Those who can do, those who can't teach. (Missing commas intentional.)

I write this sitting in the staff room. With my colleagues. Lamenting the broken photocopier. Oh, life on the other side. So my teaching career has now spanned 2 weeks, which whilst not being long enough to merit a pension, is definitely long enough to realise how bloody HARD it is. Long holidays - yes. Constant abuse, mockery, stress and bureaucracy? Also yes.

Some of my classes are brilliant: the pupils are driven, interested, engaged and willing to ask questions and generally embrace a new language. My introduction presentation (a slideshow offering a wee taster of Scottish life including deep fried Mars bars and clips of Groundskeeper Willy.) has bad a mixed reception. The younger kids I think feel patronised and pretend to have no interest in my many Harry Potter links (Fettes, Oxford AND my uncanny resemblance to Emma Watson...) whereas my elder pupils have offered up interesting questions, their opinions and their phone numbers. I'm not allowed to speak French with them in the classroom, but I have had great fun on occasions butting in just to make them aware of the fact that I do, unfortunately, understand everything they are saying about me and no, I doubt that my sister would be interested in you, Khalim.

The teachers are, without exception, amazing. They are incredibly patient with me and my sometimes confused grammar be have invited me out all over the place: the theatre, to their homes for dinner, on bus tours etc. They seem genuinely excited by the fact that I am not another American (this is in no way meant as an insult, I think they just find Scotland a novelty after 4 New Yorkers) and keep asking if I've met Prince George yet or seen The Loch Ness Monster who appear to be the UK's biggest exports in France.

One thing that I struggle with is the sad lack of resources that my school seems to suffer from. There aren't enough classes for each teacher to have their own, so the walls are all bare except a couple of gratuitous references to what is usually taught in them such as a stringless Spanish guitar and a peeling poster about ionic bonds. I came laden with maps, calendars, posters and cards to stick up in what I thought would be my own little area, but they remain festering in my locker. It is hard to illustrate what haggis is without a picture, and my Pictionary style approach resulted in answers such as "Haribo," "tea bag," and "baseball." I don't know if they actually fully understood just how different it is from the answers provided, as shock levels were minimal. However, this is coming from a city which prides itself on how many ways it can prepare pig snout. Miam miam.

At the end of next week the schools in France break up for Toussaint (half-term), which means I am about to have 2 and a half weeks on my hands with very little to occupy myself. The few friends I have made seem to be performing a mass emigration home so I am planning on rationing the tourist-y things Lyon has to offer to avoid the inevitable situation of lying on the sofa watching Peep Show and eating yet more cheese.

I've finally braved a bike ride in the city. I say braved for two reasons: the only city I've ever cycled in before is Oxford which may as well be a suburban cycle path, and obviously there is the whole other side of the road thing to grasp. Actually, just French driving in generl is quite off putting. None of the nonsensical pedestrian right of way here, Merci. There are, as in most European cities nowadays, bikes for hire à la Boris which are cheap, easy to ride and dotted all over the place. Unfortunately, I live at the top of an enormous hill, so each week when my local station gets filled up with bikes, within two days they are all gone because everyone just dumps them in the middle of town and gets the bus back up the hill. Understandable yet enormously irritating.

Other than cycling around the zoo and artistic renderings of the haggis, I haven't been doing all that much. I am thoroughly embracing the more relaxed way of life which France offers (2 hour lunch breaks) and, on the whole, loving it. A few things have made me a bit homesick recently though: the first Facebook album entitled "Refreshers," (incidentally an album title I loathe wholeheartedly for its utter originality and general shitness of pun, but the thought of being in Camera and laughing at first years is appealing), a programme on iPlayer called "The Great British Year," and when somebody touched my hand on the metro today and didn't recoil as if bitten by a puff adder and actually just LEFT IT THERE IN A VERY GALLIC WAY WHICH MADE ME DEEPLY UNCOMFORTABLE.

I am slowly acclimatising to the effusive nature of French greetings and general existence, so careful I don't try and get off with you all on my next visit. It will be either that or a nonchalant shrug; I haven't decided yet.

À plus, mes amis x

P.s I apologise for the lack of pictures, but my laptop is broken, use your imagination, children.

Taming the Lyon (title courtesy of JLPDR)

 

 So! Here we are once again – or at least, here I am. I have finally touched down in the mighty Lyon and it is with great excitement that I am able to report that everything is going just swimmingly. I’ve taken the bus, had a linguistic spar with an official, had a madeleine induced Proustian flashback (although managed to condense it into just the one volume) and rescued a dog from being crushed by a tram. All in a few day’s work.

Aside from my heroic feats of both bravery and francophilia, I have mainly been exploring. I was unbelievably relieved to arrive at the gate of my apartment complex and have to enter a code, then use a key, then another code, then a code for the lift. Arduous, yes. Secure? As Fort Knox (or Fort Irénée, the area in which I am actually living.) My flat is a haven. A lovely white, tiled haven of Frenchness complete with balcon, piscine and resident French bulldog. It is a world away of the oak beams and uneven floors of Oxford, but in a way that is exactly what I wanted. My flatmate (who may or may not be reading this!) is lovely. Even if she isn’t reading this, it still stands. She has a reassuring large collection of l’alcool on her shelves, and perhaps more significantly for any gentlemen who fancy a holiday over here, she is a legitimate babe.

 

Property pride apart, the rest of the city is just as brilliant. Lyon is a funny mixture of Mediaeval, Renaissance, Modern and Post-Modern architecture. You can’t walk down the street without wanting to gawp at at least three different buildings. (Although sometimes that is just due to the signs on them. I am still unsure as to why the key cutter proudly displays its license to sell “tampons.”) There are two rivers running through it, the Rhone and the Saone, and a long-running Lyonnais joke (get me and my insider knowledge) is that the third river is the Beaujolais due to the impressive rate at which wine is consumed. I think I’ve found my spiritual home.

The food is another matter entirely. Lyon may well be the gastronomic capital of France, but only in this wonderfully bizarre country could BOILED DONKEY SNOUT be considered a delicacy. That isn’t a mistranslation – I checked three times – boiled donkey snout is a thing. Horse meat I can just about take, having probably inadvertently eaten it anyway thanks to my penchant for Ahmed’s, but Eeyore? No wonder he always used to look so bloody sad. Thankfully the Lyonnais cuisine has redeemed itself in my eyes by also offering a wide range of exclusively cheese and potato based dishes, along with plenty of DIY food experiences like fondue and raclette. I love a bit of interactive food.

 

It hasn’t all been mind-blowing boulevards and donkey-based delicacies however, for my explorations have in fact introduced me to Lyon’s one and only Scottish pub! They appear to have got a bit confused along the way and sell copious amounts of Guinness, but their whisky library, comfy chairs and softly blaring New Wave music enveloped me in a lovely alcoholic embrace. They’ve even got a Burns Night evening planned with free haggis for anyone wearing tartan. I feel so loved and included. Vive the Auld Alliance! Notably the English theme bar “Elephant and Castle,” looked rubbish and totally craic-free.

 

However theme bars and questionable delicacies aside, my parents have finally left me all on my lonesome and lonesome it does feel. I’m having to do all sorts of grown-up things like get Social Security, open bank accounts, buy toilet cleaner etc and, sad as it may sound, I want my Mum. I’ve found a few other English girls who seem fun and that’s all great, but I have an awful long time stretching ahead of me with what feels like very little to fill it. After all of the mind-numbing official paperwork is completed, I’ve only really got 12 hours a week filled (by work.) I’ve planned my entire Saturday around picking up my dry-cleaning. This is my first plea: come and visit me please.