A new adventure au Havre

Forty-one days ago I arrived in the City of Lights with all of the gear I suspected one might need as an English teaching assistant on a nine-month contract: two blue whale-like suitcases and a backpack, half my size, filled with The Cat in the Hat, A Charlie Brown’s Thanksgiving, and two bags of sucrose pulp, candy-corn that had been smothered beyond recognition, among other things. My “I really just want to look French s’il vous plaît” guise proved to be less than convincing: not only did my pack give it away, but I wore a look of eagerness, characteristically non-French, all over my face. I’d always dreamt of coming back to la belle France, and this time I was back for good… or at least the next nine months. The fact that I’d be leading classes of twenty something rambunctious 8-year-olds hadn’t yet sunk in. My mind, instead, wandered back and forth between a few simple questions: how rusty was my French? When would I be able to pick up a cheap bottle of Bordeaux at the local Carrefour? Was looking “à la mode” worth towing around two forty-nine pound suitcases?

Spending a few days in Paris proved to be useful in answering these questions, and reminding me exactly why I had fallen in love with France the first time around. Yes, my French was rusty, but not rusty enough to convince strangers of my American origins every time that I opened my mouth. It did not take long to find a bottle of delicious Bordeaux, and after surveying the Paris fashion scene, my only regret was not finding some space in those suitcases for my jean shorts, to accompany all of those black tights that had found their way into my suitcase. The best part about being in Paris, however, was not seeking out the answers to these questions, but realizing that dodging people along the busy streets no longer felt foreign: it felt like home.

Leaving “home” for Normandy’s great unknown heightened my anticipation for the coming year and presented me with more serious questions than those of wine, fashion, and accents. I wondered what life would be like living en provence while working for the French government, a bureaucratic monster of seemingly unfathomable paperwork? The train ride to Rouen with my friend and former abroad accomplice, Katie Pendery, provided few answers until we met her contact, Sophie, at the train station. After a brief tea chez elle, Sophie took us to Katie’s new residence, an apartment adjacent to her new place of employment, Lycée Guy Maupassant. The high school, built on a hill well out of town, overlooks Fécamp, a Norman resort known for its production of Benedictine liquor and high cliffs rising over the Alabaster Coast’s rocky beaches. Spending a few nights in Fécamp provided a small glimpse of the French life en provence; outside of Paris, people seemed really friendly, helpful, and welcoming! Although Normandy wasn’t “home,” it didn’t seem half bad.

After Katie saw me off at Fécamp’s train station, so small that it could be mistaken as a little white house, I steamed towards my new home in Le Havre, accompanied only by my enormous pack and the blue whales. Upon arrival, my contact, Janick Chéret, welcomed me to the city with a smile and a sign that read Laura MUSSER and Anne WOOTTON, the name of my to-be American colocotaire. Once Anne’s train arrived directly from Paris, the three of us turned Janick’s little Ford four-door into a jigsaw puzzle of luggage and bodies. Barely managing to squeeze into the car, Anne and I sped off to 22 rue Claude Monet where we’d be sharing an apartment for the havrais chapter of our lives.

Meeting a new roommate can be overwhelming, especially if your first face-to-face dialogue occurs while you’re sandwiched along the house wares aisle of a French grocery store… right before dinner. I’ll always be thankful that it was Anne with me in the Super U that Monday evening. After exchanging “what are we doing here?” looks, we settled on a few items and retreated to our new abode. Since our first night, we’ve cleaned out the broken clown-face lamp, a hangover of old colocataires past, lamented about the humidity level that leaves the entire apartment in a perpetual state of damp, and added some struggling basil plants, 22 rue Claude Monet has really become home. At the end of long days teaching, nothing beats turning the brass skeleton key of our apartment and opening the door unto a relaxing evening chez L. MUSSER et A. WOOTTON. As we continue to practice the French joie de vivre, we’ve come to realize that no evening is complete without an attempted culinary masterpiece, an empty bottle of red wine, crumbs of a baguette from the boulangerie just up the hill, a carton of Rondèle cheese, and variations of Imogen Heap songs on repeat.

While I always have Anne and our cozy domicile to look forward to upon arriving home, the days teaching are more tricky and tiring than I had anticipated. I did not realize the full impact of selecting a nine-month contract, noted in a small caveat on the application I completed last January. Nine-month primary school teachers, en fait, have a role more similar to English Teacher than Teaching Assistant. Because I have a nine-month contract, my responsibilities go beyond being a native English speaker in the classroom twelve hours per week: I must develop a unique sequence of units for each of my classes. Once I decide on the units, I’ll have to write lesson plans and come up with corresponding activities that will coincide with the goals set forth by the French Ministry of Education. During a meeting with Janick about the upcoming year, I discovered that I’ll be teaching English in four different schools around Le Havre: three classes at Ecole Raspail, one class at Ecole Pauline KERGOMARD, one class at Ecole Jules FERRY, and one class at Ecole Paul LANGEVIN. Between these four schools, I will work with over 120 students, twice per week in forty-five minute sessions. After observing my future classes and talking to my new colleagues, I deduced that I will be the only adult in the room for two of my six classes. Based upon the behavior of the students, I question my ability to teach these French youngsters any English at all if these schools also expect me to play The Law. On verra…

I’m still at the beginning of my teaching journey in Le Havre, especially since the vacances de Toussaint have put all school-related activities on hold since October 24… but I’m not complaining. I promise to include more stories about my time in the classroom, reconciling the manner in which the French way of life is fitting into my own, and other possibly interesting observations I’ve made in the past forty-one days. For now, I hope that I’ve simply been able to create a small mental painting for you as I set up my “new French life” in Claude Monet’s old atelier and dwelling place (hence the name of the street!).
Until next time my friends, à la prochaine mes amis.