The birds et la bise

So, I've now had a full week of teaching under my belt. Much to my surprise, it's all gone relatively smoothly and so far my fears about nightmare students have been mostly unfounded- all of the classes I've taught have seemed interested and eager to learn.

That said, there's always one or two 'characters' in every class, and it doesn't seem to be any different in France. I've started most of my lessons with a simple activity stolen from another assistant at our training day where every member of the class introduces themselves with two facts and a lie about themselves, which unfortunately didn't take too long to backfire on me. Upon asking the first student in the class to introduce himself, he smirked and said;

"Hello- my name is Bastian, I am 15 years old and I really like English people."

Nice to meet you too, Bastian. That said, this quintessentially French kind of politeness is something I've been growing used to in the few weeks since I've arrived. After holding a door open for a fellow teacher the other day, she laughed out loud at me and said that no-one in France had ever done that for her before, before shouting at a bemused-looking colleague across the room;

"Il est... un gentleman!"

For the record, there is a French word for 'gentleman' (gentilhomme) but these teachers admitted that they don't really use it very often... because you don't meet French 'gentlemen' very often. Or ladies, for that matter- apparently the French just don't do 'manners' as well as the British. And while I don't particularly want this post to descend into mindless frog-bashing,* it's not particularly hard to see why.

*I do really

The word 'manners' does exist in French (manières) but that's another word they don't seem to use very much. Nope- the French much prefer their etiquette, which may initially seem similar but in reality they couldn't be further apart. 'Manners' are holding doors open so they don't slam shut in other people's faces, giving up your seat to the elderly on public transport and closing your mouth while eating so not everyone has to watch you chew your beautifully prepared lasagne up into a disgusting saliva-drenched slurry.

Etiquette, however, is something different- a set of largely inexplicable social practices that seem to have no tangible benefit apart from giving snobbish highbrow types something to sneer down their noses at perceived lesser beings for. Etiquette is sticking out your little finger while you drink your tea. Etiquette is having two different forms of the word 'you' which serve no purpose apart from mortally offending people when you get it wrong. Etiquette is la fucking bise.

What a Frenchman would probably look like drinking tea

La bise was something I didn't know much about before I came to France, which means it's proved to be a bit of a social minefield for me. In case you were wondering, la bise is the name for the French tradition of cheek-kissing when meeting people, and it's a very prominent part of the national culture here. The first thing I learnt about it once I arrived was that it doesn't actually involve cheek kissing- more a cheek-graze and a puckered-up air kiss over each shoulder, which somehow feels even more ridiculous than it sounds. The second thing I learnt about it is that even the French don't seem to understand it completely.

The main issue is that there doesn't seem to be any particular defined 'first cheek.' I've tended to go for left cheek first, as from what I've seen so far that seems to be how most people do it and so it's definitely the safer choice. But this isn't universal by any means, which leads to all sorts of awkward moments when you're trying to greet someone you haven't met before and your faces collide mid-pucker.

The general consensus amongst the English seems to be that la bise is the sort of ridiculously stupid tradition that only the French could come up with, so our group has mostly resorted to greeting each other with hugs instead. Far easier. But having talked to a number of French people about it, they've unsurprisingly all disagreed with me, defiantly insisting that it's a good way to break the ice. Which is bollocks.

It breaks the ice with new acquaintances in the same way the Titanic probably left a bit of a dent in that iceberg- it doesn't really matter how much metaphorical ice you've broken when your bise faux-pas has just sunk your budding friendship in a murky sea of awkwardness before it ever really had a chance to begin.

(PS: very sorry about the shameless title. Here's a picture of some birds too so you don't feel quite so misled)

It's aaall gravy. And custard

You know that stubborn, middle-aged and slightly technophobic man we've all had to put up with at some point in our lives? You know the type. He's usually in his mid-fifties, only a few years away from succumbing permanently to the guilty geriatric pleasure of elastic waistbands and is probably the sort of person who has responded to the realisation that his ear-hair has grown longer than his hairline by completely shaving his head in a tragically failed attempt to try and prove that he doesn't care.

We're talking about the sort of man who still owns the same Nokia 1610 that was outdated when he bought it in 1997, and who feels the need to disdainfully point out to anyone who's oh-so-clearly wasted their money on a phone released in the current millennium that 'you only need a phone to make calls!' The kind of technologically-resistant figure that's becoming rarer and rarer thanks to the ever-increasing relevance of the smartphone to the older generations, mostly due to the advent of cheap iOS apps for playing Bridge on the move as well as the odd game of Foxy Bingo. But if you think back just a few years, it shouldn't be too hard to remember just how annoying these people were.

So it is with regret that I tell you that I have become that person. Well, hopefully minus the fondness for stretchy waistbands. But after a week trying to sort out a working French mobile, I've been left a broken man.

Having spent most of the last week trying to put together the stupidly long list of requirements necessary for a new phone contract in France, I finally returned to the shop to get it sorted. In a typical display of French efficiency, it took almost an hour and a half before I left with my new SIM card, which would have been understandable if they'd needed to do anything more than photocopy my passport and nod sagely at the pile of paperwork I'd brought them. But eventually I got out, went home and tried it out.

Everything seemed to be working. I could send texts, my BBM still seemed to work and I even managed to successfully download and play a bit of Bomberman vs Zombies. Delighted, I dialled in my home number to let people know I'd finally got a French number, only to be faced with an error- All outgoing calls blocked. 

Why is nothing ever easy in France? After a bit of testing, it turned out I couldn't receive calls either, so I'd signed up to a phone contract with which I couldn't actually phone anyone. After going into the shop to explain my dilemma, the shop assistant admitted they didn't know how to fix it... so she gave me a customer service number to call.

If you've noticed the problem with that you've done a lot better than me, as I didn't realise there was an issue until I got home and tried to call the number from my still-useless phone. I have no doubt that the world's entire population of hairy-eared Nokia 1610 owners are all gathered together somewhere feeling utterly vindicated and laughing at my misfortune. And I don't blame them.

Just give me one of these and be done with it

On a completely seperate note, I had my first day working at my lycée on Monday. It all started off very nicely- the teachers were all lovely, the school food was fantastic and the students weren't quite as difficult as I'd imagined they'd be. However, it's all become a little bit scary after an otherwise innocuous conversation with one of the teachers took an unexpectedly terrifying turn. After asking when I'd arrived and what I thought of Bordeaux, he looked at me with a slightly-too-friendly smile and asked;

"By the way, can you teach Maths too?" 

In a word, no. 'Maths wasn't my best subject' would be a severe understatement. 'My Maths skills are directly comparable to those of the average anteater' might be nearer the mark. A lot of my teachers at school disliked me for one reason or another, but my A Level Maths teachers were the only ones who ever gave up getting angry at me completely, preferring to settle on pity and resignation to my inevitable failure instead.

And they're wanting me to teach these kids Maths. Thankfully, the students so far have been pretty keen to learn, and while I don't know if that'll be the same with everyone I teach, at least it's a promising start. The first lesson I participated in was focused on starting up a new school newspaper, and had the class of 14-15 year olds suggesting possible articles for the first issue. Eventually, they settled on a comparison of school canteen food in the UK and France, and had told me all about the sort of wonderful French foods their school offered.

After that, we had to make a list of typically English foods found on school menus across the UK... which proved much more difficult. After ten minutes, the extent of our list of exclusively British school foods had stretched to this;

Gravy
Sausage Rolls
Bacon
Custard

I realise that English food is a bit of a joke in France, but the looks of utter bafflement on the faces of the whole class suggested that they'd expected me to put up a bit more of a fight to defend my country's gastronomic honour.  We eventually expanded it to British foods in general, which meant we could add in 'Roast Dinner + Stuffing,' but it was hardly enough to level the score. Oh well- I may have lost the battle, but I've got seven months left to win the cross-channel war. Because we all know how great the French are at winning wars.