander one of her fellow teachers within the first week.

I’ll be signing the rest of my paperwork at Magendie tomorrow morning with the Scottish assistant, Erin, who just got here, and then I’ll go to Fournier tomorrow afternoon to introduce myself to the rest of the English Department, and if I don’t slip out of it, Christiane wants me to meet some of the students as well. They looked so cute when I saw them walking across the street today, but significantly less cute when they were smoking moodily at the tram on Friday. Middle-schoolers. Smoking. I’m appalled.

Bienvenue en France, chérie.
All in all, très bien. More later. Imminent topics: trilingual love affairs, animaux de companie, and my niveau de français.