I know I said I wouldn’t be back, but this is just to say that if you enjoyed reading this and want to hear more anecdotes from my banal existence, you can find a new stream of content at An Education In The World. A mucky, polluted stream.
That’s all for now, though it’s possible I’ll be back in a few weeks to tell you how maddeningly difficult it is to get out of a Bouygues phone contract. Let’s hope not, eh?
As I write this post, I’m cooking Mexican food, having struggled for the last hour and a half against my foyer’s tendency towards electrical entropy, running back and forth from the corridor into the kitchen in the vain hope that once, just this once, turning the hob to its highest setting won’t kill the hob, the Internet, and all the lights. Before that, I made a half-arsed attempt at cleaning the floor with a broom, water and bleach; the subject of this operation has already begun to look dirty again, seemingly of its own accord. Tomorrow morning I am moving out, and today I am trying to pack and clean everything remaining in the country that I own, as well as finishing all the food I can possibly combine. This last meal before the disappearance of the saucepans, and the complications that hindered its production, seemed wholly emblematic of my existence in the foyer this year.
Probably the most consistent relationship of the entire seven months has been with this food brand
This, barring any last-minute surprising incidents, or a sudden heart-rending desire not to catch my RyanAir flight to East Midlands Airport at 4pm tomorrow and instead to completely go native, will be the last post on Another Night In Nantes. Tonight will be the last of those nights. So in the spirit of conclusion, I’d just like to use these thousand or so words to look back over the year and think about the things I did, the things I didn’t do, and what I’ve learned from this unique and rewarding experience. The people I’ve met have hopefully been discussed enough already.
I arrived in Nantes, France on Saturday, September 25th, 2010, with only the most basic understanding of its geographical location, none at all of the job I was intended to perform, and a stilted familiarity with the more literal and literary aspects of its language. Ostensibly on October 1st, but really closer to October 8th, I started work as a language assistant in two lycées, Lycée Gabriel Guist’hau and Lycée Georges Clémenceau, teaching English – primarily conversation – to students between the ages of 15 (though some were apparently 14) and 18 (though some were occasionally 20). The contract was for 12 hours of lessons each week, but in practice, this became 10, or 9, particularly towards the end of the year when certain classes just dropped away. I had never planned to be a language assistant at all; France wasn’t even my first choice country. Until April last year, I thought I’d be studying or working in Quebec for seven months. I’m so glad I was wrong.
Lycée Guist'hau, my main establishment
And Lycée Clemenceau, my second
I was lucky to be placed in what are generally considered the two most prestigious state schools in the city, but this doesn’t mean that work was always an easy ride; having absolutely zero teaching experience, I failed from the start to establish myself as having any kind of authority, and though by the end, as may be apparent, I was inordinately beloved and admired by three or four of my regular groups, some classes presented a constant struggle – to get them to listen, to speak in English, sometimes to speak at all, to pay attention, and to learn anything. That’s why, given my clear ineptitude for the disciplinary aspects of the role, I’m so grateful to those who wanted to learn, and didn’t need any encouragement; those who made the year in these schools such a rewarding experience, and who made me feel like I was making a difference. Joséphine, Marion, Juliette, Juliete, Zack, Elise, Maissane, Margot, César, Mazarine, Louise, Jeanne, Elisa, Ange, Clemence – I want to thank you all personally, from the bottom of my little English heart.
Outside the classroom, things were different. One thing I soon learned is that to a certain extent, teaching is acting, and that for me, one of the best ways to be a good teacher was to live up to the image of the person your students are expecting you to be – in my case, the typical English gent; ‘So British’. But there was a side of me that wasn’t, hopefully, too apparent in the classroom – the side that would go out multiple nights a week to drink and have fun with my group of friends, almost all assistants, almost none French, forging our little expat community together. Earlier in the year it began to feel like this might be all there was; that a lot of the activities I was involved in in England might have to take a back seat. But from January onwards I spent more time watching theatre, seeing live music, getting involved in the radio, and perhaps most importantly, travelling and discovering France – the trips I took to Bordeaux, Lyon, La Rochelle, Angers, Pornic, Paris, Rennes, Vannes and of course Morocco (which I realise is not in France) will rank among the most memorable events of my entire year.
You know you love it. Hi, Mickael.
I’m only sorry that I didn’t get to see more of this country – cities in the South such as Toulouse and Montpellier, for instance – and that I didn’t take the various international trips I’d vaguely planned with such good intentions, to Germany, Switzerland, Belgium, Scandinavia, and so on. My eventual decision to get over my worries and book my flights to Montreal was probably one of the best I made all year. Other things I said I’d do, and didn’t, include swimming (thirty seconds in Pornic doesn’t count), starting an English theatre club, going to a French creative writing class, properly attending a course of lectures at the Faculty, talking to the artsy girl with big eyes and curly dark hair at the back of one of the aforementioned lectures, and generally integrating into an actual French community; all of these fell by the wayside.
But on the other hand, I acted in a French Beckett production, provided the voiceover for a pseudo-erotic film about Man Ray, and learnt to play guitar with my hand the right way up with a man who improvised obscene English lyrics about anal sex, and these experiences were surely priceless in themselves. So although there are certain things I feel I’ve missed out on, as I’ve previously stated, I think it’s foolish and dishonest to discard the things you did do, the time you did spend, for the things you might have done and the people you might have met – I’m grateful for everything I’ve experienced this year, and for what it’s contributed to the sum of my life.
The deepest, darkest thing in the world; interpreted by Richard O'Brien
I’ve learnt how to cook for myself every day on a diet not solely comprised of pasta, how to make sure there’s always enough food in the cupboards, how to open a bank account and receive housing benefit in a foreign language, how to speak French like a normal, realistic young person, even occasionally on the phone, and how to connect with and communicate my knowledge to a class of alternately surly and besotted French teenagers. I’ve discovered the reward of work, the benefits of independence, and the possibility that I might occasionally be attractive to women. I’ve lived for seven months in another country and another culture (possibly two, if you count the amount of time I’ve spent around Americans), far from my friends and confidants, experiencing emotional highs and hardships, and putting my sheltered, bookish, Oxford idea of life, love and the way the world works into real-world practice, perhaps for the first time.
Goodbye, Lieu Unique. I'm sorry I kicked your door.
And although I’ve previously elaborated my theory that Nantes, and the life of an assistant, is not the real world, it’s still definitely the closest I’ve come to having to deal with situations as a real, functioning adult. And I think, for the most part, I’ve come out of it all right. I’m sure in years to come, I’ll look back on this time as one of the most important and formative sections of my life, and to all the people I’ve already mentioned, I’d like to thank you for being there, for going through this experience together with me. I will be back in Nantes, and I will try my hardest to see the majority of you again. And I’m grateful to all of you who’ve bothered to read these ramblings and scrawlings, for giving me the chance and the platform to process everything that has happened to me, for discovering it with me, and allowing me to share what I have seen, felt, experienced and learnt. In the future I hope I’ll be spending more than just another night in Nantes; but this is the end of this one. Thanks for reading, whether just this post, or all year; and au revoir. Vous allez me manquer.
BRITISH
Charlie ‘Four-Cheese Pizza’ Drury
This isn't from Nantes, but he does it all the time
Much like a four-person, four-cheese pizza, Charlie Drury is a strong flavour; possibly an acquired taste. An archetypal lad, whose primary concerns include football, shagging, eating improbable amounts of meat and eggs, and sporadic, banterous racism, I find it hard to believe that I would have got to know Charlie in England – and indeed, if the only time I had spent with him this year had been getting drunk and listening to electro, or opening my door to lend him speakers when he knocks at three in the morning, we might not have bonded here either. But one of the reasons for his occasional abrasiveness is that he is a genuine, honest person, and despite our many differences, I think we have come to appreciate our mutual desire not to be anything other than ourselves. He knows I’m never going to be particularly care about Chelsea or Gary Beck, and I know he’s unlikely to develop an interest in American indie-folk or the concept of gender equality.
But I’ve learnt a lot from Charlie – it’s been fun, and educational, to rise to his various intellectual and emotional challenges, in the spirit of macho competition in which they’re usually intended. We’ve also bonded over the occasional, pressing need to have a sensible and normal conversation, where no one is drunk or repeating themselves about the band Japan. And although it’s probably a surprise to both of us how much our paths have crossed, the result has been mostly respect and loyalty, with more than a little previously-discussed manipulation along the way.
Rhys ‘Freestyler’ Tyler
Rhys, being Rhys
Another Reze resident, Rhys has distinguished himself from the mass of assistants by a year-long campaign of fundamental, head-breaking inanity. As a philosopher in training, Rhys finds it hard to think, as other people do, in straight lines (although occasionally one single-minded topic, often related to bodily fluid, will run right through his conversation); the patterns of his thought are circular, surprising, often incomprehensible, as he answers the question you asked him ten minutes ago in the middle of a completely different topic then, faced with a look of blank astonishment, takes this as an invitation to continue. Since the trip we took together to Saint-Nazaire, I knew Rhys was a special boy; the time in Sophie’s car when he declared ‘I just fucking love milk!’ as a high-priority communiqué beamed down from his own private world above the bounds of reason was one of the best pieces, if any were needed, of supplementary evidence. Next year, myself and this Welsh sociopath intend to bring his obsession with 80s culture, synthesisers, American Psycho, Kate Middleton, milk and semen to a radio station near you, hosting a weekly show with the vague intention of discussing French culture on Oxide Radio. If I get my way, we’ll be calling it ‘Musset-wagon’, and we’ll be calling some of the other assistants and French acquaintances for their opinions every week. If he starts talking shit, as he undoubtedly will, I will have an alarm ready.
Gregory ‘Yeah, man’ Lennon
Lonely Geegsy in France (this photo also tells you a lot about two other people)
I consider ‘Mad Cunt’ as a potential nickname, but although Glasgow’s finest son loves this phrase and making innocent, rosy-cheeked Germans say it, it’s not the most appropriate summary of his character. Although often hilarious, Gregory is reserved, calm, doesn’t cause trouble; when Charlie and Francis, for example, are tearing shreds out of each other, Greg prefers to sit in a corner with a pint and watch the Celtic game, occasionally flicking his Alex Kapranos-style haircut out of his eyes. This year I’ve admired Greg’s gentle nature and ability to avoid conflict; I’ve also admired his knowledge of all the lyrics in the Wheatus back catalogue. Gregory Lennon: a good man.
Francis ‘King’ Fisher
'FINISH HIM!'
Something of a Marmite figure, Francis is like a 24-year-old little brother who inspires simultaneous and equal amounts of rage and affection. People are mean to him, not always with good reason – I’ve discussed before how every group builds a scapegoat. Although he comes from Newcastle (not, and this is important, not Sunderland), he doesn’t have a Geordie accent, though he can easily produce one on the condition that you ask him to speak Jamaican. There are a lot of things that Francis dislikes, including Apple Macs, grammatical errors, and almost any food with a taste (his favourite type of chicken is ‘processed’, his favourite food is fish fingers, and his revulsion to rice and pasta strikes me as a bizarre form of culinary Aspergers’); but he is also fiercely passionate about his interests – football, music, and the sort of arcane cultural pursuits that people who wear Metallica T-shirts often care about deeply. Despite having been an avid wrestling fan for some years (although apparently less so recently, perhaps because it all started to seem a bit silly), Francis has apparently never thought of a wrestling stage-name; I suggest Fisherman Frank, with ‘The Fish Fingers’ as a finishing move. But if this all seems a little critical, I want to say that it’s often good to care enough to argue, and that his ever-present willingness to engage in verbal combat doesn’t mean he isn’t sometimes right. I don’t know if he can be bothered to read this far, but if so, I’d also like to mention that he seems to write a smart, coherent blog, is probably better at proof-reading than I am, and has been given too hard a time this year.
Candance Singclair
Those glasses don't belong to her
If from now on these summaries are getting shorter, it’s not because I don’t like the people involved; it’s because I’ve written 900 words already. So in the spirit of brevity: Candace is another fierce verbal combatant, with a streak of delirious weirdness to challenge Rhys’s propensity for unnecessary contributions, although to give her her due, she did once advise us to listen to her stories not as narrative units, but ‘just information’. I never found her Scottish accent as hard to understand as Charlie did (‘Translate?’), and despite the occasional bit of blatant irrelevance, she was usually a lot of fun to listen to. A strong, independent person, a good laugh, and someone who once brought soft cheese to a bar and left it there in a bag for three hours, it’s a shame Candace wasn’t here for longer.
Sophie ‘Apple Sours’ Bowers
St Patrick's Day, Sophie's favourite day of the year
When not bringing four bottles of wine to Thanksgiving or punching a 16-year-old French chav outside Delhi’s, Sophie can be found making herself turkey sandwiches in her tiny foyer room while watching everything in sight on iPlayer or, in what’s becoming a strange string of coincidences, losing her shit over a goat in a petting zoo. Sophie hasn’t had the easiest year, and as her six-doors-down-the-hallway neighbour (or in the first month, revealingly, in the room above), I’ve shared her ups and downs. But it’s been great getting to know her, and to know about her life, which has been very different to my own. She faces any challenge with a defiant energy, and I’ve always been impressed by her sheer bloody-mindedness and unwillingness to back down, even if they’ve made for a few volatile situations. We’ve spent a lot of time together this year – in Paris, Nantes, and, to my apparently hilarious frustration, dropping people off in her car. Things are different when Sophie’s not around, and I’m sure she’s one of the people I’ll miss the most.
Tim ‘Dreamboat’ Martin
Look at those cheekbones
Francis’s favourite assistant, Tim is an all-round fantastic guy. Like one of his best friends, Jenna, he’s also not someone I’ve ever really got to know – but he’s a sportsman, a gentleman, a hero and a patriot. The first two are definitely true, and probably the third; the ladies love Tim Martin, and I’m sure many of the lads do too, but I think we can trust his religious convictions to stay strong against that possibility. A general good egg.
Sarya ‘It’s like Sara, but with a ‘y” Obeid
She's the one on the left
After a few days of struggling to remember that her name wasn’t pronounced in the same way as ‘psoriasis’, I very soon developed the opinion that Sarya was a fantastic and interesting person. We bonded instantly at our first meeting, mine and Rhys’s hungover tram-ride to the train for La Baule, and though we haven’t seen each other as much as I’d have liked to since, I’ve always enjoyed her massive enthusiasm, her spontaneity, and her twin senses of humour and adventure. I don’t know if she’s ever forgiven me for getting too little sleep to catch the train to Vannes, but I hope that this year won’t be my last encounter with her insatiable Sudanese hunger, and that she continues drinking flavoured tea and going out for the evening with emergency pyjamas for many years to come.
Sarah ‘You Can Leave Your’ Hutton
The dynamic duo
My second assistant colleague, at Guist’hau, Sarah is a delightfully kooky UCL film student with a passion (and an enormous talent) for baking, and a keen observational comic eye for the stranger things in life. Living with her boyfriend Gary in a lush apartment and being mildly allergic to alcohol, Sarah had a couple of reasons for not spending too much time with the big group this year – she literally had everything she could ever need already – but every time I did see her, at school or for film nights at the aforementioned Lush Apartment, she was a hilarious storyteller, a knowledgeable, cultured discussion partner, and a warm, sympathetic friend.
GERMANS AND OTHERS
If any of these are too short, I apologise. I love your people. Vorsprung durch Technik!
Andrea ‘Gloria’ Stefan
She's got 99 problems but a beach ain't one
Actually Austrian, and keen to show it with a fantastic themed dinner party (I haven’t forgotten), Andrea was Sarya’s housemate until they got kicked out for a mysterious refurbishment, and the two often come as a pair. At 25, both seem like real, serious adults, and were understandably less keen on the multiple evenings of blind, feckless lash; but on various day-trips – at least two – we got to know each other pretty well in the short time available, and I hope that we keep in touch.
Nadescha ‘Benter’ Beckmann
For once not nodding
After a few months of quiet non-participation/sleeping, Nadescha gradually came out of her shell until it became hard to see exactly how the shell could have contained her. Petite and prone to nodding incontrollably, Nadescha is a huge amount of fun behind a shy exterior, particularly when using such rare English expressions as ‘Fuck you, Francis’ and the astounding, year-making time she first decided to display her intuitive understanding of ‘Banter!’ Rhys once described her as being ‘like a box of crayons – she has got all the colours!’ and rather than attempting to establish the meaning of this frankly baffling epithet, I think I’m going to let it stand, in all its presumably complimentary glory.
The Germans
Maria on the left, Julia on the right. 'The same procedure as every year, Miss Sophie'
For some reason, despite the eventual presence of other Deutsche Madchen, for the entire year Maria and Julia were referred to exclusively by their nationality. In brief, Julia is a bundle of laughs, and Maria one of the most beautiful people any of us have ever met. No further comment is needed.
AND THE NON-ASSISTANTS…
Yann ‘Jealov’ Jannsens
I might start posting this picture everywhere
As well as having what is probably the most Belgian name in the world, this Flemish mechanical engineering student is the country’s most talented musical export since Plastic Bertrand. When he left Nantes to work on his electronic music project, Charlie and others were so distraught they bombarded his Facebook wall with sentimental pop songs of the ‘Back For Good’ variety on a daily basis. He’s now back and beardless, though his country still doesn’t have a government. Everyone loves Yann; what more is there to say?
Bastien ‘Don’t Worry I Won’t Use Your Real Name’ Bastienson
Ra Ra Rasputin
A French and Cinema teacher and the first genuine French person I ever got to know, Bastien was a fantastic companion throughout this learning experience; new to Nantes himself, when the pressures of real work weren’t too much he was always ready to hang out with Rhys and I, show us around, and teach us the ways of his people. Black of beard and impressively intelligent, Bastien speaks great English and has as much passion for our culture as we have for his. I hope he can cope in this city without us, and that we’ll see him in Oxford very soon, where we can repay the various train tickets, pints, and general kindnesses we owe him.
Claire ‘Also Hides Her Real Surname’ Allouche
So bloody arty
Amusingly, one of Bastien’s students, I first met Claire in the aftermath of the wonderful and frankly bizarre CineSup Man Ray short film, but didn’t properly get to know her until a few days spent together in the final month, when we decided to put aside time to make our nascent friendship count. I’m gutted that I didn’t get to know Claire sooner, and will miss her wit, her generous spirit, and her impeccable English accent. The last time I saw her, completely unexpectedly, Claire gave me a bag full of France-related presents. I really should have done the same for her, and I hope I’ll see her soon to return the kindness she showed me.
I really can’t go on any further, but without any further profiles, I’d just also like to mention the great and interesting Khagne students – Clemence, Philippe, Ludovic, etc – who I got to spend some time with in the last few weeks, and the various international stagiaires – Tara, Katie, Miranda, Dhatri, Katharine, Katrin – who helped me settle in so quickly at EURadio Nantes. And my students, of course, especially those I’ve already got to know as friends; but if you’ve made it this far, you know who you are, and what you mean to me. Oh, and I’ve been your host, Richard O’Brien. There’s probably just one more post to come; thanks, guys. It’s been a blast.
It’s April 29th – people are dropping like flies, Francophone flies who are too lazy to use their own flimsy, gauzy wings but instead have to be pay to be carried across the sea in aeroplanes, and it’s finally time to summarise who everyone here is/was, in the spirit of commemoration, before we all go back to our cosy homelands and forget each other once and for all. To prevent the inevitable decay of memory, I’m going to attempt to sum up each assistant who I spent time with in Nantes this year in a few pithy phrases, organised, without favouritism, by nationality (one of mankind’s oldest, easiest and best methods for dividing people, and one from which much mirth has been made this year), followed by housing location. This is the post you’ve all been waiting for, if you have a long attention span and no job: a guide to recognising your assistants.
AMERICANS
Keri Ann ‘Gimme’ Moore
One girl, four strings, no concept of direction
A few days ago, having left on yet another last-minute trip to Germany, a card written by Keri Ann was given me in her absence. ‘You, more than anyone in this group, know how I can be,’ it said. This may well be true – in the first week of our acquaintance, as colleagues at Lycée Clemenceau, Keri Ann left both our laptops in an unlocked room before losing the keys to the entire school. Within hours, I’d made up my mind that this girl was probably a fucking mess. However, there’s a lot more to Keri Ann than mind-bending scattiness – she’s also a virtuoso ukelelist, a rugby player (to the point of putting her leg in a cast for the best part of two months) and an unstoppable friend-making machine. I wish her joy back in Seattle, for the first Starbucks-scented taste of home.
Jennifer Shannananananahan
Before I go on, I’d just like to point out that this is definitely her real name. Jennifer is another West Coaster; by day, a shy, introspective girl who talks quietly about linguistics, fiddles with her hair and tells you that colours have personalities, by night she’s an insane, blood-drawing, whisky-chugging firecracker. It’s a combination which has intrigued many, and the men of Nantes are probably in unanimous agreement that she’s at least an 8 from the neck down (private joke.) This dubious honour has probably made Jennifer’s year more interesting than some others’, not least when her students pretend to spank her over a laptop screen, but her endurance is to be commended, as is her general sparkiness and the violent glint in her eye.
Two Washingtonians, united by more than a common origin
Kreesta Scheeleeng
doesn’t actually live with these two, but might as well for the amount of time she spends in Nantes. Regrettably stuck in cow-infested snorefest Les Herbiers (just kidding I’m sure it’s lovely), Krista visits almost every weekend to share her fantastic baked goods and her lust for life. A brilliant travelling companion in Morocco, Krista is practical to the point of motherhood, engaging, receptive and enthusiastic; I’m sure she’s going to do a great job in the two-and-a-bit years she’s off to spend teaching English/digging wells/tickling elephants in the Peace Corps, and her time in Mali will help her tick off one more spot on the map of the world that her sheer dedication to discovery has led her to tattoo on her back. French people can’t say her name, as might be apparent.
*
Eamon ’40 Gallon’ Drumm
Pretty classic
The only American boy, sadly he won’t be your American boy unless you’re also a boy. Eamon manages the difficult task of combining fundamental niceness with being an archetypical New York hipster, wowing various soon-to-be-disappointed girls with his Where’s Wally-style stripey T-shirts and ‘I was too busy playing bass to shave this morning’ stubble. Often found arriving fashionably late to gatherings with a group of cool French friends in tow, after dressing as ‘A Shadow’ for Hallowe’en Eamon has developed a slight reputation as the Grinch of the group; but despite being completely integrated with the student subculture and speaking better French than the rest of us combined, he still makes time to turn up to bars and picnics, and once even went to the zoo. He will continue to astound us all.
*
Kate ’P & O’ Ferry
It's not real
Another ukulele player, and another slight enigma, Kate and I most frequently crossed paths at our semi-regular film nights where, at the behest of Sarah (of whom more later) we’d watch a variety of cinema from the kooky and awkward to the needlessly bizarre and Spanish. Kate herself studied Film in Bozeman, Missouri, where she spent her time ritually humiliating friends who hadn’t heard of Julie Andrews, and judging by her superb snapshots-of-Nantes video, she’s pretty good at it. With a beautiful voice, a huge arm tattoo that looks like weed but isn’t, and once again, an enviable level of French integration, I’m expecting to hear good things in the future about Kate Ferry.
*
Jenna ‘Just Keep’ Rowan
The first of a few people on this list who I never got to know hugely well, Jenna loves everyone but loves Jesus more. Almost unbelievably chipper, Jenna gives the impression of being joyful and non-judgemental in any of the few situations in which we have spent time together. Being rather at the other end of the spectrum, I don’t have a lot prepared to say about Jenna, but it’s hard to imagine anyone having a bad word for Maine’s most loving daughter. She’s currently praying for Francis to get a job.
This pizza is blessed
Carly ‘Neville’ Chamberlain
Not a Harry Potter reference, although I think she’d enjoy it. Carly lives with Jenna and, despite being in some ways her polar opposite, their boundless enthusiasm seems in turn to bind them together. Carly is smart, sarky, and defiantly, deliberately American in her manner of speech – but although she can be sharp, I genuinely believe she has a lot of love for everyone here, and it’s a shame that we didn’t get to properly know each other much earlier in the year, and have only had the last few weeks to start again without the variously distracting ideas we had managed to form of each other. I’d like to think we made a pretty good start. She has a large tattoo of the state of Michigan on her back, although I’d like to point out that the start we made wasn’t so good that I found out this information by any means other than the usual course of friendly interaction.
Misty Dawn Clover
Classic rice banter
A name that deserves to be written in full, Misty is an Idaho native with whom I spent a lot of time in the first few months and effectively none at all since the beginning of 2011, as she began to leave town most weekends to spend time with a genuine French boyfriend in Le Mans. Since her disappearance, it’s hard to say that anyone other than her housemates really know Misty, but by all accounts she’s doing very well and probably won’t be going back to America for a long time.
*
Cecilia ‘Uh-huh’ Muruato
Standard
Other than breaking my heart and shaking my confidence daily, Cecilia hasn’t been a huge part of my time in Nantes, but despite her generally reclusive nature she still deserves a mention – tall, placid and pleasant, with what Rhys would probably describe as a ‘maternal face’ (one of his highest compliments), she comes from the hickier parts of Missouri and seems to spend a lot of time sleeping. From what I know of the limited time I’ve seen her awake, she seems like a kind person.
Celeste Starbucks
Chillin'
Currently, I shit you not, in England to watch the Royal Wedding, the received wisdom is that Celeste is about as East Coast as an American can get without physically falling into the Atlantic Ocean. Whether she’s carrying a Longchamp bag, dressing her dog in a Barbour driving jacket, or telling the story of the sorority initiation where she sucked the ketchup off a not inconsiderable amount of Alphabetti Spaghetti characters to spell the phrasely ‘be womanly always’, it’s often hard to discount this stereotype – but the most important thing about Celeste is how fundamentally pleasant and friendly she is, how willing to talk to anyone from any background, even boring places she has no intention of ever visiting. It’s important to mention this because, as one of the shyer assistants, with by far the quietest voice (except when she’s shouting ‘JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!’ at a roadblock, or going mental in the presence of a goat), she might not be among the easiest to get to know; but I’m glad that I have, and beyond the cheap-shots and her clear taste for the finer things, there’s a lot of fascinating stories to discover below Celeste’s calm, polished surface. She likes vanilla, which may come as a surprise.
Lindsey ‘Probably’ Arrington
Absolutely chateau'd
has spent the last two weeks, drunk or sober, filming almost everything in sight, so will probably have a more coherent record of these people and the last few days they spent together than I do. As for Lindsey herself, she’s an unnatural redhead from Missouri with a couple of piercings, recovering Baptist, and concerned by the proposition that ‘no one likes you when you’re 23′. I got to know Lindsey quite well this year, and there’s a lot going on behind the occasionally forbidding look on that ginger, pierced face. She likes goats too, as it happens.
That’s it for the Americans, but this video should give you a fair indication of who I’ll be talking about in the next instalment…
With five days left before I finally leave Nantes, I’m not sure how much is left to say. Inevitably, things are dissipating, and people too – in the last few days and weeks we’ve said goodbye to Maria, Candace, Rhys, and last night, Lindsey, with Gregory, Carly and Cecilia soon to follow. If these names mean nothing to you, perhaps because not everyone has had an equal amount of column inches here on this blog, then fear not: I’m planning one final, summary post, ‘A Guide To Recognising Your Assistants’. This may not be the last, last, last, but I’ll certainly be putting a stop to all blogging proceedings once I leave on a jet plane, probably to come back again, on the 3rd of May – and the way things are going, I estimate there’s only one or two posts I can crank out of the old horse. (I mix my metaphors like I mix my drinks, with similarly appalling results.)
When will I see your faces again?
So I’ll try to summarise what’s happened since my last class; a fairly flat, outdoor affair where I nonetheless faced the unappealing prospect of saying goodbye to wonderful students such as Louise (a sweet amateur film-maker with a huge, incessant chip-toothed grin), her boyfriend Victor (a loveable Bieber-haired goon), Mazarine (an American TV addict and general bundle of laughs) and Tom, a relatively silent, slouchy, cool kid who made my day by uttering the immortal line ‘Judas… is in the kitchen’ in his final roleplay and by taking home my jar of Marmite with the intention of using it in the place of the shots as the forfeit in his next drinking game. On his Facebook wall after he added me, I wrote ‘Enjoy your Marmite.’ ‘I hate it,’ he replied, a few hours later. I was so pleased to read these words, and I wish him all the luck in the world.
No longer an assistant, I went home and cried into my British Council handbook (this isn’t true, and if so, would have been the only use I made of its glossy pages in the entire year.) Then, with Rhys, I went round to Bastien’s house to see my oldest French friend for the last time and to attempt, as we had intended for weeks, to play some music together. Within thirty seconds of his starting to drum, and my starting to sing and play guitar, a neighbour yelled ‘Ta gueule!’ through his open window. This roughly translates to ‘Shut the FUCK UP!’, and was instantly adopted as our provisional band name, after the offending window has been closed. We fucked around with my songs for about half an hour, to varying degrees of rhythmic synchronisation (read: very very little), then attempted to rock up some Leonard Cohen covers, which worked much better. We finished the session with a doomed attempt to record, for posterity, a version of ‘Premiere ES2′, which I strongly suspect I will never want either myself or those students to hear in my life, and then sacked the whole thing off to drink some beers while Rhys amused himself like a hyperactive child with the funk and techno settings on Bastien’s electric drumkit.
His dinner is burned on the stove. But Prince doesn't know.
After driving us to Reze in an act of selfless loyalty, he bid us farewell outside the Lycée Jean Perrin and we carried on our merry way to Charlie’s house, for a predictably stupid evening of drinking and forcing people to sing, then less self-conscious people singing anyway until about five in the morning. In some ways, it felt like the first time – do you remember? Oh but baby, we’ve changed so much since then. So as usual, various fights were nearly had, various romantic wasp-nests were prodded, and various egos variously goaded. Needless to say, myself, Rhys and Francis did not make it to the train for Vannes at 9:00 on Saturday morning, but it’s hard to know what else might reasonably have been expected from the last weekend.
The weekend itself was thus fairly empty, not least because it was Easter – I played guitar in a park, went on the boat for all of about twenty ill-smelling seconds, discovered a cheaper pint than Au Vestiaire in the secluded, sex-shop district Irish bar De Dannan, packed my suitcases and went to watch, for a second time, the astounding and hilarious Clint Eastwood vehicle Gran Torino. And on Monday, having only definitively discovered two days before that the radio would not be broadcasting, I went to Rennes; the capital of Brittany, a town Rhys had been discussing his desire to visit for the last or three months, which we sadly ended up obliged to do the very day his dad was in town to pick up his suitcases. Regret hung heavily in the air, mingling with the smell of buckwheat crepes and the bright colours of the traditional timber-framed houses. We sent mental waves of love and affection to Rhys, sitting alone at dinner with the elder Tyler. His leeks vibrated, with no indication as to why. The Welsh-cakes crumbled in his sweaty Celtic hands.
I’m afraid I may slightly have strayed from the point. In sweltering heat, we took in the Parlement de Bretagne; the Rue de la Soif, packed with bars and restaurants, but sadly mostly closed off by angry groups of junkies with dogs, one of whom earlier punched a sign in our creperie with a terrifying clatter of rage; the Rue Nantaise, where we took ridiculous, faux-patriotic pictures and hoped no Breton separatists would come along and punch us like that very same sign; the Parc Thabor, where ice cream was inexplicably no longer served after around 4:50pm; a bizarre cathedral; an ice-cream stand, and then home. Francis, in a difficult and combative mood, found himself mercilessly insulted for the entire day, and lay back on the train home with a hoodie over his face while we tried to take surreptitious photos of his covered, tired body with the word ‘BIFLE’ next to it, written on a folded piece of paper with his own black board-pen.
Houses in Rennes: wonky as shit
Other than that, my work experience at the radio has continued its relentless march, and this morning for the first time I was allowed to control the majority of the sound-board knobs and dials for ‘English for Everyone’ with my own bare hands. Two of my former students, Marion and Joséphine, have begun listening obsessively, even though they avowedly hate almost everything our playlist throws up. It’s nice to be appreciated.
And last night, as previously mentioned, we went to key assistant hang-outs Piazza Italia (where many of us first met) and Au Vestiaire to say goodbye to Lindsey, who made an extended comparison between Celeste and Krista’s East- and West-Coast characteristic for the apparent benefit of the assorted listeners, then ate half a pizza. We thanked her for an illuminating year.
It’s a real shame I don’t have any students called Marianne, so the above will have to substitute as a title. On Friday I had my final, final classes, and for the first time in Nantes I no longer have, as my identity, ‘the language assistant’; I’m now partly a voluntary radio presenter and partly, just lost. I was lucky, though, in that the two groups I most enjoy working with had lessons with me on this last day of term, so I would get to say my last goodbyes to the people I would miss the most. I won’t talk too much in this post about the 1ES2, partly because they’ve been covered already, but partly because I’ve let some of my seconde read this as well and they’re getting pissed that I haven’t mentioned them yet.
Hi guys
It was the Premieres I saw first, though, and of course they gave me a send-off to remember; as well as a third showing of their heart-rending video, they also made me a card, beautifully decorated by a girl called Coline who, at the start of the year, gave a fairly competent impression of a person who hated me, but by the end was smiling, asking questions and participating – one of the successes I was happiest about. The image is a swirling psychedelic treat, with a pillared temple-style building labelled ‘Oxford’ somewhere in the middle, and the messages are once again almost unbearably cute – Zack calls me ‘hommie’ and promises to call me in London, Elise tells me she loves me and signs it ‘from your favourite pupil’, and Fanch, of Harraby-Ribston fame, instructs me in capital letters to ‘KISS TAHTCHER WITH A FIST FOR US’. At this point it might be wise to point out that I’d been asked to give some lessons on Thatcherism, so this kid isn’t acting completely beyond the call of duty – but I don’t think he liked it very much.
My arms are weird
There was delicious cake and general affection, although thirty people in a room apparently find it difficult to listen the whole way through a heartfelt farewell speech, but considering I hadn’t prepared anything and had no idea what was adequate to say, this didn’t matter too much. Attempts to play a version of my/Celeste’s ‘describe the celebrity on the paper’ game were resolutely unsuccessful, although at the end I was proud of myself for making a decent stab at ‘Emma Bovary’.
Juliette, be reasonable
Fans of ‘Richard O’Brien: The Early Years’ will also be pleased to know that, in the process of setting up to play the video, I knocked an entire projector screen off the wall. It went crashing to the ground in front of all thirty people. Later, Juliette challenges me about my avowed affection for Scarlett Johansson and Elise gets angry at me for not crying again. Anne, their teacher, clasps my hand in an emotive, vaguely anguished way, and then we all do the bises as the remaining students accompany me to the room where I would have to report the collapsed equipment. ‘Have a good death,’ says Elise. I hope this won’t turn out to be the last thing she ever says to me; but all going well, we’ll have a pre-departure verre/party next week, where I can give the six or seven students I know best a personalised postcard wishing them well for the wonderful lives they surely have ahead of them.
In the afternoon, after a fairly awkward ‘pot de départ’ in a Guist’hau classroom, I teach my OTHER favourite class (hello Margaux), the Seconde 3 Européenne. Although I love these guys dearly, I’ve never given them a full profile as with the 1ES2, so perhaps the best way to introduce you to the personalities involved, many of whom I’ve glancingly mentioned already, is through the medium of song:
http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=1834626197774&subj=506797707
(Annoyingly I couldn’t embed this, but hopefully the link will still work – I’ll try to fix it later.) As you can see, Luca filmed me – along with about seven other people – which is nice, considering what I said about him. Let’s talk about Luca first then; he’s one of the funniest people I’ve met this. He’s the one who pretended to be a gynaecologist in his roleplay for no reason, having also as I recently found out used the name of his form tutor for the character; he’s the one who, in five years’ time, sees himself married to his classmate Tetiana with ten children in the Ukraine, most of whom he expects to die in the fifteen following years. He also, and I’m sure I haven’t mentioned this yet, in a roleplay last week with the theme ‘Unusual Meetings’, improvised an entire scene in the character of Marcel Proust by sneezing incessantly and then finally telling Tetiana, as Edith Piaf, ‘I want to fuck you.’ Which is probably exactly what Proust would have done.
Having the time of my life
Then there’s César, whose similarity to the fifteen-year-old me in my opinion can’t be overstated. César, when finding the normal standard of work too easy, throws in more interesting English words he has decided to learn on his own time – words like ‘duck-billed platypus’. I recognise a kindred spirit in his weird creativity and desire to have fun with learning language; he also, as the song mentions, was the student who once asked me if I found being a vegetarian made it easier to chat up women. I think, and hope, he’s going to go far.
Margaux and Alice also have to be mentioned – there’s only a tiny minority of students I’ve met this year with as much interest and willingness to learn as Margaux, and her contributions were always pertinent, usually correct, and often hilarious. Her and Alice did the roleplay where a date ended in one participant threatening to kill the others ‘with scissors’, and wrote the lines in the Pierre Poisson stories where the Queen ‘died in the act’. Last week, in the ‘Unusual Meetings’, she played Britney Spears, saying to Kanye West: ‘we just sing and fuck and fuck and sing all day’, showing that she’s mastered at least two potentially difficult verbs. I will miss their sense of humour a lot, and I hope I get to see them again.
At the end of the lesson, as I tried to get class photos taken, they covered the board in chalk: hearts, quotations, vulgarities, and expressions of undying love. It was very touching, and I’ve got some great pictures – clearing the board at the end of this lesson was one of the saddest things I’ve done all year.
I want to talk about the second half of this class, but I’m slightly pressed for time and don’t want to do them an injustice, so I’ll finish this account of the last day later, possibly also expanding on the ‘Unusual Meetings’ exercise. I’ve covered most of the key points, but it’s very hard to give a sense of how this feels; the sheer weirdness and unreality of everything ending, with no tears, very little drama, and to most intents and purposes things going on as normal, as I hand back my keys and struggle, guitar in hand, through the weirdly heavy Guist’hau door. I am no longer an assistant; the students I love are not my students any more. I only hope they remember me as much as I remember them. I hope – I think – that they will.
You know it’s definitely the end of the year when you’re allowing your students access to your blog – which is just what I’ve done for the first time today, starting with Marion and Joséphine, two students in one of my favourite classes, the Premiere ES2, to whom today I’m finally having to say goodbye. Luckily, through a quirk of their chosen options, I see the majority of them again tomorrow for one final celebration with their teacher, the overworked and lovely Madame Morin. But there’s some that I’ve already had to let go for good, and they’re doing their best to make this parting as hard as possible.
Firstly, yesterday, Joséphine invited me, Marion, and two other great students, Gwenn and Margot, to her house with the promise of ‘pastas’. The house isn’t far from my foyer, above a hairdresser’s, and on Tuesday night I decided to walk back from the cinema past the building to make sure it was where I thought it was. This was a terrible idea, as I ran into my student about ten yards from her own front door, which was quite an awkward situation to explain; but I trust that she understood.
Pastas
Once arrived on Wednesday, warm and rushed, from a boring staff party, I was allowed to choose music from a cabinet, half of which was her mother’s and half her father; I sided with her mother and Lloyd Cole, a decision that I can’t say was rapturously received. Then I wandered awkwardly round the large, beautiful apartment, trying not to pick up ornaments, while the girls kept me out of the kitchen where something mysterious was being wrapped. Joséphine, sent to bring me back into society, found me by her fishtank. ‘I’m just looking at your fish,’ I say.
She tells me their names, and that one is ‘méchant.’ This is apparently because he aggressively chases the other fish, which seems a good enough explanation. Up to this point, it’s a very strange experience, the oddity of which isn’t really diminished when the pasta turns out to be plain pasta, spaghetti, with butter should you so desire; I follow Marion’s lead and combine it with the delicious salad, but the other three diners seem happy enough eating pates nature - must be a French thing.
It literally looks like this
The combination was lovely, either way, and it was so sweet of them to invite me to see them socially; but it was the present they gave me that touched me most of all. Marion and Joséphine had gone to a second-hand bookshop and bought me a tiny, hardback bound copy of Musset’s Premieres Poésies, printed in 1903 (!), with an inscription reading:
‘To Richard,
For you to never forget us!
You have to read it before we see you again!
Thank you.’
You’re welcome; and read it I will.
Later on, having thanked Joséphine for the whole experience, I receive a heartwarming message stating that ‘My mother was very happy you came. She’s happy our group and you had a good “touch” !’ I’m going to have to explain at some point that this means something slightly different in English, for the sake of my professional career. But I’m touched all the same.
This morning was the start of the real goodbye, though, as I turned up to our dingy basement classroom with my speakers and guitar and announced the beginning of the end. Perhaps unwisely, I allowed Zack to DJ – song after song of American hip hop followed. At a loss for what to really do as the class, who I love dearly, talked amongst themselves while I sat behind my distancing desk, I wrote my email address on the board, and Zack made a solemn promise: ‘I’m going to send you so much bullshit,’ he said. ‘What are you going to do in the holidays?’ I ask him. ‘Smoke weed every day,’ he replies. I really hope, in this as all things, he’s true to his word.
This is the second class to bring me food – there is chocolate cake, orange juice (bizarrely, in shotglasses), and a ‘gateau nantaise’ filled with rum, but apparently ‘not too much’. I try and fail to organise a round of ‘Two Truths, One Lie’, and instead the class decide that now is the time to give me their surprise gift. I put the DVD into the computer with some apprehension. What they’ve made me is a video, directed by Joséphine, featuring a series of photos in which my students hold up a pink heart saying ‘We Love Richard’ in a variety of school and outdoor locations. Beneath are captions answering the question ‘Why does Richard love France?’, including ‘because everything is clean’ next to a picture of an upturned bin, ‘because we are so grrrrh’ (two students with mussed hair leaning on a wall) and ‘because we are very, very open-minded’, in which the heart is held in front of an unidentified student’s crotch. It’s set to music – La Marseillaise, Gainsbourg’s ‘Sea, Sex and Sun’, and the Beatles’ ‘All You Need Is Love’. It’s probably the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me, and I’m going to treasure it forever. I’m also, YouTube willing, with the students’ permission, going to share it with you here.
In return, I nervously picked up my guitar, shotted my orange juice, and played the farewell songs I’d written for both halves of the class, stupid ditties referring to as many students and their particularities in my lessons as possible, though of course I wish I could have got in more. The round of applause they received seems to confirm Marion’s assertion that they were ‘too cute’, in any case. I won’t post the entire things, but for those who are interested (if you’re reading) these are the most salient lyrics:
Premieres ES2
I’ve had so much fun teaching you
Seven months isn’t long
So this is a song
Just to tell you that I’ll miss you when I’m gone
Thursday morning, eight o’clock
Sometimes I’m there on time, usually I’m not
It’s hard to wake up and Maxime is still asleep
But I’m grateful for the memories I’ll keep
Zack knows 20 words for ‘fuck’
Paul keeps inviting me to LC Club
I’ll be back in England soon eating scones and drinking tea
But Josephine is probably more British than me
*
and
*
Premieres ES2
I’ve had so much fun teaching you
Seven months isn’t long
So this is a song
Just to tell you that I’ll miss you when I’m gone
Nine o’clock on a Thursday morning
Seventeen students and a teacher with no training
I was terrified – how many of you are there?
Then Iddy told me I was ‘cuter than Lady Gaga’
Tiphaine, I’m sorry I called you T-Pain
And Capucine I’m sorry that I can’t pronounce your name
Juliete knows everything about the Libertines
And the other Juliette knows what ‘muffin top’ means
Amusingly, the second Juliette thought the first line was about her, and seemed disappointed that I wasn’t just announcing the fact that she knows everything. For the record, she does; it just wasn’t the funniest thing worth mentioning. Muffin top? Come on!
Unplanned last lessons are weird, as they can degenerate into a lot of people sitting around doing nothing and not wanting to speak English; but in the second class I was slightly more involved as some of my favourite students – Juliette, Juliete, Maissane – started asking me questions about my summer, my future, and in Maissane’s case, listening to stories of how much my one student loves Morocco, her family’s country of origin. She tells me she’s visited Norwich, and yesterday I discovered Margot has been to Peterborough and Stevenage – the only possible response is ‘why?’
Later, Félix reveals considerably greater musical talent than me, busting out some well-sung, hardly French-sounding renditions of Jason Mraz and half of ‘Hallelujah’ (most of which ended up being sung by me – a comparative discussion of the versions inevitably followed) and, any sense of order being well and truly out of the window, half of the class started doing the macarena. At one point, I tried to play ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’, which didn’t work so great. Myself and Juliete bitched about members of staff in a quiet corner, and then we took a series of amusing photos, which Juliette commented would be a good way to persuade my friends from home to do the assistantship: ‘look, you get to have the love and affection of all these young French girls!’ (Zack made a similar quip in the previous lesson about the perils of classroom photography.) I’m looking forward to seeing the group photos as one more thing by which to remember this generally adorable bunch, and when they come through, I’ll try to add a couple to this post.
Moved as I was, I just about managed to hold it together, which didn’t go down too well with everyone present – on the way out Elise, with a vaguely hurt expression, commented ‘tomorrow, you have to cry’. We’ll see, Elise. We’ll see.
