The Latest in Striking Workers

Ring, ring…

Ed calls me right after I drop the boys off at school to tell me that the buses seem not to be running quite right today and that we may have trouble getting to chess class this afternoon. 

Ring, ring…

Ten minutes later Ed calls me and tells me that he is walking to work and that he overheard a woman speaking in Russian on her phone.  He struck up a conversation with her and discovered that the buses were not working because there was a protest in the center of town.  “What is it about?” I ask.  He wasn’t sure… the Russian woman seemed very apolitical to him and she was just disgruntled about the lack of proper bussing.  Did I think that I might be able to do a bit of reconnaissance to discover more about the protest?  Ed was hoping for something really big…

I decided to curtail my morning plans and walk down to the Rotonde.  Sure enough, as I got down to the Cours Mirabeau and looked down towards the fountain the roads were all blocked off.  Delivery van after delivery van after delivery van, all parked cheek and jowl.  There was a small group gathered nearby and I took one of the flyers being distributed.  No chanting, no discussion, just one sign stating, “Rendez-nous notres Mardis.” Give us back our Tuesdays.  Hmmmmmm……

When I arrived back at the house I sat down to finish deciphering the flyer.  It turned out that the protest was being staged by the regular market vendors who sell on the Cours Mirabeau on a weekly basis.  They set up their stalls and sell lots of household items as well as fashion items all at bargain prices.  However, their location had been upstaged by the city installing “chalets” for the Christmas season.  There is now a long line of charming wooded chalets, all identical and all selling holiday items at holiday prices. 

The venders were upset because they could no longer set up their wares along the highly social and commercial strip of the Cours Mirabeau.  The city was trying to be accommodating and offered a different, equally long, strip of sidewalk space along a different road extending from the Rotonde, the stretch between the Rotonde and the Gare Routiere, the bus station.  However the venders were less than pleased to set up along a functional strip of walkway, rather than the chi-chi, coffee-drinking, people-watching stretch of the Cours Mirabeau. 

“Seule solution, que nous regrettons: Bloquer la ville, pour une duree indeterminee…” Their only solution, which they regret, is to block the city, for an undetermined amount of time…

So, for the last several days we have worked our way around the protest.  The city has provided police officers to block off the blockage, the buses have all been rerouted and mostly life is going on as normal.  The venders continue to protest, instead of selling their goods, and to complain that they are losing over four months worth of income over the displacement.  Vive la France!

Home Sweet Home

Today I went out for coffee for the first time since I have been here.  Not that I am a big go-out-for-coffee kind of person, but it was really nice and really normalizing.  I chat so much with people as I walk to and from school, or while waiting on the play yard or even at the park.  So it was really nice to have coffee with another Canadian mom who is also going through a similar experience. 

I won’t call what I am feeling right now homesickness.  I am not teary, not stymied, life is still marching on, and things are basically good and optimistic.  But I do notice when the time of day comes that someone in my family is finally awake.  Or when the world in Canada is finally up and posting on Facebook.  And even Noah will ask me several times each week if his friends are eating breakfast while we are eating lunch, or if they still have school on Wednesdays, even if we do not. 

I find myself curious about the events that I would normally take part in… the school events, my book club, goings-on at the public library.  I think about the seasons of the year as I experience them in Canada.  The raking of leaf piles, the running of the salmon, the need for a warmer hat. 

There are seasons here, too.  The chestnut tree has dropped all of  its leaves, the weather has gotten “fresh” and boots are out in full swing around here. 

Don’t get me wrong, I really still am glad to be here.  But as we slow down a bit on the road trips, and as I start to realize just how far I still have to go before I feel like I can “speak” French, I wax nostalgic over the ease of my life in Canada.  My mom points out the ease of life on a sabbatical, where our toughest immediate decision is where to spend our Christmas holiday.  And I will agree that there is a lot of freedom when you know that you are only in a place for a year.  It is a lot easier to leave behind some off the daily grind and just pick up and go.  There are fewer commitments, fewer obligations.  Yet I can walk into any store and explain any help I need in Canada without feeling like I just asked the salesclerk if I could please have some green horns to help me sweep my kitchen.  And I can send my kids out to play in a park, even on the grass. 

The winds are blowing strong today, and I think it brings my moods along with them.  I find myself laughing out loud at the honking horns on the street signaling a wedding, and then wanting to cry over the ups and downs of kids cooped up indoors.  Wanting to dress up in a skirt and boots, yet wanting to cozy up in my yoga pants with a good book.  And I even realized today that there is no fireplace here.  Maybe I can claim that Pere Noel has different ways of entering households than Santa? 

When I get tempestuous like this it also makes me wonder how my kids are handling all of this.  At least I have the language skills to explain how I feel, and the life experiences to help me sort through my feelings with a certain understanding.  Yes, each boy has had their moments of challenge.  We’ve dealt with challenges over the schoolwork, challenges over the long days, challenges over expressing oneself in French ALL the time.  My father-in-law seems to think that we’ve offered the boys a strong steady constant of family and that that has helped everyone transition into our life here.  And really, that is what I keep coming back to when I feel off… the caring for our family, the caring for our home.  And all else seems to follow after that. 

photos of Carcasonne

Photos from the bike trip

My Civics Course

Last Thursday morning I woke up early in order to catch the bus down to Marseille.  It was, after all, the day for my big civics course and the note for the convocation stated very clearly that it would start promptly at 9:00.  Riding on a full bus of commuters, I read the free local paper as we travelled, getting myself in the mood for a day of French.  There seemed just enough time to walk instead of taking the metro so I headed due south.  I found the building without too much trouble and saw another person carrying a blue folder like mine.  Heading up the stairs I found one other woman waiting outside the door.  It was about ten to nine and the door was locked.  Around nine o’clock there was one other gentleman who had shown up.  Five minutes later there was a woman who seemed surprised that the door was closed.  She banged loudly, a man opened the door for us, and we all went in. 

This woman turned out to be our instructor.  She popped behind the desk and puttered around.  Her phone kept ringing, and as I listened carefully (as any good eavesdropping foreigner has no shame in doing) I stopped short.  Could she be… was she really… yes, she was speaking Russian.  About fifteen minutes later, after aforesaid gentleman quizzed me on green card requirements for his family member in the U.S., the woman invited us into the room.  At about this time another woman showed up only speaking in English.  The woman was very disapproving but said that she could translate the main points throughout the day.  That was the last we heard of her English!

As we filed into the room, giving up our letters of convocation, another woman showed up without her letter.  This woman was denied entrance.  She called her boyfriend on the phone, yelling about how she couldn’t possibly take the bus back home (all in English, again) because she was here and she had an appointment.  The Russian lady was unimpressed.  The woman then put her boyfriend on the phone to speak with the instructor, who then refused.  All at top volume, all right in front of the group.  The woman eventually went away, not making any headway, and our Russian instructor answered a few more calls from her family members.  Finally, over an hour after the class was due to start, we began. 

We all introduced ourselves (in French) and had to state why we were there.  The well-duh answer was that we were told we had to come, but that wasn’t what she wanted to hear.  The very first man up was a Muslim (important later in the story, I promise) who was on his sixth French wife.  He was looking to become a citizen.  There were a number of other interesting characters in the room, with varying facility in the French language. 

And then the lessons began.  Sort of.  Our instructor began with an overview of the day.  Right off, the man in the back entered into a discussion of why a large mosque could not be built in Marseille.  There was a high school girl who attended a private school somewhere along the Southern coast who jumped right into this discussion. (She was dressed in a full-body head-covering, Muslim as well.)  The two of them argued and debated with the instructor for probably a good half-hour, maybe more, before we turned to the first REAL topic slated for the day.  French history.  Yes, we meandered our way through ancient history, medieval times, the French Revolution all the way through the world wars and modern times.  The Edict of Nantes, Charlemagne, all of the Louis’, you name it, we covered it. 

We covered the structure of the government and the rights of all people living in France.  A good deal of discussion was had over the rights of women.  And at the end we were given a list of scenarios and asked to verify the veracity of each statement.  Pretty straightforward.  Could have been covered in an hour and a half by a competent instructor. One who did not engage with every tiny provocation from the peanut gallery.

Because not only did we cover the lack of a large mosque in Marseille, we had the opportunity to sing the French national anthem and discuss in great detail why it was still appropriate to sing in the present day.  We also discussed the possibility of marrying a monkey, U. S. health care (complete with pantomime and role-play demonstrating an ambulance pulling up to the scene and asking for health insurance – yes, hop right in – no pack up and drive away), the appropriateness of same-sex couples and the unfortunate lack of support for arranged marriages.  There were numerous discussions that took us way off topic, and there were numerous groupings around the room that would have no respect for the classroom environment and simply carry on their own discussion, at top volumes.  And the instructor would simply move to a different area of the room to discuss with those few who were still looking at her while she tried to instruct. 

It will not surprise you, then, that at the end of the day the instructor announced to us that normally, at the end of the day, we would receive a diploma certifying that we had completed the module.  However, for some reason all of the documents that she had for us were marked with the date of September 19^th.  “What do you mean, that date has no meaning for any of you?” was her reaction.  She then passed around several sheets of paper on which we were to write our contact info (why she did not have a list of who we were from the start is not a question I wanted to bring up) and assured us that we would receive our copies via the mail. 

I left the building, grateful for my one hour luncheon in the sun, down by the waterfront watching all of the boats (during which time an older gentleman approached me to ask if the scarf I had just started knitting was to be sold as a souvenir for tourists – I had to admit that it was for my son and was indeed also a tourist myself), and grateful that all of the steps in becoming settled here in France were now complete.  That is, until the next letter I receive in the mail…

Working with the Schools

When I was teaching in the classroom I had amongst my students a number who came from countries other than the U.S.  Many spoke English well enough to communicate with me and with the school administration, some did not.  Those who did not I spoke with in Spanish, or invited a translator to facilitate our communication.  But one thing that always surprised me was something that, without realizing my prejudices, I took as disrespect for the school.  When I sent home work, it would only sometimes be acknowledged with a signature, or if I needed a permission form for a field trip it would not always come in the what-I-took-to-be-easy form that I had sent out.  Sometimes papers would be returned but with rips or stains, or other markings. Little did I know the back story behind the misunderstandings…

Well, this year, even more so than when we first moved to Canada, I am that immigrant parent.  I am the one who always questions the directeur/directrice of the boys’ schools about the sign posted up for parents.  Every other parent seems to know what will occur when the teachers strike, every other parent seems unconcerned with the notice that a docteur will be examining all the children.  Yet there I was, asking if I would need to provide the vaccination records again, or if my children were still able to go to school despite the striking teachers.  (The answer was yes, as only some of the pre-determined teachers were striking, but not the ones who taught my children.  However lunch was not served on that day for any of the children, regardless of who taught them.)

I am the parent who really hesitated when the teacher asked for a change of clothes to be sent in Noah’s backpack.  The boy only has five outfits, and sending one in the backpack meant one less choice for the other days.  Plus his number of long pants and long-sleeve shirts is even fewer, so Noah’s “change” will stay as shorts and a t-shirt through-out the winter season.  I also fretted quite a bit to see the paint stains on his t-shirt earlier this fall, as I wasn’t sure it was washable paint and to wear a stained t-shirt in France seems to be quite frowned upon.

I am the parent who signed my permission for Julian’s field trip in the “liaison” notebook because there was no other obvious place to sign.  I am the parent who sent in a ripped field trip form to Noah’s teacher because I left the important paper on the place where it was most likely to be seen and dealt with – the kitchen table.  The form was later dripped on and then torn in its removal from the table.  I am the one who sent in her parent representative election form with a butter stain, for the same reason. (I think there is a strong message here but, for the life of me, I cannot think of another free visible surface in this home.)

I have also used our non-French status to explain to my kids that if we mess up with the schools there probably will be a little bit of flexibility allowed exactly because we are unfamiliar with the language and the system.  When we kept the kids out of school this morning to go and pick up their cartes du sejour, Julian asked me if he would need an absentee slip in order to reenter the school.  (Each child is allotted exactly eight absentee slips, and we have hopes of a few extra holidays for travel afar.) I decided not to send any in, as I had already spoken with the principals and no mention was made of needing a slip. And if one was needed, I would play my I-didn’t-know-about-that card.

So I guess all this is to say that I have a better understanding now of why a little bit more flexibility and understanding on the behalf of immigrant families is vital to the success of home/school communications.  We all are trying the very best that we can, and we are all improving bit by bit, even if it is hard for the schools and teachers to see.  I am just that bit more humble on a daily basis.  And I am glad for that. 

Hopping on our Horses

This last week the boys have been off from school.  Ed did a bit of research and discovered a group in the Loire Valley that rents out bikes, makes hotel and restaurant reservations and gives you detailed directions for a multi-day bike trip.  We thought that an active vacation would make a nice change of pace and signed ourselves up. 

As the trip got closer we noticed that the long-term weather forecast was less than stellar.  That sent us on a week-long search for rain clothes.  After our eventual success, we were now equipped with rain coats, rain pants and a whole host of plastic bags (for which the French seem to have an enormous love – every purchase, no matter how large or small, is tidily packaged into a plastic sack, and multiple items will sometimes even warrant multiple sacks). 

As you well know, our family has no great feelings for long road trips.  We broke down and bought a portable DVD player to help us get through the travels, and carted several loads of books and movies from the library to make it through the 8 hours predicted for the voyage there.  With Ed’s Ipad loaded up with directions and maps, and our handy-dandy atlas on my lap we started out. 

After losing the directions Ed had so expertly loaded onto his Ipad, I navigated our way to Blois via the Atlas.  The city pops up across the Loire river, with its grand chateau and cathedrals, and was a very exciting first visual to our trip.  We found the hotel, after maneuvering a number of Boston-like one-way streets, and unloaded our bags into the two rooms.  We had arrived just in time for our first dinner, which turned out to be a full French-style meal.  The kids were thrilled to note all of the models based on the Tintin stories decorating the dining room. 

Noah, our self-declared vegetarian in the family, and I were allowed to choose an entrée (starter dish) with the meat taken out and then offered a dish of cooked vegetables.  The rest of the family chose varying forms of meat.  Julian selected the first of his many salmon dishes, Ed the first of his “alternative” meats, and Micah the first of many steaks and/or burgers.  Noah refused any and all desserts throughout the trip, Ed chose the cheese platter, and the other boys and I ordered fruit desserts.  Unfortunately for me, as soon as Noah finished his plat principal he announced that he needed to poo.  This was the first of many mid-dinner bodily interruptions, after which he decided that it was time for bed.  At least I have one child who knows to listen to his body’s inner rhythms!  So, skipping my Tarte Tatin, we went up to bed. 

Waking up the next morning, we looked at the posted weather forecast.  Scattered showers, each day.  Well, at least we had our rain gear.  After a breakfast full of croissants, baguettes, coffees, chocolates chauds, and other sundry breakfast treats, we went out behind the hotel to see that there were only three bicycles, rather than the four we had requested.  The tour group had been encouraging us to put Noah in the trailer, Micah on the suiveur-velo, and Julian on a regular bicycle, while we had hoped for the suiveur-velo for Noah, two bicycles for the older boys, and the trailer just-in-case, but mostly for our backpacks.  The luggage was, luckily, portaged from hotel to hotel for us by the bike company. 

After a bit of waiting for the new bicycle, we picked up some baguettes for lunch and parked the car in long-term parking.  Organizing all the gear into the bags, drying off all of the seats and bars and handles from the previous night’s rain, we prepared to go.  We walked the bike down off of the main hill in town and found an alley-way in which Micah could practice using the enormous bike they delivered.  A fair amount of frustration ensued.  From Micah about the very high seat and the hand-brakes.  From Julian about having to wait even longer to start.  From Noah about having to balance on the suiveur-velo.  Finally biking through the alley-ways, we got back to the same bridge over the Loire River.  Let’s just say that the view was lost this time around.  Micah decided to run his bike over the (very long) bridge, while Julian hollered at him from behind as he tried to pedal over the bridge. 

On the other side we let Ed be the biking “expert” to give Micah some “tips” while Julian and I forged our way ahead as navigators.  We biked along the riverbank and passed a playground that WAY surpassed any we’ve seen thus far in France.  However there was no way we were going to stop this early in the voyage as it was already almost eleven and we had thirty kilometers to go before reaching our lodgings for the night. 

Pedaling at a snail’s pace, we quickly realized that the directions were excellent.  The adults had a sort of water-proof lectern attached to the handle-bars, so we mounted our directions inside and read along as we pedaled.  I had taken a few moments at the beginning of the trip to try to figure out the little time/distance/speed meter they gave us.  I could navigate most of the system, except for the part where the kilometers started at thirteen instead of zero.  So, all of my kilometer markings were thirteen kilometers off. 

There was a bit of spitting rain as we pedaled along, but not enough to stop or even bring out the rain gear.  However, as we made our way into the farmlands around Blois we turned back to see an enormous, very dark, very ominous-looking cloud following us.  And sure enough, as we neared the 10-kilometer mark, the skies opened up.  Our first instinct was to pull out all the rain-gear.  With water-proof pants and rain-coats on, we hopped on and crossed a small bridge.  It was very quickly clear that this was no quick-passing cloud.  Luckily, we were at the edge of a small town, just before 13:00.  We covered up the bikes with plastic bags and popped into the boulangerie right before it closed.  With sandwiches in hand, the woman directed us to a covered awning where we could picnic and pass out the rain-storm.  And sure enough, half an hour later we were ready to go. 

The rest of the trip sort of blurs together.  We biked another long bit and ended up at the Chateau of Chambord, an enormous fairy-tale castle with endless turrets and rooms galore.  As it was already mid-afternoon, we decided to forgo the tour of the interior and just wandered the grounds.  It is amazing how the muscles used for walking feel so different after a day of biking!  After a snack of what was meant to be our lunch before the rainstorm required us to stop at the boulangerie, we hopped back on our horses and headed off to Bracieux for the night.  30 kilometers in total, we arrived at the hotel, just about ready to go to bed. 

However, it turned out that we were slated for another big French meal.  This one, however, was not in the hotel restaurant but in the town of Bracieux, a kilometer walk away!  Micah was quite uncomfortable, as his bike was the least well fitting.  He went the full 1000 meters in a saddle-sore cowboy hobble, wide-legged as if he was still on his horse!  On the way we passed a pharmacy, where Ed talked around Micah’s problem in the hopes of acquiring some sort of soothing cream or lotion.  And off to the restaurant where Noah and I had another large salad with a plat principal of cooked vegetables, Julian another plate of salmon, Ed had rabbit, and Micah had another steak with fries.  Again, Noah needed to excuse himself mid-meal, and again he decided the meal was done after his plat principal, so Ed and Noah left early while the other boys and I had dessert. 

The next morning we awoke to another yummy croissant and baguette breakfast and prepared to go. I had packed the suitcases reserving one for the biking part of the trip and the other for the sightseeing portion.  However, each night and morning was a tizzy of organizing to get out/put back the needed pajamas, changes for the next day and any needed toiletries, books, foods that we would need.  After each leg of the voyage I got better at replacing our luggage and by the last night I could unpack/repack without too much thought.  But that first morning took a bit a time to wrap my brain around the needed items. 

After a short tantrum, we set out and biked a short 3 kilometers and stopped at our first chateau for the day, Villaneuves.  This one turned out to be a bit disappointing, except for the large bag of stale baguettes the gate-guard gave us to feed the carp in the moat.  The chateau was run-down, and the interior was not open to the public at this time of year.  There was a nominally interesting, and a bit creepy, museum of wedding items, including over 300 wedding globes, a category of which I had never before encountered.  Back onto the bikes, we headed off to Cheverny.

The countryside was idyllic.  Working farmlands, in contrast to the previous day’s woodlands, small farmhouses and outbuildings in contrast to the previous day’s larger villes, the countryside easily filled up our souls.  After a total of 12 kilometers for the day, we arrived in the town of Cheverny.  Our hotel was closed for the luncheon hour, so we biked a bit further into the Chateau of Cheverny and had a picnic lunch. 

The grounds of Cheverny were filled with things to do.  We started with the Tintin museum.  Tintin is a reporter character in a 1940s/1950s comic book, and the home of one of the other characters, Captain Haddock, is based on the Chateau of Cheverny.  The museum housed items from the stories, as well as film footage of some of the cartoons and the boys were riveted.  . 

Popping out of the museum, we saw a worker pushing a large wheelbarrow towards an enclosure filled with hunting hounds.  On closer look, the wheelbarrow was filled with chicken carcasses to be fed to the dogs.  The scent was, um, overpowering.  The worker dumped the chickens onto the ground, covered them with some sort of kibble and then left to go clean another section of the enclosure.  But the poor dogs were still trapped above, smelling their, um, delicious chickens and forced to watch and wait.  Half an hour later the first twenty dogs were released to eat, and five minutes later the rest of the pack was set loose.  It was quite the sight to see the carcasses dissembled and the dogs devouring their meal come hell or highwater, climbing one upon the other in the small space.  The boys’ biggest memory of the event was one dog peeing blood on another.  Yet there was signage all around proclaiming the humane housing facilities and the high levels of health and safety for the animals.  Suffice it to say that I have never in my life experienced anything like it. 

After a wander around the grounds we took a tour through the actual chateau.  Cheverny, as have many of the chateaus we have toured, has a quiz for children to help them access and understand the antiquities which they see.  Julian and Micah went through, room by room and learned about the interesting details of this particular chateau, who lived there, who visited, the various and sundry forms of hunting and fighting gear, etc.  At the end of the tour the kids get a token treat as a reward.  Noah had a good time as well, running around down the garden paths while his brothers explored the chateau. 

The hotel finally opened up and we checked into our room.  With two hours to go until dinner, we vegged out in the dormitory-style room.  When dinner opened we were there, with slightly lesser hopes for our dinner based on the appearances of the hotel itself.  But boy, were we wrong.  This meal was by far the nicest of the three, and the cheese course was just stunning.  Twenty or so cheeses to choose from, lots of expert advice as to what to choose with what, what order to consume the cheeses, etc.  The meals were stellar and there was even a couple not staying at the hotel who had come for a tasting menu.  It looked stunning. 

Waking up the next morning we packed up and got going for one last ride.  The optional chateau ended up being closed during the mornings, and we weren’t going to wait four more hours.  So we basically biked for most of the day, with a stop at a boulangerie/patisserie with lines out the door.  And when we ate our sandwiches and after-meal choco-treats we could see why.  It was quite surreal, too, as the store was on a fairly industrial strip just off the highway.  We ate on an abandoned bridge that resembled a Roman aqueduct. 

Arriving back in Blois, we retraced our tears and tantrums, stopping to actually play at the awesome (read, best in France) playground.  And that was that.  75 kilometers later, and with no-longer-aching muscles, we all felt pretty proud of our accomplishments and pretty happy with the state of our worlds.  Go D-S Family, go!

We took the next three days to get back to Aix-en-Provence, touring one last chateau, stopping by the Lascaux Caves (one of the foremost examples of early cave art) and staying overnight and then touring Carcasonne, a medieval walled city with lots of crevices for exploration and charging the imagination. 

And, one week later, we returned to Aix-en-Provence, ready for life again.  That is, after our friend’s Halloween fete!