Having spent a glorious two weeks at home for Christmas I am now back in my icy apartment with a fridge that clangs all night long, a fresh spattering of mould on the walls and a loo that is now completely broken courtesy of the disgusting old man who lives down the corridor. It may not actually be his fault but since he has woken me up every morning since I got back by unlocking the loo door and leaving it open whilst he urinates loudly I think it only fair that he be held responsible. Now that my fingers are growing accustomed to the cold and can, once again, operate sufficiently to type and my brain has got over the shock of discovering that a friend of mine who lives in Shrewsbury pays the same for her two bedroom house as I pay for my studio, I thought I would continue with my accounts of life in Paris.
In stark contrast to the type of behaviour expected in London, for example, in Paris, no one was surprised by the sight of a rather frazzled old lady boarding the metro with a pigeon clinging to her bag. She settled herself in one of the folding chairs and the pigeon looked round indignantly at the other passengers as though warning them to respect his personal space. He then ruffled his feathers resignedly and dived into the bottom of the bag which I could see was covered with an assortment of seeds and other delicacies. I suppose the lady was grateful for the company for she seemed to be homeless.
Walking home from Breakfast in America towards Bastille the other night I was, once again, reminded of the amount of poverty and homelessness in Paris. This particular stretch of road is lively and full of people during the day but at night it transforms into almost another world. Each shop doorway is occupied by a homeless person together with an assortment of belongings. There is one notable elderly lady who takes up almost the entire length of a shop window with an assortment of packing cases, clothes, sleeping bags and deck chairs. She makes herself a little camp each night and stomps about in her tartan skirt and stockinged feet rummaging through her belongings, tidying up her little space and watching the world go by from one of her deckchairs. I regularly see her tending to someone (presumably her husband) buried underneath a thick pile of blankets and pillows. Several residents of this strange nocturnal neighbourhood make little fires and the whole scene resembles something out of Escape from New York.
Just a few doors down from me, I discovered recently, is a perfect sleeping spot which is densely populated with tents and sleeping bags. I have taken a different route home these past couple of nights and have been sure to tiptoe silently past the sleeping lumpy shapes to get to my building. I suppose this sort of place would be my choice if I were homeless – not only is it quiet but there is also a metro grate which expels warm air to the lucky one who is first on the scene in the evening. Of course, there is also the option of sleeping in the metro itself which, although warm, means putting up with the trains passing until 1am and then again from 5am so, for me, a little backstreet seems the best option.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Un Mélange of Anecdotes
Several Sundays ago I was in the midst of a terrible hangover and trying desperately to lie still and sleep when from across the room I heard my mobile buzzing furiously on the table. Thinking it might be something important I wrenched myself out of bed and after much searching located my phone under a pile of bills. It was Deborah from Breakfast in America who explained that they were a man down and asked if I could go in at 4pm instead of 7pm. And so, with puffy eyes, a splitting headache and a stomach that felt as if it might make a bid for freedom one way or another, I fought for a place on the metro and arrived at work just before 4pm. Brunch was in full swing and there was a queue of around 25 people waiting outside, whilst, inside, there were plates stacked high on every available surface, pancakes with sticky containers of maple syrup at almost every table and a very frazzled looking staff doing their best to satisfy every demand. I surveyed the room with a feeling of despair and immediately popped two Doliprane in an attempt to ease my headache before I joined the fray and began taking orders and clearing tables. Whether it was a result of the Doliprane, the pace of work, the heat, or a mixture of all three I’m not sure but within an hour or so I realised I was feeling relatively normal. My headache had subsided, I no longer felt queasy and I was feeling rather energised by the atmosphere in the restaurant. Perhaps forcing your body to perform in such a situation induces your metabolism to speed up and purge itself of all the toxins left over from the night before, I was certainly feeling better, regardless.
Despite having a wealth of things to do in my spare time such as searching for a new apartment, writing this blog and, of course, learning French I have become so drained by the lack of long hot showers, central heating and pretty much any creature comforts that all I seem able to do is lie in bed and watch Brothers and Sisters and Spooks. However, I am off until 7pm tonight, which is unheard of, and, having just had a delicious and comforting meal in a warm delicious restaurant with my friend Camille, I feel rather energised so thought I would channel this energy into something productive.
Last Sunday I had enjoyed a lie in and was just getting through the daily obstacle of showering in a cupboard when I heard someone come up the stairs and knock, either on my door, or on Soraya’s (they’re so close together I couldn’t tell which). The last thing I felt like dealing with was anything that required speaking French so I stopped singing abruptly and listened for further developments. Presently Soraya answered her door and I heard an anguished cry from our neighbour below us who exclaimed ‘Il pleut dans ma maison!’ literally translated this means ‘it’s raining in my house’. I felt sure this was caused by my shower but I was in no mood to deal with this kind of problem on one of my precious mornings off so I quietly finished my shower and got dressed. All the while I could hear Soraya and the other woman murmuring outside trying to determine whether it was Soraya’s sink or the loo or something else entirely. Eventually Soraya went downstairs to see where the water was coming from and I snuck out to buy some lunch. As I passed the doorway to the apartment below mine I noticed that it was ajar and I could them still trying to determine the source of the leak.
When I returned with a fresh baguette, some smoked salmon and some cream cheese all was quiet so I made myself a sandwich and decided to Skype my parents who had just got back from an extended holiday, as such it was the first time I had spoken to them in around three weeks. About five minutes into the conversation there was a loud knocking at the door. I wearily answered it to find Soraya who anxiously explained to me about the leak. Despite my protests she ran off to get the neighbour below us silencing me with shrieks of ‘J’arrive toute de suite!’ I explained to Dad that I would call him back, sprayed some Febreeze around the place to get rid of the smell of fish and waited for the neighbour. She surveyed the shower and exclaimed ‘Oh la la, c’est sympa eh?!’ I studied the peeling paint, the mouldy skylight and the ancient tiles on the walls and shrugged before she explained that she wasn’t sure where the leak was coming from but would try and arrange for a plumber to carry out some tests. I agreed and she went home, Soraya returned to her apartment and I went back to my sandwich. I haven’t heard anything since so I’m hoping the cause of the problem was something entirely unrelated to my apartment.
Breakfast in America is as enjoyable as ever and we rotate duties regularly meaning that one day I am taking orders, the next I am on the door and the next I am on the bar. This creates a nice variety of tasks and regardless of what I’m doing I always have fun whilst I’m there. The staff are extremely easy to get along with and we all seem to have a similar sense of humour resulting in a great atmosphere.
When working on the door one is responsible for seating new customers and clearing tables. The restaurant is so popular and so small that there is nearly always a queue of at least twenty people in the evening and it is the job of the person on the door to explain to them how long the wait will be and to juggle tables to seat everyone as quickly as possible. There is a notice outside that asks customers to wait outside to be seated since there simply isn’t enough room for people to wait inside. Last week, when the restaurant was as full as it is possible to be, a group of four French girls came in, ignored the queue, and asked me if I had space for four. I looked at them for a moment trying to judge whether or not they were being serious and, deciding that they were, made a mock scan of the room as if to convey the fact that there wasn’t an empty seat in the place. They didn’t catch on. I explained that we didn’t have any seats at the moment but if they’d like to join the queue outside there’d be a wait of around 20 minutes. They smiled and explained that they only wanted to eat a couple of pieces of cheesecake. Rather than explaining that they should, in fact, wait longer than all the other people who were already in the queue and wanted proper meals, I explained again that we didn’t have any tables at the moment. They decided to order the cheesecake to take away but in the ten minutes they were waiting for their order insisted upon waiting at the bar, getting in everyone’s way and asking me continually if they could sit at every table for two that became vacant. We were all very glad to see the back of them.
Despite having a wealth of things to do in my spare time such as searching for a new apartment, writing this blog and, of course, learning French I have become so drained by the lack of long hot showers, central heating and pretty much any creature comforts that all I seem able to do is lie in bed and watch Brothers and Sisters and Spooks. However, I am off until 7pm tonight, which is unheard of, and, having just had a delicious and comforting meal in a warm delicious restaurant with my friend Camille, I feel rather energised so thought I would channel this energy into something productive.
Last Sunday I had enjoyed a lie in and was just getting through the daily obstacle of showering in a cupboard when I heard someone come up the stairs and knock, either on my door, or on Soraya’s (they’re so close together I couldn’t tell which). The last thing I felt like dealing with was anything that required speaking French so I stopped singing abruptly and listened for further developments. Presently Soraya answered her door and I heard an anguished cry from our neighbour below us who exclaimed ‘Il pleut dans ma maison!’ literally translated this means ‘it’s raining in my house’. I felt sure this was caused by my shower but I was in no mood to deal with this kind of problem on one of my precious mornings off so I quietly finished my shower and got dressed. All the while I could hear Soraya and the other woman murmuring outside trying to determine whether it was Soraya’s sink or the loo or something else entirely. Eventually Soraya went downstairs to see where the water was coming from and I snuck out to buy some lunch. As I passed the doorway to the apartment below mine I noticed that it was ajar and I could them still trying to determine the source of the leak.
When I returned with a fresh baguette, some smoked salmon and some cream cheese all was quiet so I made myself a sandwich and decided to Skype my parents who had just got back from an extended holiday, as such it was the first time I had spoken to them in around three weeks. About five minutes into the conversation there was a loud knocking at the door. I wearily answered it to find Soraya who anxiously explained to me about the leak. Despite my protests she ran off to get the neighbour below us silencing me with shrieks of ‘J’arrive toute de suite!’ I explained to Dad that I would call him back, sprayed some Febreeze around the place to get rid of the smell of fish and waited for the neighbour. She surveyed the shower and exclaimed ‘Oh la la, c’est sympa eh?!’ I studied the peeling paint, the mouldy skylight and the ancient tiles on the walls and shrugged before she explained that she wasn’t sure where the leak was coming from but would try and arrange for a plumber to carry out some tests. I agreed and she went home, Soraya returned to her apartment and I went back to my sandwich. I haven’t heard anything since so I’m hoping the cause of the problem was something entirely unrelated to my apartment.
Breakfast in America is as enjoyable as ever and we rotate duties regularly meaning that one day I am taking orders, the next I am on the door and the next I am on the bar. This creates a nice variety of tasks and regardless of what I’m doing I always have fun whilst I’m there. The staff are extremely easy to get along with and we all seem to have a similar sense of humour resulting in a great atmosphere.
When working on the door one is responsible for seating new customers and clearing tables. The restaurant is so popular and so small that there is nearly always a queue of at least twenty people in the evening and it is the job of the person on the door to explain to them how long the wait will be and to juggle tables to seat everyone as quickly as possible. There is a notice outside that asks customers to wait outside to be seated since there simply isn’t enough room for people to wait inside. Last week, when the restaurant was as full as it is possible to be, a group of four French girls came in, ignored the queue, and asked me if I had space for four. I looked at them for a moment trying to judge whether or not they were being serious and, deciding that they were, made a mock scan of the room as if to convey the fact that there wasn’t an empty seat in the place. They didn’t catch on. I explained that we didn’t have any seats at the moment but if they’d like to join the queue outside there’d be a wait of around 20 minutes. They smiled and explained that they only wanted to eat a couple of pieces of cheesecake. Rather than explaining that they should, in fact, wait longer than all the other people who were already in the queue and wanted proper meals, I explained again that we didn’t have any tables at the moment. They decided to order the cheesecake to take away but in the ten minutes they were waiting for their order insisted upon waiting at the bar, getting in everyone’s way and asking me continually if they could sit at every table for two that became vacant. We were all very glad to see the back of them.
Monday, November 16, 2009
My Neighbours
One of the many factors I dislike about flat living is the different smells that waft out from each flat as the inhabitant starts cooking their evening meal. In our building each floor is, naturally, linked by a staircase. However, there is an absence of any doors to seal off the floors and the result is a medley of odours from each floor amalgamating and hanging in the communal air until their go stale. Imagine, for example, floor one provides the fried onions, floor two provides steamed fish, floor three, roasted garlic and by the time you get to floor five with Soraya’s various curries and lamb dishes the air is so heavy with the various scents that it’s a huge relief to close the door on them all and breathe the relatively fresh, albeit slightly damp air, in my apartment. It seems that the patch of mould that is slowly moving its way across the ceiling is responsible for this but I have also noticed that the wall behind my bed is constantly wet so I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole apartment crumbled away to nothing before too long.
The inhabitants of my building are a varied bunch. On my floor there’s Soraya of course but there’s also the old man who lives directly opposite the staircase. We have a strange relationship – each morning I hear him shuffling past my apartment, unlocking the loo door and urinating loudly with the door wide open before shuffling back to his apartment without using the flush. This is followed by a bellow of range on my part when I visit the loo half an hour later to find a generous sprinkling of urine all over the stone floor and an unflushed bowl. I proceed to hammer loudly on the wall adjacent to his apartment whilst shouting obscenities before returning to my apartment and listening to some music at full volume to vent my anger. This is all played out anonymously and when we meet each other on the stairs we are, generally, perfectly amicable with one another and will discuss topics such as the weather and the state of the building. He’s a strange man, not least because he is in his sixties and living in a studio apartment, but he also has a lazy eye which always looks skyward and a slight limp. The thought of him shuffling past my door in his dressing gown and slippers at night is the stuff of nightmares.
On the floor above is a very cruel looking Iranian guy who is possibly one of the most unfriendly people I have ever met. He has a waxen complexion and is completely bald except for a thin sprinkling of black hair around the back and sides of his head. He wears dark, misshapen clothes and I have had the misfortune of coming out of my apartment just as he is going past and having to endure five flights of stairs looking at the back of his head. This has happened on several occasions and never has he made any attempt to smile or speak to me. Once he was eating a cream cheese sandwich and kept dropping pieces of cheese which he would scrape off the floor and wipe on his trousers.
On the third floor lives a rather large lady with a ruddy complexion and unkempt greying hair. She’s much more friendly than the Iranian man and will always stop to say hello no matter how short of breath she is from climbing the stairs (usually with an array of packages and boxes). She gives the impression of always being tremendously busy and I often see her stomping around in her hiking boots and cycle gear as if she’s just about to embark on an expedition to the Alps. The door to her apartment is surrounded with pot plants which I thought were hers until one day I saw the little old lady who lives next door to her tending to them.
The elderly lady who lives on the third floor inhabits the apartment on the left hand side and can usually be found either pruning, dead-heading, or watering her pot plants or else pottering about in the storage room which is full to bursting with old bed parts, microwaves, assorted pieces of broken furniture and paintings. She has fine, wispy white hair which she wears tied up in a loose bun and milky blue eyes. She reminds me very much of Kralefsky’s mother in Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals although she certainly isn’t bed-ridden nor are her flowers exactly exquisite. She too is very friendly and always calls me ‘Monsieur’ which, although relatively normal, still makes me feel rather important.
Finally there’s the man who lives upstairs who I originally met at the laundrette and lent some washing powder to. He likes to practise his English when we meet in the stairwell and claims that his girlfriend (who also lives with him apparently) is English.
Thus, these are the residents who I interact with on a regular basis and who make up life in my building. There are others; the two guys who come home each night at 1:30am and thunder up the stairs, the girl on floor two who had the house party for her birthday and the Chinese man and his wife who live on the fourth floor. However, the ones previously mentioned are the most relevant and interesting characters in the building, and I portray them in order to give you an impression of the various personalities flourishing in a little side street, near Gare de l’Est, in the 10th arrondissement.
The inhabitants of my building are a varied bunch. On my floor there’s Soraya of course but there’s also the old man who lives directly opposite the staircase. We have a strange relationship – each morning I hear him shuffling past my apartment, unlocking the loo door and urinating loudly with the door wide open before shuffling back to his apartment without using the flush. This is followed by a bellow of range on my part when I visit the loo half an hour later to find a generous sprinkling of urine all over the stone floor and an unflushed bowl. I proceed to hammer loudly on the wall adjacent to his apartment whilst shouting obscenities before returning to my apartment and listening to some music at full volume to vent my anger. This is all played out anonymously and when we meet each other on the stairs we are, generally, perfectly amicable with one another and will discuss topics such as the weather and the state of the building. He’s a strange man, not least because he is in his sixties and living in a studio apartment, but he also has a lazy eye which always looks skyward and a slight limp. The thought of him shuffling past my door in his dressing gown and slippers at night is the stuff of nightmares.
On the floor above is a very cruel looking Iranian guy who is possibly one of the most unfriendly people I have ever met. He has a waxen complexion and is completely bald except for a thin sprinkling of black hair around the back and sides of his head. He wears dark, misshapen clothes and I have had the misfortune of coming out of my apartment just as he is going past and having to endure five flights of stairs looking at the back of his head. This has happened on several occasions and never has he made any attempt to smile or speak to me. Once he was eating a cream cheese sandwich and kept dropping pieces of cheese which he would scrape off the floor and wipe on his trousers.
On the third floor lives a rather large lady with a ruddy complexion and unkempt greying hair. She’s much more friendly than the Iranian man and will always stop to say hello no matter how short of breath she is from climbing the stairs (usually with an array of packages and boxes). She gives the impression of always being tremendously busy and I often see her stomping around in her hiking boots and cycle gear as if she’s just about to embark on an expedition to the Alps. The door to her apartment is surrounded with pot plants which I thought were hers until one day I saw the little old lady who lives next door to her tending to them.
The elderly lady who lives on the third floor inhabits the apartment on the left hand side and can usually be found either pruning, dead-heading, or watering her pot plants or else pottering about in the storage room which is full to bursting with old bed parts, microwaves, assorted pieces of broken furniture and paintings. She has fine, wispy white hair which she wears tied up in a loose bun and milky blue eyes. She reminds me very much of Kralefsky’s mother in Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals although she certainly isn’t bed-ridden nor are her flowers exactly exquisite. She too is very friendly and always calls me ‘Monsieur’ which, although relatively normal, still makes me feel rather important.
Finally there’s the man who lives upstairs who I originally met at the laundrette and lent some washing powder to. He likes to practise his English when we meet in the stairwell and claims that his girlfriend (who also lives with him apparently) is English.
Thus, these are the residents who I interact with on a regular basis and who make up life in my building. There are others; the two guys who come home each night at 1:30am and thunder up the stairs, the girl on floor two who had the house party for her birthday and the Chinese man and his wife who live on the fourth floor. However, the ones previously mentioned are the most relevant and interesting characters in the building, and I portray them in order to give you an impression of the various personalities flourishing in a little side street, near Gare de l’Est, in the 10th arrondissement.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
A Tribute
I want to make a slight diversion from the normal route these musings take, although not entirely, to pay tribute to the King of Pop, Michael Jackson. It’s been almost five months since his death and a day hasn’t gone by when I haven’t listened to at least a couple of his songs. Sunday evenings at Breakfast in America have become comfortably familiar. More often than not I work with Josy and Ellie (who has mellowed a great deal since her argument with Ian and is now much more likeable) and we spend an enjoyable time working hard but also having fun. Occasionally we’ll ask the kitchen to make us some French toast towards the end of the evening which is always devoured in minutes. The atmosphere is great and staff and customers alike are always laughing and having a good time. A couple of months ago I made a playlist which we tend to use on Sunday evenings and, naturally, Michael Jackson is featured heavily. There is a huge range on the playlist including everyone from Aretha Franklin to Brian Adams. However, no one is as pleasing to the customers as Michel Jackson and when he is playing I can cast my eye around the room to be met with a sea of bobbing heads, tapping feet and even some dancing. There have been many squeals of appreciation as customers hear their first MJ song of the evening and whole groups sway in motion in time to the music. It really is a testament to his unrivalled talent and skill – he is known and appreciated the world over by all generations and I feel sure that his style and longevity will never be equalled.
I went to see ‘This is It’ at the cinema at Les Halles yesterday evening and, as predicted, there wasn’t an empty seat in the house. His dance moves and vocals were as impressive as ever and I’m sure the planned concerts would have been a huge success. I was also struck by his patience and gentle temper, something that seems to be a common trait amongst all his siblings the more I see of them on the television. Michael’s death really is a tragedy. Rest in Peace.
I went to see ‘This is It’ at the cinema at Les Halles yesterday evening and, as predicted, there wasn’t an empty seat in the house. His dance moves and vocals were as impressive as ever and I’m sure the planned concerts would have been a huge success. I was also struck by his patience and gentle temper, something that seems to be a common trait amongst all his siblings the more I see of them on the television. Michael’s death really is a tragedy. Rest in Peace.
Monday, November 2, 2009
It couldn't have turned out better, really...
Towards the end of a recent shift at BIA I was standing behind the bar with Josy when a homeless man entered and shuffled his way towards us. He stood by the bar and asked Josy for a coffee or some food. Josy called through to the kitchen who put together some nachos and some leftover chilli and passed it through to us in a take-away box. Whilst he was waiting the man kept making these strange clicking noises with his tongue which were starting to drive me crazy so I was glad when the food finally arrived. He looked at it and asked how he was supposed to heat it up since he didn’t have a micro-wave. Now, it wasn’t entirely cold and did, in fact, look rather delicious – I would have been happy to eat it myself. Josy said that we weren’t going to heat it up for him and he began to argue for a minute or two before shuffling out clicking away to himself. We were just discussing his audacity (the phrase ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ perhaps more appropriate than ever before) when he marched back in with his take-away box, dumped it on the bar and said if we weren’t going to heat it up then he didn’t want it - then he stormed out. This whole episode made me especially angry because Josy had taken the time to prepare this food for him, it was perfectly acceptable food, delicious even, and he had effectively thrown this act of kindness back in her face. To make matters worse he came in again the following week to ask for something to eat and we all rounded on him and categorically said ‘no’. He smiled sheepishly, realised he’d lost a potentially reliable source of food for ever, and walked out with his tail between his legs.
During the last couple of weeks I have encountered two further personalities in my classes which are worthy of a mention. The first is a Cambodian lady of about 60 called Pom. She is in an absolute beginners’ class which is exactly the right place for her since she is one of the most challenging students I’ve had yet. She’s rather an intimidating lady with a shock of black hair, very small eyes emphasized by her black rimmed glasses and a mouth which is forever coated in a thick layer of peach lip gloss. Throughout the lesson she sits to attention with her legs apart and takes on the appearance of some sort of Eastern dictator. Despite her appearance she’s actually fairly friendly but, as mentioned before, her English skills require a lot of improvement. As I repeat the phrases over and over again for her she jettisons further and further from the original version until she has effectively created an entirely new sentence altogether. It takes every ounce of energy to rein her in and have her repeat something even vaguely similar to what I have said. Her dictations are an absolute minefield and I am sure to allow at least half an hour for a single dictation in her group because, more often than not, I will have to re-write hers entirely. She really does write what she hears and, considering she has a very limited knowledge of English words, together with a very poor ear for sounds, this results in catastrophe.
The second student is a quiet but very likeable guy called Lionel. He’s in an intermediate group with two other students. All three are of a fairly similar standard and, as a result, are a lot easier to teach than Pom’s group. I was teaching them the expression ‘to cheer someone up’ last week, a classic, which no-one ever seems to understand. In an attempt to make it clearer I explained to them that I had been teaching for six hours, it would take me an hour to get home (I was in the 16th for this class) and I hadn’t eaten yet, as such I was in a rather bad mood (I wasn’t, in fact, but it helped to demonstrate the point). Then I asked Lionel what he would say to me to cheer me up. He was silent for a moment whilst he thought of something appropriate before he tentatively replied ‘Erm...you are a very sympathetic teacher...?’ I beamed at him and congratulated him on his success in cheering me up – it had, actually, done just that. Then I asked him if he had meant ‘sympathetic’ or nice and he replied ‘oui, oui, les deux’ which just helped to boost my cheeriness even further. They understood the novel expression and I got a little pick me up for the rest of the class – I plan to use the same technique as soon as I have to teach ‘to cheer someone up’ again.
Last week I received an email from ‘A La Carte’, the rental agency I was unceremoniously fired from when the owner found someone with more experience than me four days into my trial period. I opened it with some trepidation expecting to find some claim that they had overpaid me or similar. In fact, the General Manager, Anne, had written to offer me a different job at weekends welcoming the new arrivals and showing them into their apartment. Although this would, no doubt, have been fairly easy money and something I would have quite enjoyed, I am already at capacity when it comes to working hours and, more importantly, I have too much pride to go back to work for that creep with the cruel blue eyes and orangey perma-tan. However, having said that, I am grateful to him because things couldn’t have turned out better. I have a varied and interesting schedule, have met a great deal of new and interesting people and don’t have to sit in an office bored to tears all day long. He has helped to reinforce my desire never to return to office work either in France, the UK or anywhere else in the world for that matter.
During the last couple of weeks I have encountered two further personalities in my classes which are worthy of a mention. The first is a Cambodian lady of about 60 called Pom. She is in an absolute beginners’ class which is exactly the right place for her since she is one of the most challenging students I’ve had yet. She’s rather an intimidating lady with a shock of black hair, very small eyes emphasized by her black rimmed glasses and a mouth which is forever coated in a thick layer of peach lip gloss. Throughout the lesson she sits to attention with her legs apart and takes on the appearance of some sort of Eastern dictator. Despite her appearance she’s actually fairly friendly but, as mentioned before, her English skills require a lot of improvement. As I repeat the phrases over and over again for her she jettisons further and further from the original version until she has effectively created an entirely new sentence altogether. It takes every ounce of energy to rein her in and have her repeat something even vaguely similar to what I have said. Her dictations are an absolute minefield and I am sure to allow at least half an hour for a single dictation in her group because, more often than not, I will have to re-write hers entirely. She really does write what she hears and, considering she has a very limited knowledge of English words, together with a very poor ear for sounds, this results in catastrophe.
The second student is a quiet but very likeable guy called Lionel. He’s in an intermediate group with two other students. All three are of a fairly similar standard and, as a result, are a lot easier to teach than Pom’s group. I was teaching them the expression ‘to cheer someone up’ last week, a classic, which no-one ever seems to understand. In an attempt to make it clearer I explained to them that I had been teaching for six hours, it would take me an hour to get home (I was in the 16th for this class) and I hadn’t eaten yet, as such I was in a rather bad mood (I wasn’t, in fact, but it helped to demonstrate the point). Then I asked Lionel what he would say to me to cheer me up. He was silent for a moment whilst he thought of something appropriate before he tentatively replied ‘Erm...you are a very sympathetic teacher...?’ I beamed at him and congratulated him on his success in cheering me up – it had, actually, done just that. Then I asked him if he had meant ‘sympathetic’ or nice and he replied ‘oui, oui, les deux’ which just helped to boost my cheeriness even further. They understood the novel expression and I got a little pick me up for the rest of the class – I plan to use the same technique as soon as I have to teach ‘to cheer someone up’ again.
Last week I received an email from ‘A La Carte’, the rental agency I was unceremoniously fired from when the owner found someone with more experience than me four days into my trial period. I opened it with some trepidation expecting to find some claim that they had overpaid me or similar. In fact, the General Manager, Anne, had written to offer me a different job at weekends welcoming the new arrivals and showing them into their apartment. Although this would, no doubt, have been fairly easy money and something I would have quite enjoyed, I am already at capacity when it comes to working hours and, more importantly, I have too much pride to go back to work for that creep with the cruel blue eyes and orangey perma-tan. However, having said that, I am grateful to him because things couldn’t have turned out better. I have a varied and interesting schedule, have met a great deal of new and interesting people and don’t have to sit in an office bored to tears all day long. He has helped to reinforce my desire never to return to office work either in France, the UK or anywhere else in the world for that matter.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Parisian Personalities
Every one of my classes at Anglais Oral Accéléré contains different personalities and I have encountered a wide range of people. Some have an excellent sense of humour and are friendly and pleasant. Others are not so easy going and are so over confident in their own abilities that it takes a great deal of energy just to convey the necessary corrections. One of my favourite groups comprises Katie, Nadia and Hung. Hung is an extremely enthusiastic guy from Vietnam. He is fluent in French and in Vietnamese but has a great deal of difficulty pronouncing English words. Nevertheless, he tries hard, is very keen to learn and, the atmosphere in the group is such, that each member feels comfortable enough to laugh, either at their own mistakes or at those of others without any malice.
Nadia is an interesting character. She is, I suppose, in her late fifties and usually arrives late accompanied by a wave of expensive perfume, perfectly coiffeured hair and designer clothes. She apologises profusely for her lateness before settling herself into her chair and adopting a look of utter concentration which is only interrupted by fits of laughter at Hung’s mistakes. Last week we were discussing music and, when asked what kind of music she liked, she replied R and B. Interested as to whether or not she was just responding with the first thing that came into her head, I probed for a little more information. As it turns out Nadia is a fan of all the modern R and B artists including Chris Brown, Ne-Yo and Kanye West and listens to them on CD in her car. I have no doubt that this is, in fact, the case and I ca picture her cruising round the affluent 16th arrondissement in a brand new Mercedes sampling the newest tracks from her favourite artists.
One of my lessons yesterday was a new group and I could tell instantly that they were going to be an easy and rewarding group to teach. Firstly they were scheduled to complete the book in 15 hours as opposed to 30 - if people do very well in their original assessment, but not quite well enough to do the next level up, then this is what we recommend. Secondly they were friendly and adapted to the method very quickly. They seem to be a particularly studious group and when they were checking their dictation for mistakes it was highly amusing to listen to the low murmuring coming from each person interspersed with jubilant cries of ‘ahh oui!’, ‘J’ai oublié ca’ and ‘Ca s’ecrit comme ca!’. I had a big smile on my face by the time they had finished and I went round to each person to double check for errors they had missed.
Last weekend was particularly eventful and started with the Saturday night shift at Breakfast in America. Ian had been working since 11am and was to take an hour break at 6pm before coming back at 7pm. In the hour Ian was away Ellie worked behind the bar and I took care of the floor with Lucy who would be leaving for the evening at 7pm. The first point of contention arose when Ian returned. Ellie asked him to go behind the bar for the evening but, since he had already been behind the bar for seven hours that day he didn’t want to do it for the evening shift as well. I should point out that Ellie has no more authority than Ian, in fact, she doesn’t have any more authority than me either but does have the advantage of having been there longer. As I have mentioned before Ellie tends to flap and as a result loses her patience fairly soon into a busy shift. It didn’t help matters that almost every party were ordering milkshakes - something that vexes Ellie over anything else is making milkshakes – you have to ask the kitchen for the ice cream AND clean the blender afterwards, I mean, honestly!
As a result, Ellie was in a foul mood and snapped at Ian and me all evening, that was, until she needed stock from the cellar. She asked Ian who refused point blank and this was when things really came to a head. I was on the floor when I head Ellie scream something from the kitchen and Ian retaliate with a volley of abuse. Ellie banged down to the cellar and Ian returned to the floor looking a little sheepish. No one really spoke for the rest of the shift and when all the customers had left they really flew at each other. I went outside to sweep the pavement of discarded cigarette butts left my people waiting in line for a table and when I came back things had quietened down somewhat. By the time we left they seemed amiable enough to one another and we each went our separate ways to join our friends around the city who were taking advantage of ‘La Nuit Blanche’.
‘La Nuit Blanche’ involves artists displaying installations all around the city for one night only. The whole city comes out to view these attractions and there is a wonderful party atmosphere. By the time we had finished at Breakfast in America and had a couple of drinks after the shift it was nearly 1am and I went to meet the others in a pub. Needless to say I saw very little art that night which is inexcusable. Instead we moved from venue to venue before consuming a huge amount of food bought from a Greek take-away shop. The night ended with my struggling with the velibe system but eventually managing to release one and cycling home.
Nadia is an interesting character. She is, I suppose, in her late fifties and usually arrives late accompanied by a wave of expensive perfume, perfectly coiffeured hair and designer clothes. She apologises profusely for her lateness before settling herself into her chair and adopting a look of utter concentration which is only interrupted by fits of laughter at Hung’s mistakes. Last week we were discussing music and, when asked what kind of music she liked, she replied R and B. Interested as to whether or not she was just responding with the first thing that came into her head, I probed for a little more information. As it turns out Nadia is a fan of all the modern R and B artists including Chris Brown, Ne-Yo and Kanye West and listens to them on CD in her car. I have no doubt that this is, in fact, the case and I ca picture her cruising round the affluent 16th arrondissement in a brand new Mercedes sampling the newest tracks from her favourite artists.
One of my lessons yesterday was a new group and I could tell instantly that they were going to be an easy and rewarding group to teach. Firstly they were scheduled to complete the book in 15 hours as opposed to 30 - if people do very well in their original assessment, but not quite well enough to do the next level up, then this is what we recommend. Secondly they were friendly and adapted to the method very quickly. They seem to be a particularly studious group and when they were checking their dictation for mistakes it was highly amusing to listen to the low murmuring coming from each person interspersed with jubilant cries of ‘ahh oui!’, ‘J’ai oublié ca’ and ‘Ca s’ecrit comme ca!’. I had a big smile on my face by the time they had finished and I went round to each person to double check for errors they had missed.
Last weekend was particularly eventful and started with the Saturday night shift at Breakfast in America. Ian had been working since 11am and was to take an hour break at 6pm before coming back at 7pm. In the hour Ian was away Ellie worked behind the bar and I took care of the floor with Lucy who would be leaving for the evening at 7pm. The first point of contention arose when Ian returned. Ellie asked him to go behind the bar for the evening but, since he had already been behind the bar for seven hours that day he didn’t want to do it for the evening shift as well. I should point out that Ellie has no more authority than Ian, in fact, she doesn’t have any more authority than me either but does have the advantage of having been there longer. As I have mentioned before Ellie tends to flap and as a result loses her patience fairly soon into a busy shift. It didn’t help matters that almost every party were ordering milkshakes - something that vexes Ellie over anything else is making milkshakes – you have to ask the kitchen for the ice cream AND clean the blender afterwards, I mean, honestly!
As a result, Ellie was in a foul mood and snapped at Ian and me all evening, that was, until she needed stock from the cellar. She asked Ian who refused point blank and this was when things really came to a head. I was on the floor when I head Ellie scream something from the kitchen and Ian retaliate with a volley of abuse. Ellie banged down to the cellar and Ian returned to the floor looking a little sheepish. No one really spoke for the rest of the shift and when all the customers had left they really flew at each other. I went outside to sweep the pavement of discarded cigarette butts left my people waiting in line for a table and when I came back things had quietened down somewhat. By the time we left they seemed amiable enough to one another and we each went our separate ways to join our friends around the city who were taking advantage of ‘La Nuit Blanche’.
‘La Nuit Blanche’ involves artists displaying installations all around the city for one night only. The whole city comes out to view these attractions and there is a wonderful party atmosphere. By the time we had finished at Breakfast in America and had a couple of drinks after the shift it was nearly 1am and I went to meet the others in a pub. Needless to say I saw very little art that night which is inexcusable. Instead we moved from venue to venue before consuming a huge amount of food bought from a Greek take-away shop. The night ended with my struggling with the velibe system but eventually managing to release one and cycling home.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Schedules and Schemes
My classes at Anglais Oral Accéléré are mostly very enjoyable and the type of work affords a schedule that results in my having some time off during the day, either for lunch or a siesta, which is always nice. Since my working hours change each week it also doesn’t feel like a routine which prevents me from getting bored. There are two offices; one on Boulevard Voltaire near Oberkampft metro and the other in the prestigious 16th arrondissement on rue Paul Valery. I have to walk right past the Arc de Triomphe when at the Paul Valery office and it is then that I feel most like a true Paris resident as I’m casually listening to my iPod rather than snapping away at the arc or the Champs Elysees with a digital camera.
One day last week I had a two hour break between classes at the Paul Valery office so John and I decided to get something to eat. Most restaurants that we came across were very expensive and in the end we settled on a somewhat dubious looking Chinese in the next street along from the office. It was a tiny little place and all the food was pre-cooked and sitting in trays waiting to be micro-waved by the staff behind the counter. There were just two other guys inside sitting at the counter talking quietly. I strolled in feeling rather confident of my French at that point and, as a result of being so used to working at Breakfast in America, announced to the room ‘Bonjour, vous etes deux’, what I should have said was ‘nous sommes deux’ – there are two of us, instead of there are two of you. The people behind the counter looked at me, somewhat puzzled, whilst John burst out laughing and I hurriedly ordered my food and went to sit down with a very red face.
Yesterday I was, once again, given a demonstration of how much poverty there is in Paris and, as a result, the numerous scams people come up with in an attempt to save money. I was exiting Oberkampft metro on my way to teach a class and as the automatic barriers swung open to let me through a homeless man with filthy clothes, a wild mop of tangled hair and a stench unlike any other shoved me to one side in an attempt to get through the barriers before they closed. At first I naturally assumed I was in his way for some reason so made an attempt to move to one side before my brain caught up and I came to the conclusion that, for once, I wasn’t in the wrong. He was far too late anyway and the barriers had shut behind me long before he had a chance to get through. Nevertheless he kept on struggling to get past me and when faced with an unusual situation I usually switch back to English and so, in my best English accent, I asked him to ‘please get out of the way’. When I was clear of the barriers I looked back to see him struggling with the queue of people who were exiting after me, none of whom looked at all impressed with his efforts.
After this little episode my student who I was supposed to be teaching that afternoon was an hour late. It wasn’t worth going home again so I was getting some fresh air outside the office when a man walked past me and bent down to pick up a ring he had allegedly found on the pavement. In fact, he had had it in his hand all along and I had been warned of this scam before. He offered it to me and I said I didn’t want it but he kept on persisting and in the end I raised my voice and said that he should have it if it was such a nice ring. The scheme is such that when some unsuspecting individual accepts the ring, along with the unexpected kindness of a complete stranger, the scammer demands five euros for it. Since they have owned it all along it is probably made from a worthless metal and spray-painted gold. I wanted to explain that I didn’t want a great fat gold wedding band that he had ‘found’ on the pavement, that I knew he hadn’t found it at all and that I certainly wouldn’t pay him for something if he had found it on the street, but I don’t think my French would have been quite up to it.
One day last week I had a two hour break between classes at the Paul Valery office so John and I decided to get something to eat. Most restaurants that we came across were very expensive and in the end we settled on a somewhat dubious looking Chinese in the next street along from the office. It was a tiny little place and all the food was pre-cooked and sitting in trays waiting to be micro-waved by the staff behind the counter. There were just two other guys inside sitting at the counter talking quietly. I strolled in feeling rather confident of my French at that point and, as a result of being so used to working at Breakfast in America, announced to the room ‘Bonjour, vous etes deux’, what I should have said was ‘nous sommes deux’ – there are two of us, instead of there are two of you. The people behind the counter looked at me, somewhat puzzled, whilst John burst out laughing and I hurriedly ordered my food and went to sit down with a very red face.
Yesterday I was, once again, given a demonstration of how much poverty there is in Paris and, as a result, the numerous scams people come up with in an attempt to save money. I was exiting Oberkampft metro on my way to teach a class and as the automatic barriers swung open to let me through a homeless man with filthy clothes, a wild mop of tangled hair and a stench unlike any other shoved me to one side in an attempt to get through the barriers before they closed. At first I naturally assumed I was in his way for some reason so made an attempt to move to one side before my brain caught up and I came to the conclusion that, for once, I wasn’t in the wrong. He was far too late anyway and the barriers had shut behind me long before he had a chance to get through. Nevertheless he kept on struggling to get past me and when faced with an unusual situation I usually switch back to English and so, in my best English accent, I asked him to ‘please get out of the way’. When I was clear of the barriers I looked back to see him struggling with the queue of people who were exiting after me, none of whom looked at all impressed with his efforts.
After this little episode my student who I was supposed to be teaching that afternoon was an hour late. It wasn’t worth going home again so I was getting some fresh air outside the office when a man walked past me and bent down to pick up a ring he had allegedly found on the pavement. In fact, he had had it in his hand all along and I had been warned of this scam before. He offered it to me and I said I didn’t want it but he kept on persisting and in the end I raised my voice and said that he should have it if it was such a nice ring. The scheme is such that when some unsuspecting individual accepts the ring, along with the unexpected kindness of a complete stranger, the scammer demands five euros for it. Since they have owned it all along it is probably made from a worthless metal and spray-painted gold. I wanted to explain that I didn’t want a great fat gold wedding band that he had ‘found’ on the pavement, that I knew he hadn’t found it at all and that I certainly wouldn’t pay him for something if he had found it on the street, but I don’t think my French would have been quite up to it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
