Chapter 9
Rennes – experiences as an exchange teacher
The Collège des Hautes Ourmes was a fairly large lower secondary school
(compared to what I was used to) of about a thousand pupils in the South-East
quadrant of the bustling city of Rennes, the capital of Brittany. I taught
English classes in each of the four year groups, amounting to some 150 pupils
who came not only from France, but also Turkey, Vietnam, Cambodia and a few
other French-speaking nations. Several struggled to some extent with formal
French (I spent some of my time correcting their French in homework exercises),
and it was only at the end of my year I discovered that for several months
Senior Management had sought (and failed to find) a teacher of French as a
foreign language which was, of course, my speciality.
Names have always posed a problem for me, but I made a huge effort for
the year in France to master the pupils’ names, from relatively common French
names to (for me, at least) exotic Cambodian and Vietnamese names. I was delighted
with myself as within two or three weeks I was able to address each pupil by
his or her name. In the long term, however, the result of this monumental
effort was less good. It appears that I largely burned out whatever section of
the brain deals with retention of names and since that time I have struggled to
recall names. I can describe a pupil’s character, progress, attitude, and even
(at times) provide some family information and history, but it is highly
unlikely I will remember (at least immediately) their name.
Having been a little disappointed by Dominique’s apparent lack of
adaptability, the shoe was now well and truly on the other foot. I was used to
working as a department with regular meetings to discuss course progress, pupil
progress, methodologies and any problems we might have encountered. I quickly
discovered that in Rennes there was no department as such – each teacher was
responsible for his/her classes’ progress, using his/her own methods and even
producing his/her own tests to evaluate pupil progress. This created an
inordinate amount of work for me as I was using four books I didn’t know and
had to invent a series of tests for each one as resources were not shared. I
was rather envious of Claire’s position as all the resources she needed were
filed away and could be accessed easily. On the other hand, I was paid overtime
for any classes I did beyond 19 hours a week while poor Claire had to do 23 or
24 hours as standard, a situation she found somewhat unfair.
I found also that teaching your own language is no easy option. After a
few weeks of muddling through, I was confronted by a small group of pupils who
demanded more formal grammatical explanation. It then struck me that this was a
major difference in educational culture – the French (at that time) still
learned their own language grammatically (a process whose abandonment in
Britain began during my own schooling at home), and so they were able to find
common ground (in terms of grammatical structure) or “hooks” as they learned a
foreign language. This may go some way to explaining the general willingness of
French students to “have a go” compared to the rather reserved and at times
fearful attitude of British students. Naturally, I had to rise to the challenge
and I invested in a good book of English grammar so I could pass on its words
of wisdom as my own. I also learned a lot about the structure of my own
language.
My style of teaching also caused a few problems. As I said previously,
French teachers (and it is wrong of me to generalise so broadly) tend to be
more distant than their Scottish counterparts and pursue more traditional and
at times more authoritarian means of teaching. My more informal style
(involving discussion, banter and the occasional attempt to entertain) was viewed
as weakness by some, accepted with some difficulty by others and appreciated by
a few. With time, however, I seemed to win round the majority and by the end of
the year several were kind enough to say they found me “cool” and would miss
me.
One pupil I certainly did not win over was a young lady in an S4 class
called Elvire. She had no time for me and let me know it in no uncertain terms.
Something of an attention-seeker and a drama queen, she challenged me
frequently, claiming I had no authority (though everyone else in the class
worked steadily and willingly). I tried to point out that she appeared to be
the only one to have problems and that her grades suggested that she was
actually doing rather well in my class (she was a very bright girl), but to no
avail. It worried me that I didn’t have the cultural and linguistic knowledge
to deal with her and that other pupils might follow her example, though the
others remained perfectly reasonable, if wary of her as well.
Things came to a head one day when, the class having been set some work
and largely focused on the task in hand, Elvire decided she needed some
attention and made a paper aeroplane which she then threw in my direction. I
don’t know what Elvire eventually did as a living, but if she ever needs
alternative employment she could do worse than become a professional maker of
paper planes. Her creation flew beautifully the length of the room, with a
trajectory so wonderfully judged that it hit me perfectly on the nose. Even she
was taken aback by the total success of her effort as she snorted with delight
and slight embarrassment, though no apology was forthcoming.
As the others looked up and realised what had happened, I started to
prepare myself for what I was sure was to come. I was certain that I had “lost”
the class and pandemonium was about to ensue. I drew a deep breath, unsure of
what, exactly, I was going to say, especially in French, but I knew I had to
say something assertive.
I don’t know if I’ve ever been so surprised and delighted by the
reaction of a class. Far from the expected rebellion, a number of pupils
actually turned on Elvire, telling her very clearly she had gone too far and
what they thought of her behaviour, while others simply showed disapproval,
shook their heads and got on with their work. Elvire, of course, was entirely
unrepentant and snapped at her classmates, but there was a distinct change in
her behaviour thereafter – still unwilling to respect me, but less obvious in
the display of her feelings.
Maybe there was something to be said for building a rapport with pupils
after all.
The only other time Elvire’s conduct came to prominence was on a school
trip to Jersey organised by my French colleague, André. This was a trip he had
done several times before – 120 pupils accompanied by 6 members of staff on a
day-trip to Jersey, the linguistic interest being that our pupils could
practise their English in an essentially English environment. To catch the
early ferry from St Malo, we left Rennes at around 4.30 a.m.. Our pupils were
merry, chatty and excited as they happily got on the coaches in a remarkably
orderly fashion and set off for foreign shores.
The two-hour journey to St Malo went smoothly enough and at the ferry
port I quickly got off the coach to guide pupils and answer any questions.
Spirits were even higher than when we left and it was almost touching to see
how much they were looking forward to their trip. Then I heard a familiar voice
call out to me in English. “Good morning Mr Fernie.” It was Elvire, but she was
giggling slightly manically and closer inspection revealed her light curly hair
now dark and almost matted to her head as she sweated profusely. She was also
having great difficulty walking in a straight line, or even just remaining
upright. She was propped up by some friends who insisted there was no problem,
but it was quite clear the girl was drunk and was in no fit state to
participate in our excursion, a real shame as she was one of the most able of
our pupils and would certainly have gained a lot from even a brief visit to
Jersey.
The curious thing is that despite her obvious state of intoxication, she
insisted on chatting to me in English and she actually spoke with remarkable
clarity and grammatical accuracy. I thought it best not to draw attention to
any correlation between her alcohol consumption and her linguistic performance
– not the most reliable method of ensuring communication!
Further investigation indicated that she had smuggled a half-bottle of
pastis on to the coach, hidden up her sleeve, and had consumed at least half
the contents by 6.30 a.m.. Her mother was contacted and she was taken home
while the others continued and had a memorable trip. A three-day suspension
from school followed. Naturally, she showed no remorse but I have to say I was
quite relieved to discover that her antics were not restricted to me and my
classroom.
The system of evaluation (at that time) consisted of very regular tests
from which average grades were derived. Formal tests (known as
“interrogations”) contributed to the overall average (marked out of twenty) of
a pupil’s performance throughout the year, and progression to the next level
was dependent on sufficient progress across all subjects (a score of ten or
more). However, some pupils calculated that strengths in certain subjects would
compensate for weakness in others and so they could afford to focus on some at
the expense of others and still maintain a reasonable average.
This was compounded by a practice I came across whereby some teachers
(and by no means all) allowed certain less interested pupils to remain
unfocused on condition that they did not distract others who were willing to
work. The reasoning was that if these unfocused pupils were not successful, it
was their responsibility (as they had effectively opted out) and they would pay
the price by potentially having to repeat a year if their grades fell below the
required standard in a number of subjects.
All of this was explained to me by a pupil in S3 named Ronan with whom I
had something of an altercation as I found this practice unacceptable, but he
thought it was perfectly reasonable.
As I was explaining something to his class, and setting some work, I
noticed that Ronan was whispering to and distracting a classmate (who was
perfectly happy to be distracted). I interrupted my own flow to ask Ronan to be
quiet. “Oui, Oui”, he said, and set to listening to my explanation. This lasted
about two minutes, when he again turned to his friend and was keen to share
some amusing tale. Once again, I stopped and asked him to be quiet, though this
time a little more insistently. “Oui ……”, he said, but with a tone of
impatience. I gave him my best “disapproving teacher” look, hoping to
communicate my displeasure at his tone without wishing to resort to another
verbal ticking off. He shifted in his seat, grimaced a little, but once again
paid attention to my discourse.
Of course, it didn’t last long. He couldn’t resist temptation and
quietly but determinedly picked up his story again.
I had to confront him, not just because of his inattention, but because
of his potential influence on the rest of the class, so I spoke more forcefully
this time and made my displeasure clear. I knew he would respond (probably with
indignation) and I was ready to take him on if necessary, but I was unprepared
for what he said:
“What’s it got to do with you if I pay attention or not? If I don’t
listen and I do badly, I’m the one who re-sits the year!”
His tone was clearly defiant, but I realised he actually thought that I was
being unreasonable and that he had every right to switch off if he chose to.
The whole class waited for my response.
I pointed out to him (and the rest of the listening class) that I was
responsible for his learning and the learning of each individual in the class.
I couldn’t let him opt out and I certainly couldn’t let him prevent the
learning of others by chatting while I talked to the class. I told him he had
no right to interfere with the learning of others and that he was letting
himself down by not making an effort.
It was all obvious stuff and I tried to be as reasonable as I could. The
truth is I didn’t know what else to say – I didn’t have the vocabulary or the
cultural background to handle it in any other way.
Although he was clearly unhappy with the situation, Ronan accepted my
reasoning and assured me he would make more of a concerted effort.
We had an open and interesting chat at the end of the class during which
he explained his position and why he had felt aggrieved. I can’t say he was the
perfect pupil after that, but we achieved an understanding and he did try to
remain attentive – most of the time.
Interestingly, a couple of months later I had a bout of flu and was
absent for a few days. I lived in a flat in the school grounds (as in Le Havre,
there was a residence for staff) and one day I heard a knock on the door – it
was Ronan, accompanied by a couple of classmates. They wanted to know if I was
alright. They wondered if their behaviour had been such that I had decided to
leave and they had come to apologise!
I assured them that I was plain unwell and that their behaviour was
really not that bad. They left reassured and happy I was ill, and I was
heartened and very touched by their concern.
All my colleagues in Rennes were welcoming, open and friendly. They
readily took on board my status as a stranger unaccustomed to their education
system and were more than willing to help me whenever and however necessary, be
it taking time to clarify what was required of me in meetings or more generally
to just offer company and friendship.
Naturally, I was closest to those working in the English “department”
and two in particular, André and Jeannette, became good friends.
Both were a number of years older than me and had families of their own,
but they accepted me immediately as part of their social circle and invited me
(and my wife, who was able to join me for the second part of the year in
France) regularly to their homes and on excursions.
André was particularly willing to offer the hand of friendship and was
kind enough to invite me regularly to one of his three homes (in the city, in
the country and by the sea). This sounds very grand, but André and his wife
Elisabeth bought the properties relatively cheaply with a view to gradually transforming
the fairly small and basic buildings into more substantial and comfortable
dwellings, and this they managed to do on a remarkably meagre budget.
Neither of his two secondary homes (in the country and by the sea) had
running water or modern facilities, but he and his wife worked tirelessly to
create warm, comfortable and remarkably welcoming homes.
Prior to investing in their home by the sea they had not one but two
caravans at a park by a beach not far from St Malo. They were kind enough to
ask me if I wanted to spend a weekend with them at the beach, an offer I
gratefully accepted and then they brought my attention to the fact they were
naturists, and the beach we’d be visiting was nudist.
What can I say? I couldn’t bring myself to remove all my clothing (I
have never fully appreciated laughter at my expense), but I was the odd one out
and I actually felt embarrassed at my own inability to divest myself of my
clothes and my inhibitions.
There were some beautiful sights (which only served to confirm my
preference to retain at least some of my clothes – I couldn’t compete!),
although there were also some less attractive views on offer, and at closer
range I impressed myself no end by maintaining eye contact at all times with
interlocutors. Of course, the experience really only confirmed my own
prudishness as everyone else relaxed and enjoyed the freedom of nature, though
one chap I encountered was a little too keen to exercise his freedom for my
liking ….
André and Elisabeth positioned themselves for a spot of sunbathing on
the beach, as did I. I stretched out, facing upwards and had my eyes closed as
the sun was high in the sky directly above me, and was quite blinding.
Somewhat inevitably, I fell asleep. Not for too long, but long enough to
allow the sun to change position and shine from behind me when I awoke. As I
came to, I looked ahead of me, toward the sea, to discover my view interrupted
by a chap who had set himself up to take in the sun some 15 feet in front of
me, and the sight that greeted me has left me scarred psychologically for life.
This man was clearly a sun worshipper. He was tanned, it seemed to me,
all over, and was a deep brown colour. Except, apparently, for inside his
thighs. And it was that area he had chosen to tan, within spitting distance of
me.
In order to successfully tan the afore-mentioned area, he opted to
crouch on his slightly parted knees, facing the sea and therefore looking away
from me. He leaned on his elbows with his face virtually buried in the sand,
therefore arching his back at an angle of about 45°, and with his naked
backside propped up neatly in line with his knees, he spread his feet and lower
legs thereby presenting his pale (by comparison) inner thighs for tanning.
It was hideous yet hypnotic. Disbelief took over as I tried to make
sense of the man’s position.
I turned, inquiringly, to André and Elisabeth who said quite simply,
“C’est ridicule.”
Finding this response strangely reassuring if inadequate, I shut my eyes
once again and tried to find some inner peace. It was only afterward that
Elisabeth explained to me just what the man was trying to achieve, not that it
gave me much comfort.
André was keen on windsurfing (a pastime that seems particularly popular
in France) and invested in a second-hand board which, naturally enough, he
brought to the beach. He told me about his initial efforts to master the board
….
It was a pleasant day, sunny, reasonably warm, but a little breezy.
André set up the board in the water with the sail flat against the sea, which
he would pick up once he gained his balance on the board.
As he tells it, it took him some twenty or thirty attempts before he was
able to keep his balance and pull the sail up, so he was delighted when he
finally managed it and was determined not to lose the impetus as he set sail.
He held on to the guide bar (whatever it’s called) as though his life depended
on it and, contorting his body in often sudden, jerking movements so as not to
lose his balance, he moved gently but relentlessly forward.
It should be borne in mind that this was a nudist beach and André was
completely naked on his windsurf board.
He was, of course, delighted with his success as he advanced at a
reasonable pace. However, he realised fairly quickly that he had not, as yet,
learned how to steer the device with any degree of accuracy and was able to
exercise very little directional control as he moved along parallel to the
shoreline.
It is at this point that you, dear reader, should be informed that the
beach was only half nudist. The half of the beach to the west was designated
“textile” so clothing was required, and André was heading right for that
section on his poorly controlled board, thrusting his naked body to and fro in
a desperate attempt to stay on his board, and moving at a fair pace.
It was when several fathers on the water’s edge covered their children’s
eyes, yelled at him to cover himself and started throwing lumps of wet sand in
his general direction that André decided he should abandon his record-breaking
first attempt at windsurfing, and allowed himself to fall into the protective
depths of the foreshore. Easily able to stand in the chest-deep water, he towed
his board back to the relative security and friendliness of the nudist area of
the beach.
Over the years, I have enjoyed recounting personal anecdotes which
illustrate aspects of French culture and provide background information to
pupils while hopefully making lessons and their content more palatable and
memorable.
One such aspect is meeting and greeting. While in Scotland we may
exchange nods of recognition, say “Hi”, shake hands or even give a brief hug or
kiss on the cheek to closer friends (although this seems to be evolving among
the young), in France this is much more of an event, and it is one of which you
should be aware. I once inadvertently caused minor offence by not kissing an
assistante on the cheek despite the fact I had seen her just three hours
previously.
You will be expected to shake hands with a male friend when you meet
him, no matter how long you have known him or how close you are. This first
struck me when I was an assistant in Le Havre. I would see classmates arrive
outside a classroom (kids who had known one another for years and spent all day
together), and each and every one would shake hands with all the others. This
also applied to a large number of male staff I encountered every morning –
there was the ritual shaking of hands accompanied by a brief inquiry as to how
each was feeling, and they would actually wait for and listen to the response.
At that time, I associated a handshake with formality and a certain
distance between participants, but I quickly realised that this was simply
another difference in cultures, and indeed in France the lack of physical
contact can be interpreted as coldness and disinterest.
When it comes to meeting and greeting ladies, I’m afraid this is
slightly more complex and is dependent on personal judgment. However, here goes
….
You should kiss a lady you know on the cheek. This will be expected and
failure to do so may cause offence. Offence, however, may also be caused by
failure to deliver the correct number of kisses and here, dear reader, I can be
of little help to you as I have never managed to master this aspect of French
culture.
I have given a peck on the cheek and pulled back to see the other cheek
proffered, and a vague look of offence visible in the eyes as I clearly had not
intended to deliver a second peck.
I have given two pecks (one on each cheek) only to have caused confusion
over which cheek with which to start, and then (on occasions) realised the lady
in question was expecting a further two pecks and was vaguely insulted I had
stopped at just two.
Yes, you may be required to give four pecks, two on each cheek, but I
can offer no solid advice on where to start or exactly how many pecks to offer,
except to suggest that if you are meeting a number of ladies you should treat
each one in the same manner as differentiation in the number of pecks might
also cause offence!
In the early 1990s my colleague Colin and I accompanied a group of six
S4 girl pupils on an exchange trip to Rennes, and André kindly organised a
welcome party at his country home. Apart from the eight members of our group,
he also invited our pupils’ exchange partners, some of their parents and some
staff, amounting to some thirty guests. Everything went very well and a very
pleasant time was had by all, but before we could get down to discussing the
detail of the plans for our trip, it took about twenty minutes just to say
hello as each of us met and embraced each other guest.
The, of course, this whole process was revisited at the end of the
social event when everyone said goodbye!
Much to pupils’ astonishment I have discussed this important aspect of
French culture with many classes, and in an attempt to introduce an interactive
element to my lesson, and to prepare them for this onslaught of handshaking and
cheek-kissing, I have frequently told a class that they will have to say
farewell to me in the traditional French manner before being allowed out of the
room. The boys were usually fairly amused at the prospect of shaking my hand,
but the girls! The very thought of having to go anywhere near my cheek came
close to provoking illness in some and a plain refusal in others. Eventually,
of course, I relented and accepted a shake of the hand from all as they
scurried out of my room.
Another overwhelming (and immensely pleasant) aspect of French culture
is their hospitality. The French are astonishingly hospitable, sociable,
welcoming and congenial hosts. Very keen to invite guests to their homes for a
meal, they take huge pride in offering high quality traditional fare,
especially to foreign guests who will be informed in considerable detail of the
background of each dish and just how each is prepared.
They will go to great lengths to make you welcome – I knew one teacher
in Le Havre who kept close to 40 different types of whisky (as well as a large
stock of different wines) in her cellar, and had cigars, cigarettes and a
lighter to hand despite not smoking herself.
An English-teaching colleague in Rennes, Jeannette, was kind enough to
invite me to her home on a number of occasions and to celebrate a special event
(the exact reason for which now escapes me), she and her husband Jean-Yves
invited ten guests, including me and my wife Alison, and André and Elisabeth.
Nothing could have prepared me for that evening and I still think of it
as a French meal “par excellence”. We started with nibbles and aperitifs at
7.30 and sat down at the table at 8 o’clock. There followed a veritable
onslaught on the senses. The table was beautifully decorated with vividly
coloured flowers and there were nine courses (all a sensible size), each
accompanied by a different wine to suit the dish, while the sound of joyous
chatter and recounting of anecdotes and news was virtually deafening.
Quite apart from the merriment and sociability of the group, what really
came across to me was the fact this all appeared normal to the French guests –
they were clearly in the habit of doing this sort of thing and were full of
questions and comments not just about events and shared experiences, but about
the food, how it was prepared, where it came from, cooking times etc..
Similarly with the wine – they discussed the region of origin, the year, and
how the weather and locality had affected the flavour. It really was an
eye-opener to a different culture.
I, however, had a slight problem. I have no idea why but for some months
my left knee had ached if I didn’t move my leg fairly regularly, and if I
couldn’t alleviate it, the pain went from a dull ache to something akin to
sharp toothache which seemed to worsen with every heartbeat.
As I said, we sat at the table at 8 o’clock. By about 9 o’clock the pain
in my knee was making itself felt. I tried to relieve it by moving my leg
within the limited space available under the table, but I really needed to
stand and stretch my legs which was, of course, impossible as we had only
reached the third course.
By 10.30 and the sixth course the pain was quite excruciating. It
started to dominate everything – I couldn’t think of what to say to my fellow
guests and I was having some trouble following what was going on as my main
focus was the pain in my knee.
Then, about 11 o’clock and on the seventh course, a miracle happened.
The pain started to dissipate. Through sheer relief and joy I began to readily
participate again in conversation and take greater pleasure in the general
proceedings.
Within half an hour the pain had gone completely and I was absolutely
delighted. Why hadn’t I done this before, I thought. Clearly the solution was
just to get through the pain and eventually it would go. Quite apart from the
happy atmosphere engendered by the evening, I was now elated at the thought of
having rid myself of the wretched pain in my knee, presumably permanently.
When we finally rose from the table at 1 a.m., after nine courses, a
coffee and then a pousse-café (yet more alcohol), my pain was gone and I felt
on form! Of course, the alcohol might have had some effect on my mood, but I
was just delighted with myself and my pain-free state.
It had been a long and very pleasant evening. Five hours was the longest
I had ever spent at a table, but clearly it was all worth it.
The next morning, after a fitful sleep (I never sleep well if I eat late
or “make merry”) I got up, and as I was dressing I realised I had a strange
feeling from my left knee down my shin to my ankle. It was numb. No feeling in
that area whatsoever. I even resorted to giving myself karate chops the length
of my shin, all to no avail. I reasoned that if I had to lose feeling somewhere
in my body, that was probably the best place to lose it, but I can’t say I was
very happy about it.
My “relief” from my knee pain hadn’t been relief at all, indeed the
situation had worsened considerably! In the end, it took three days of gradual
recovery of feeling and persistent pins and needles to get back to normal, and
I have managed to avoid five-hour meals ever since.
A feature of French life and society I never encountered or put to the
test in Le Havre was medical care, though clearly I paid a price for that a few
years later in terms of dental treatment.
In France, you pay for visits to the doctor or dentist and pay for
treatment, claiming costs back from insurance companies and a small percentage
from the State only afterwards. Fortunately, I’ve always enjoyed quite robust
health so I wasn’t too concerned about having to visit a doctor, but I did
learn a lesson regarding dental care and I saw my dentist in Scotland shortly
before leaving for Rennes, and he reckoned I could go another year without
treatment.
Needless to say, within three months I became aware of a nagging pain
and I realised I was going to have to see a French dentist – I wanted to avoid
a repeat of my previous (self-inflicted) experience at all costs.
André was as helpful as ever and even accompanied me to meet his dentist
in Rennes. He was a slightly balding, grey-haired and bearded man of average
height in his late forties. Attentive and dynamic, he quickly took a look at
the problem and took some temporary measures that alleviated the pain, but then
announced that he was less than impressed with the standard of Scottish
dentistry if my mouth was anything to go by. He immediately picked up his
appointments schedule and started to pencil me in for no fewer than a further
eight sessions!
Somewhat taken aback, but in no position to offer any arguments, I
inquired as to the cost (bearing in mind my NHS contributions counted for
nothing in France), and he advised me it would cost in the region of the
equivalent of £400.
I really wasn’t sure what to do. I was limiting myself to £300 a month
in France as the mortgage and other monthly bills still applied at home. Could
I ask him just to treat the tooth that caused me pain?
Obviously, there was a look of pained anxiety on my face (remember my
inner feelings are always revealed by my expression) and, after a moment or
two, the dentist told me not to worry because he had a proposition for me.
That was the first time I ever saw a dentist as anything more than
“just” a dentist. Here was a savvy, intelligent businessman offering a deal
that would benefit both of us.
He explained that he had three children, all secondary school age,
including his eldest daughter who was due to sit her Baccalauréat (equivalent
of Highers/A Levels), and all were studying English and would benefit from
private lessons. If I was interested, we could trade his dental treatment for a
series of English lessons for his kids.
I could hardly believe my luck. Once again, I seemed to be in the right
place at the right time and I accepted his offer immediately.
While I can’t say I enjoyed the dental work, I did enjoy my visits to
his home and giving lessons to his children. They were attentive and keen to do
well, and I was something of an exotic guest/teacher. We all got on well and
eventually I was invited to stay for dinner after the lessons.
Clearly it would be wrong to generalise from this outcome. Might I
suggest that you carry with you a means of paying for emergency treatment if
you travel to France? Not everyone will be lucky enough to meet a dentist whose
children need English lessons.
As I mentioned previously, my father died in 1984. My mother was 64 at
the time and proceeded to withdraw into herself and away from society in
general. She saw family and neighbours but made little effort to engage in
anything approaching a social life until, at a cousin’s insistence, she
attended a church fund-raising event and was introduced to a chap called Fred
late in 1987.
Although my mother was not keen on pursuing a romantic involvement at
first, Fred persisted and eventually my mother agreed to go out with him on a
date (after which she phoned me to say she had “got herself into trouble with a
man”, at which I laughed and suggested this was unlikely at the age of 67).
One thing led to another and in February 1990, just two weeks short of
her 70th birthday, my mother married for the second time.
I was delighted for them both as it gave each of them a new lease of
life (Fred was 74) and a desire to travel and share new experiences, and they
visited me in Rennes at Easter in 1990.
Fred was a likeable and affable Londoner, a retired optician and a man
of considerable knowledge and confidence, though sometimes he knew less than he
thought he knew.
During their visit to Rennes, my mum and Fred were keen to taste the
ambiance of the city and try out the famed French café society. On one outing
we went into a typical traditional café – dark wood everywhere, contrasting
with the silver and black modern coffee machines which noisily produced black,
tarry coffee. There were too many tables for the cramped space and too many
customers chatting animatedly over their small cups of espresso as they smoked
and put the world to rights.
Mum and Fred were quite captivated by the whole atmosphere and just
wanted to join in.
They said they wanted coffees so I hurriedly explained that the nearest
equivalent to what we had at home was “un grand café-crème”, a large coffee
with cream and sugar if they so wanted. They accepted my advice and ordered the
coffees.
When the coffees arrived the cream/milk was served in a separate small
jug so the mug-size cup was full of very black and very strong coffee. While
waiting for the arrival of the coffees, Fred had been observing the other
customers, their manner, their attitudes, their lively participation in
discussion, and their coffee.
When I pointed out the cream and sugar, Fred said very decisively that
he was going to have his coffee the way the locals had theirs – black, no milk
and no sugar.
After a quick recce to establish what he was referring to, I tried to
point out to Fred that the other customers were having espressos – strong black
coffee in cups that were about a third of the size of ours, and that given the
size and strength of our coffees, he needed milk and probably sugar. However, I
only managed to get out “But they’re not …” before Fred interrupted me,
insisting he was going to have his coffee French style.
“But Fred …” was all I was able to say before he quoted some Spanish
phrase (he knew Spain and spoke Spanish quite well) about the qualities of pure
black coffee, and started to down his large pure coffee without cream and
without sugar.
It didn’t take long. We spent about twenty minutes in the café and as we
left Fred muttered something about his stomach not feeling quite right. We
continued into town for about five minutes when my mum stopped me and said Fred
really wasn’t feeling too good. I looked in his direction and he was, indeed,
looking distressed. He was very embarrassed but felt he couldn’t go on and suggested
returning to my flat.
Once in the car, he removed his flat cap (which he always wore when out)
to reveal several streams of sweat emanating from the top of his head and
rolling down his forehead, ears and neck.
I drove as quickly as I could and got him installed in the bathroom as
soon as we got in. The poor man spent the next five hours shuttling between the
bedroom and the bathroom.
Fred died eight years later (not as the result of this experience!) and
in that time not a single drop of coffee passed his lips. Indeed, if he was so
much as asked if he wanted a coffee, his head would lower and his lips turned
down as a certain queasiness seemed to invade his stomach.
Best start with an espresso and build up to a “grand crème”.
A couple of anecdotes I have recounted to pupils to build awareness of
and bring to life some of the dangers involved in using the roads in foreign
lands (or indeed at home).
Traffic in cities is never easy, but there are certain rules you expect
to be international, conventions you expect every driver to respect and
precautions you expect every driver to take.
Something happens to drivers in cities. Maybe it’s stress, maybe it’s
pressure or maybe it’s simply because they’re in a hurry, but frequently
drivers in cities fail to consider other road-users, pedestrians and safety in
general, and I ‘ve seen examples of this in most places I’ve visited, including
Glasgow, Edinburgh, London, Paris, Brescia (Italy), Athens and Heraklion in
Crete.
In the centre of Rennes flows the river La Vilaine, and one-way roads
have been built on each side of the river. At one point, just east of the city
centre and on the southern bank of the river there are traffic lights at a
junction, with a zebra crossing some thirty metres beyond them.
One day, as I was walking along the river bank, moving eastward, in the
same direction as the traffic, I saw a considerable queue of cars backed up
over two lanes of traffic at these lights. In itself, that was nothing – once
the lights changed, the drivers would rapidly make their way through the city
streets. What caught my attention was the pedestrian on the far side of the
zebra crossing who had pressed the crossing button to allow him to cross the
road and join me on the river bank, just as the traffic lights were about to
change. It struck me that this was a rather silly place to set up a zebra
crossing as waiting for pedestrians to cross after already waiting at traffic
lights was only going to cause frustration.
The “green man” at the crossing lit up just as the traffic lights
changed to green and the pedestrian stepped on to the crossing, giving him
right of way.
For a moment, I actually felt sorry for the drivers as they accelerated
toward the crossing and the pedestrian who was now about a third of the way
across the road, knowing they would immediately have to brake and allow the
pedestrian to pass.
I needn’t have wasted my sympathy – it became clear that the cars were
not going to stop. They continued accelerating toward the crossing as if no-one
was there, and the pedestrian displayed exactly the same attitude – he carried
on as well!
I braced myself for the impact in disbelief as the two seemed to be on a
collision course, but instead I witnessed bodily dexterity and coolness under
pressure such as I had never seen before.
The pedestrian casually looked in the direction of the cars and
continued on his path, stopping in the middle of the crossing and, without a
single sign of anxiety, he dodged the cars and their door mirrors as they shot
past him, in front and behind, and he nonchalantly moved his hips forward to
avoid mirrors attacking his rear, then backward to avoid mirrors that would
have collided with his front. He waited until all the cars had passed and then
continued to cross at the same leisurely pace.
Everything about the pedestrian’s manner suggested he was used to this –
he just dealt with it.
Perhaps a little training with a hula-hoop would not go amiss before
tackling French road crossings in cities.
I saw a markedly different reaction to road crossings and traffic when,
after driving out of the school where I was teaching, I negotiated the one-way
system and series of mini roundabouts, and approached a very narrow zebra
crossing. The road is reduced to a single lane at that point and a very elderly
lady was waiting to cross. She had not set foot on the crossing and was clearly
waiting until she felt it was entirely safe before embarking on the ten-foot
journey to the other side.
Feeling a considerable degree of sympathy for this old lady, I pulled up
and waited for her to cross.
She didn’t move. Indeed, she didn’t even look in my direction, but as
the car remained immobile on the edge of the crossing she must have felt under
pressure, and a few seconds later she glanced toward me.
I waved to her to cross.
She stared back, unmoving.
I waved again, this time a little more insistent.
She looked me in the eye and shook her head slowly and deliberately.
I pointed at the road and gently and slowly traced my way across the
road with my finger.
This time she shook her head almost frantically, insisting she was going
nowhere.
I gave in and crept forward, especially because a number of cars had by
now gathered behind me, but I couldn’t help but feel guilty for the fear I had
obviously caused to this old lady. Surely she didn’t think I was going to wait
until she reached the middle of the crossing and then maniacally leap forward
to increase my body count of innocent pedestrians?
Perhaps it was simpler than that – maybe she had also witnessed the
incident with the pedestrian in the city centre ….
While in Rennes, Alison and I received a few guests, including our
friend Fiona. Wanting to show her some of the local scenery, we headed off to
the coast for the day and after a long and leisurely lunch we set off on a walk
along the coastal path.
As we walked along the path, chatting and admiring the landscape and
catching up on all the news from home, we saw a medium-height, dark-haired
woman about our age approaching. I paid no real attention as we were well away
from our local haunts and I was more preoccupied with thoughts of where we
would go next than with this stranger whose path we were about to cross.
However, as we were about to pass her she stopped, smiled, and said “Well
…. Bonjour!” with a distinctly Scottish accent. I looked at her properly and
realised in utter astonishment that she was a teacher of Home Economics at
Invergordon, a woman I’d worked alongside for several years, who had invited us
to dinner in her home, whose husband taught locally and whom I also knew well!
The only thing I couldn’t remember about her was her name! Undoubtedly it was
due to the change of context, the length of time I hadn’t seen her, the effort
I had put in to making a place for myself in France and had therefore forgotten
(apparently) the detail of my life in Invergordon. All of that was certainly
true, but it didn’t help me one iota – I still couldn’t remember her name!
I managed to steer the conversation so names didn’t have to be mentioned,
frantically thinking of topics to discuss and avoid, inquiries to make and
tales to tell – all in an attempt to avoid not so much the elephant in the room
as the friend and visitor standing beside me who every now and then looked like
she was going to ask the obvious question, and that was the one area I was
trying to circumvent.
Finally it came, and I knew in my heart it had to. “Aren’t you going to
introduce us?”, as though it was a simple thing to do ….
In one final attempt to get around the problem, I introduced Fiona in
the hope that my nameless colleague and friend would then introduce herself,
but that subterfuge failed miserably, indeed it only made matters worse as,
having named Fiona, both parties looked expectantly and then somewhat incredulously
at me, and I had nothing.
I just wanted to disappear from this Earth as their stares bored into me
and I could think of absolutely nothing to say.
Within seconds (which felt like a lifetime to me), Susan tutted, shook
her head and introduced herself, and I was left feeling guilty and totally
inadequate. I never discussed it with Fiona or Susan, knowing that whatever
justification I offered would only add insult to injury, but to this day I
squirm when I think of that totally random meeting somewhere on the French
coast.
Fiona is a spirited, adventurous girl who likes to live life to the full
and one evening she noticed a bottle of Calvados in our drinks cabinet in
Rennes, and was most intrigued by it.
After establishing it was apple brandy (and explaining about “le Trou
Normand”, its strength and how to consume it), I was surprised when Fiona
sought out a brandy glass and proceeded to pour herself a very large one. I
hurriedly reiterated that it should be consumed in very small quantities, actually
in a thimble-sized receptacle. She chose to ignore that element of French
tradition, though I noted she had a good stab at fulfilling the other element
of the “Trou Normand” tradition by attempting to down the whole in one go.
Thankfully, she didn’t quite make it, but she did manage to drink what was
effectively at least a quadruple Calvados in about twenty minutes.
To my utter astonishment there were no obvious signs of inebriation –
she was perfectly lucid, balanced and sensible having consumed at least twice
as much as I had drunk as an assistant, and that quantity caused me to outrun
cars and wave hysterically to their occupants in a city centre at one in the
morning.
We decided it was time for bed as I had to work the next morning, but I
was quite disconcerted by Fiona’s apparent capacity to hold her drink, to the
point where I felt I might have been a bit of a “wuss” in my younger days.
When I got up at seven the following morning and made my way into the
kitchen, I have to confess that the sight that met my eyes gave me considerable
satisfaction.
Here, seated on a kitchen chair and slumped over the small table, was a
leaden-eyed and totally dishevelled Fiona with a glass by her left hand and a
large bottle of still water on her right.
She looked toward me as I entered, struggling to find the strength to
raise her head and focus her eyes. She explained in a feeble voice that she had
monumental heartburn through the night, had managed to sleep for about one hour
and was still in great discomfort. She had gone into the kitchen looking for
some means to calm the heartburn, found several bottles of nice cool water in
the fridge and had consumed something in the region of three litres to quench
the fire within, consequently having to make numerous visits to the loo and
disturbing her sleep even further.
I did show compassion, but I headed off to work reassured that Calvados
had, eventually, had its effect.
I have been told by more than one French man that every (French) man is
not just entitled to his opinion, but every (French) man feels his opinion is
right, and this is treated as a matter of principle. Apparently, this means
that they are willing to defend their position to the bitter end.
This trait, according to my sources, is greatly admired and is clearly
the basis of the great French play “Cyrano de Bergerac” by Edmond Rostand, in
which the hero Cyrano refuses to surrender to pressure to compromise and
insists on pursuing his own path, come what may, even if this leads to conflict
and romantic tragedy.
In 1990 a sumptuous and much-lauded film version of Rostand’s tale
starring Gérard Depardieu was produced, and I was informed of a special showing
for pupils who were studying the play for their upcoming exams. Colleague and
friend Jean-Claude (a teacher of French) asked if I would accompany him and his
group of pupils. Being keen on cinema in general and keen also to see what all
the fuss was about, I willingly accepted his invitation.
The day came and we set off for an early showing (at 10 a.m. in order to
avoid the general public). Our group of about twenty headed off for the city
centre cinema I had visited often during my stay, a little bleary-eyed but
reasonably enthusiastic.
It was a spacious and comfortable cinema with high quality projection
and sound. It was situated in the heart of the city, looking on to the river
that runs through the centre, and was on one of the main bus routes so getting
there was no problem at all. The only real problem was that it was also closed.
We arrived with about ten minutes to spare and we felt it was not unreasonable
to expect the building to be open at that time, but there was not a soul around
to whom we could direct inquiries. It is not good if things don’t go according
to plan when you are in charge of a number of pupils – they lose interest,
their attention starts to wander and eventually they start to wander. Teachers
feel under great pressure when events occur beyond their control, so we were
delighted to see someone arrive bang on 10 o’clock – a bit late, we thought,
but at least things were now in hand.
The middle-aged lady who had just arrived looked at us with a mild air
of incomprehension, muttered “Bonjour”, turned a key in the door and went
inside, promptly closing the door behind her, leaving our group stranded and
bewildered.
Jean-Claude and I shared a look of bemusement. The lady could at least
have welcomed us and told us how long we’d have to wait. Even if she had
acknowledged the purpose of our being there, we’d have felt better.
Jean-Claude was not the most patient of men, but he had good reason to
be annoyed – we were responsible for a party of kids who were left standing in
the cold morning air and we had just been largely ignored by the only
representative of the cinema we had seen. He told me to stay with the pupils
and brusquely opened the door and went in.
None of us could see what went on behind the entrance to the cinema, but
we could hear. The manager’s office was apparently on the first floor,
overlooking the street, or at least that’s where two very loud and very unhappy
voices came from. I couldn’t make out exactly what was being said and neither
could the kids, but the tone was clear and neither man was happy with the
position in which he found himself, but neither man going to give way to the
other. The arguing and the bad-tempered exchange continued for over five
minutes, which is a long time when you don’t know what you’re going to end up
doing with twenty pupils!
Eventually silence descended and we were left in limbo, but the whole
event had hardly been positive so far, so we expected the worst.
Jean-Claude barged through the door and instructed the pupils to enter
in an orderly fashion. The film would begin in ten minutes.
I looked at him in disbelief, my expression inviting an explanation.
“He claims nobody told him about it and he can’t understand because it
isn’t commercially viable to show the film to such a small group, turn on the
heating, and with no staff so he will have to operate the projector. I pointed
out he or his bosses had made a commitment so they had to keep to it – money or
not. Pupils and staff made the effort to be here at the arranged time so he had
to honour his commitment”, said Jean-Claude. Apparently, the manager kept
repeating it all made no sense and that he knew nothing about it, but in the
face of Jean-Claude’s incessant badgering and demands that he fulfil his
organisation’s promises, he caved in and agreed to show the film himself.
At the end, we just left the cinema – no thanks were passed on to the
manager and no effort was made to show our appreciation. There was no visit
from the manager either, so we just went on our way.
The following day at school, Jean-Claude came up to me quite excitedly
and with a fairly large grin on his face. In the lead-up to our trip, he had
failed to mention to me that our group was just one of five or six from various
schools throughout the city who had been due to see the film. Somewhat confused,
I asked where they had been the day before.
“It turns out we went to the wrong cinema. The others saw it in the
cinema next to the shopping centre. I just assumed it was at the cinema in the
city centre”, said Jean-Claude.
When I pointed out the manager had been right all along, Jean-Claude
simply smiled broadly, shook his fist and said, “That’s French determination!”
He gave me a copy of the play as a souvenir and wrote a dedication to me
on the inside leaf, just so I would remember.
As if I was going to forget!
By the end of my year in Rennes, I had gained hugely. As a teacher, I
learned the importance of analysis – breaking lessons into manageable chunks,
bearing in mind what pupils had done previously and where they were going, and
offering clear explanations while linking everything together. I also learned
the importance of trying to stimulate pupils’ interest while maintaining
discipline, and of course the most obvious thing – the importance of thorough
preparation and testing.
On a more personal level, I learned to appreciate family and friends,
relationships with colleagues, and the importance of listening to and getting
on with others.
Before I left Invergordon for Rennes, a colleague told me she thought it
would be a worthwhile experience if only to learn to appreciate what I already
had, and I think there’s a lot of truth in that statement. It’s worth going
through potentially painful experiences in order to grow, develop and become
surer of what is important to you, and I came home more settles and more
appreciative of my surroundings.
Having said that, I could not have wished for more supportive and
welcoming colleagues in Rennes. Their willingness to understand my situation,
discuss professional matters and share their homes helped me evolve both
professionally and personally.
Rennes – experiences as an exchange teacher
The Collège des Hautes Ourmes was a fairly large lower secondary school
(compared to what I was used to) of about a thousand pupils in the South-East
quadrant of the bustling city of Rennes, the capital of Brittany. I taught
English classes in each of the four year groups, amounting to some 150 pupils
who came not only from France, but also Turkey, Vietnam, Cambodia and a few
other French-speaking nations. Several struggled to some extent with formal
French (I spent some of my time correcting their French in homework exercises),
and it was only at the end of my year I discovered that for several months
Senior Management had sought (and failed to find) a teacher of French as a
foreign language which was, of course, my speciality.
Names have always posed a problem for me, but I made a huge effort for
the year in France to master the pupils’ names, from relatively common French
names to (for me, at least) exotic Cambodian and Vietnamese names. I was delighted
with myself as within two or three weeks I was able to address each pupil by
his or her name. In the long term, however, the result of this monumental
effort was less good. It appears that I largely burned out whatever section of
the brain deals with retention of names and since that time I have struggled to
recall names. I can describe a pupil’s character, progress, attitude, and even
(at times) provide some family information and history, but it is highly
unlikely I will remember (at least immediately) their name.
Having been a little disappointed by Dominique’s apparent lack of
adaptability, the shoe was now well and truly on the other foot. I was used to
working as a department with regular meetings to discuss course progress, pupil
progress, methodologies and any problems we might have encountered. I quickly
discovered that in Rennes there was no department as such – each teacher was
responsible for his/her classes’ progress, using his/her own methods and even
producing his/her own tests to evaluate pupil progress. This created an
inordinate amount of work for me as I was using four books I didn’t know and
had to invent a series of tests for each one as resources were not shared. I
was rather envious of Claire’s position as all the resources she needed were
filed away and could be accessed easily. On the other hand, I was paid overtime
for any classes I did beyond 19 hours a week while poor Claire had to do 23 or
24 hours as standard, a situation she found somewhat unfair.
I found also that teaching your own language is no easy option. After a
few weeks of muddling through, I was confronted by a small group of pupils who
demanded more formal grammatical explanation. It then struck me that this was a
major difference in educational culture – the French (at that time) still
learned their own language grammatically (a process whose abandonment in
Britain began during my own schooling at home), and so they were able to find
common ground (in terms of grammatical structure) or “hooks” as they learned a
foreign language. This may go some way to explaining the general willingness of
French students to “have a go” compared to the rather reserved and at times
fearful attitude of British students. Naturally, I had to rise to the challenge
and I invested in a good book of English grammar so I could pass on its words
of wisdom as my own. I also learned a lot about the structure of my own
language.
My style of teaching also caused a few problems. As I said previously,
French teachers (and it is wrong of me to generalise so broadly) tend to be
more distant than their Scottish counterparts and pursue more traditional and
at times more authoritarian means of teaching. My more informal style
(involving discussion, banter and the occasional attempt to entertain) was viewed
as weakness by some, accepted with some difficulty by others and appreciated by
a few. With time, however, I seemed to win round the majority and by the end of
the year several were kind enough to say they found me “cool” and would miss
me.
One pupil I certainly did not win over was a young lady in an S4 class
called Elvire. She had no time for me and let me know it in no uncertain terms.
Something of an attention-seeker and a drama queen, she challenged me
frequently, claiming I had no authority (though everyone else in the class
worked steadily and willingly). I tried to point out that she appeared to be
the only one to have problems and that her grades suggested that she was
actually doing rather well in my class (she was a very bright girl), but to no
avail. It worried me that I didn’t have the cultural and linguistic knowledge
to deal with her and that other pupils might follow her example, though the
others remained perfectly reasonable, if wary of her as well.
Things came to a head one day when, the class having been set some work
and largely focused on the task in hand, Elvire decided she needed some
attention and made a paper aeroplane which she then threw in my direction. I
don’t know what Elvire eventually did as a living, but if she ever needs
alternative employment she could do worse than become a professional maker of
paper planes. Her creation flew beautifully the length of the room, with a
trajectory so wonderfully judged that it hit me perfectly on the nose. Even she
was taken aback by the total success of her effort as she snorted with delight
and slight embarrassment, though no apology was forthcoming.
As the others looked up and realised what had happened, I started to
prepare myself for what I was sure was to come. I was certain that I had “lost”
the class and pandemonium was about to ensue. I drew a deep breath, unsure of
what, exactly, I was going to say, especially in French, but I knew I had to
say something assertive.
I don’t know if I’ve ever been so surprised and delighted by the
reaction of a class. Far from the expected rebellion, a number of pupils
actually turned on Elvire, telling her very clearly she had gone too far and
what they thought of her behaviour, while others simply showed disapproval,
shook their heads and got on with their work. Elvire, of course, was entirely
unrepentant and snapped at her classmates, but there was a distinct change in
her behaviour thereafter – still unwilling to respect me, but less obvious in
the display of her feelings.
Maybe there was something to be said for building a rapport with pupils
after all.
The only other time Elvire’s conduct came to prominence was on a school
trip to Jersey organised by my French colleague, André. This was a trip he had
done several times before – 120 pupils accompanied by 6 members of staff on a
day-trip to Jersey, the linguistic interest being that our pupils could
practise their English in an essentially English environment. To catch the
early ferry from St Malo, we left Rennes at around 4.30 a.m.. Our pupils were
merry, chatty and excited as they happily got on the coaches in a remarkably
orderly fashion and set off for foreign shores.
The two-hour journey to St Malo went smoothly enough and at the ferry
port I quickly got off the coach to guide pupils and answer any questions.
Spirits were even higher than when we left and it was almost touching to see
how much they were looking forward to their trip. Then I heard a familiar voice
call out to me in English. “Good morning Mr Fernie.” It was Elvire, but she was
giggling slightly manically and closer inspection revealed her light curly hair
now dark and almost matted to her head as she sweated profusely. She was also
having great difficulty walking in a straight line, or even just remaining
upright. She was propped up by some friends who insisted there was no problem,
but it was quite clear the girl was drunk and was in no fit state to
participate in our excursion, a real shame as she was one of the most able of
our pupils and would certainly have gained a lot from even a brief visit to
Jersey.
The curious thing is that despite her obvious state of intoxication, she
insisted on chatting to me in English and she actually spoke with remarkable
clarity and grammatical accuracy. I thought it best not to draw attention to
any correlation between her alcohol consumption and her linguistic performance
– not the most reliable method of ensuring communication!
Further investigation indicated that she had smuggled a half-bottle of
pastis on to the coach, hidden up her sleeve, and had consumed at least half
the contents by 6.30 a.m.. Her mother was contacted and she was taken home
while the others continued and had a memorable trip. A three-day suspension
from school followed. Naturally, she showed no remorse but I have to say I was
quite relieved to discover that her antics were not restricted to me and my
classroom.
The system of evaluation (at that time) consisted of very regular tests
from which average grades were derived. Formal tests (known as
“interrogations”) contributed to the overall average (marked out of twenty) of
a pupil’s performance throughout the year, and progression to the next level
was dependent on sufficient progress across all subjects (a score of ten or
more). However, some pupils calculated that strengths in certain subjects would
compensate for weakness in others and so they could afford to focus on some at
the expense of others and still maintain a reasonable average.
This was compounded by a practice I came across whereby some teachers
(and by no means all) allowed certain less interested pupils to remain
unfocused on condition that they did not distract others who were willing to
work. The reasoning was that if these unfocused pupils were not successful, it
was their responsibility (as they had effectively opted out) and they would pay
the price by potentially having to repeat a year if their grades fell below the
required standard in a number of subjects.
All of this was explained to me by a pupil in S3 named Ronan with whom I
had something of an altercation as I found this practice unacceptable, but he
thought it was perfectly reasonable.
As I was explaining something to his class, and setting some work, I
noticed that Ronan was whispering to and distracting a classmate (who was
perfectly happy to be distracted). I interrupted my own flow to ask Ronan to be
quiet. “Oui, Oui”, he said, and set to listening to my explanation. This lasted
about two minutes, when he again turned to his friend and was keen to share
some amusing tale. Once again, I stopped and asked him to be quiet, though this
time a little more insistently. “Oui ……”, he said, but with a tone of
impatience. I gave him my best “disapproving teacher” look, hoping to
communicate my displeasure at his tone without wishing to resort to another
verbal ticking off. He shifted in his seat, grimaced a little, but once again
paid attention to my discourse.
Of course, it didn’t last long. He couldn’t resist temptation and
quietly but determinedly picked up his story again.
I had to confront him, not just because of his inattention, but because
of his potential influence on the rest of the class, so I spoke more forcefully
this time and made my displeasure clear. I knew he would respond (probably with
indignation) and I was ready to take him on if necessary, but I was unprepared
for what he said:
“What’s it got to do with you if I pay attention or not? If I don’t
listen and I do badly, I’m the one who re-sits the year!”
His tone was clearly defiant, but I realised he actually thought that I was
being unreasonable and that he had every right to switch off if he chose to.
The whole class waited for my response.
I pointed out to him (and the rest of the listening class) that I was
responsible for his learning and the learning of each individual in the class.
I couldn’t let him opt out and I certainly couldn’t let him prevent the
learning of others by chatting while I talked to the class. I told him he had
no right to interfere with the learning of others and that he was letting
himself down by not making an effort.
It was all obvious stuff and I tried to be as reasonable as I could. The
truth is I didn’t know what else to say – I didn’t have the vocabulary or the
cultural background to handle it in any other way.
Although he was clearly unhappy with the situation, Ronan accepted my
reasoning and assured me he would make more of a concerted effort.
We had an open and interesting chat at the end of the class during which
he explained his position and why he had felt aggrieved. I can’t say he was the
perfect pupil after that, but we achieved an understanding and he did try to
remain attentive – most of the time.
Interestingly, a couple of months later I had a bout of flu and was
absent for a few days. I lived in a flat in the school grounds (as in Le Havre,
there was a residence for staff) and one day I heard a knock on the door – it
was Ronan, accompanied by a couple of classmates. They wanted to know if I was
alright. They wondered if their behaviour had been such that I had decided to
leave and they had come to apologise!
I assured them that I was plain unwell and that their behaviour was
really not that bad. They left reassured and happy I was ill, and I was
heartened and very touched by their concern.
All my colleagues in Rennes were welcoming, open and friendly. They
readily took on board my status as a stranger unaccustomed to their education
system and were more than willing to help me whenever and however necessary, be
it taking time to clarify what was required of me in meetings or more generally
to just offer company and friendship.
Naturally, I was closest to those working in the English “department”
and two in particular, André and Jeannette, became good friends.
Both were a number of years older than me and had families of their own,
but they accepted me immediately as part of their social circle and invited me
(and my wife, who was able to join me for the second part of the year in
France) regularly to their homes and on excursions.
André was particularly willing to offer the hand of friendship and was
kind enough to invite me regularly to one of his three homes (in the city, in
the country and by the sea). This sounds very grand, but André and his wife
Elisabeth bought the properties relatively cheaply with a view to gradually transforming
the fairly small and basic buildings into more substantial and comfortable
dwellings, and this they managed to do on a remarkably meagre budget.
Neither of his two secondary homes (in the country and by the sea) had
running water or modern facilities, but he and his wife worked tirelessly to
create warm, comfortable and remarkably welcoming homes.
Prior to investing in their home by the sea they had not one but two
caravans at a park by a beach not far from St Malo. They were kind enough to
ask me if I wanted to spend a weekend with them at the beach, an offer I
gratefully accepted and then they brought my attention to the fact they were
naturists, and the beach we’d be visiting was nudist.
What can I say? I couldn’t bring myself to remove all my clothing (I
have never fully appreciated laughter at my expense), but I was the odd one out
and I actually felt embarrassed at my own inability to divest myself of my
clothes and my inhibitions.
There were some beautiful sights (which only served to confirm my
preference to retain at least some of my clothes – I couldn’t compete!),
although there were also some less attractive views on offer, and at closer
range I impressed myself no end by maintaining eye contact at all times with
interlocutors. Of course, the experience really only confirmed my own
prudishness as everyone else relaxed and enjoyed the freedom of nature, though
one chap I encountered was a little too keen to exercise his freedom for my
liking ….
André and Elisabeth positioned themselves for a spot of sunbathing on
the beach, as did I. I stretched out, facing upwards and had my eyes closed as
the sun was high in the sky directly above me, and was quite blinding.
Somewhat inevitably, I fell asleep. Not for too long, but long enough to
allow the sun to change position and shine from behind me when I awoke. As I
came to, I looked ahead of me, toward the sea, to discover my view interrupted
by a chap who had set himself up to take in the sun some 15 feet in front of
me, and the sight that greeted me has left me scarred psychologically for life.
This man was clearly a sun worshipper. He was tanned, it seemed to me,
all over, and was a deep brown colour. Except, apparently, for inside his
thighs. And it was that area he had chosen to tan, within spitting distance of
me.
In order to successfully tan the afore-mentioned area, he opted to
crouch on his slightly parted knees, facing the sea and therefore looking away
from me. He leaned on his elbows with his face virtually buried in the sand,
therefore arching his back at an angle of about 45°, and with his naked
backside propped up neatly in line with his knees, he spread his feet and lower
legs thereby presenting his pale (by comparison) inner thighs for tanning.
It was hideous yet hypnotic. Disbelief took over as I tried to make
sense of the man’s position.
I turned, inquiringly, to André and Elisabeth who said quite simply,
“C’est ridicule.”
Finding this response strangely reassuring if inadequate, I shut my eyes
once again and tried to find some inner peace. It was only afterward that
Elisabeth explained to me just what the man was trying to achieve, not that it
gave me much comfort.
André was keen on windsurfing (a pastime that seems particularly popular
in France) and invested in a second-hand board which, naturally enough, he
brought to the beach. He told me about his initial efforts to master the board
….
It was a pleasant day, sunny, reasonably warm, but a little breezy.
André set up the board in the water with the sail flat against the sea, which
he would pick up once he gained his balance on the board.
As he tells it, it took him some twenty or thirty attempts before he was
able to keep his balance and pull the sail up, so he was delighted when he
finally managed it and was determined not to lose the impetus as he set sail.
He held on to the guide bar (whatever it’s called) as though his life depended
on it and, contorting his body in often sudden, jerking movements so as not to
lose his balance, he moved gently but relentlessly forward.
It should be borne in mind that this was a nudist beach and André was
completely naked on his windsurf board.
He was, of course, delighted with his success as he advanced at a
reasonable pace. However, he realised fairly quickly that he had not, as yet,
learned how to steer the device with any degree of accuracy and was able to
exercise very little directional control as he moved along parallel to the
shoreline.
It is at this point that you, dear reader, should be informed that the
beach was only half nudist. The half of the beach to the west was designated
“textile” so clothing was required, and André was heading right for that
section on his poorly controlled board, thrusting his naked body to and fro in
a desperate attempt to stay on his board, and moving at a fair pace.
It was when several fathers on the water’s edge covered their children’s
eyes, yelled at him to cover himself and started throwing lumps of wet sand in
his general direction that André decided he should abandon his record-breaking
first attempt at windsurfing, and allowed himself to fall into the protective
depths of the foreshore. Easily able to stand in the chest-deep water, he towed
his board back to the relative security and friendliness of the nudist area of
the beach.
Over the years, I have enjoyed recounting personal anecdotes which
illustrate aspects of French culture and provide background information to
pupils while hopefully making lessons and their content more palatable and
memorable.
One such aspect is meeting and greeting. While in Scotland we may
exchange nods of recognition, say “Hi”, shake hands or even give a brief hug or
kiss on the cheek to closer friends (although this seems to be evolving among
the young), in France this is much more of an event, and it is one of which you
should be aware. I once inadvertently caused minor offence by not kissing an
assistante on the cheek despite the fact I had seen her just three hours
previously.
You will be expected to shake hands with a male friend when you meet
him, no matter how long you have known him or how close you are. This first
struck me when I was an assistant in Le Havre. I would see classmates arrive
outside a classroom (kids who had known one another for years and spent all day
together), and each and every one would shake hands with all the others. This
also applied to a large number of male staff I encountered every morning –
there was the ritual shaking of hands accompanied by a brief inquiry as to how
each was feeling, and they would actually wait for and listen to the response.
At that time, I associated a handshake with formality and a certain
distance between participants, but I quickly realised that this was simply
another difference in cultures, and indeed in France the lack of physical
contact can be interpreted as coldness and disinterest.
When it comes to meeting and greeting ladies, I’m afraid this is
slightly more complex and is dependent on personal judgment. However, here goes
….
You should kiss a lady you know on the cheek. This will be expected and
failure to do so may cause offence. Offence, however, may also be caused by
failure to deliver the correct number of kisses and here, dear reader, I can be
of little help to you as I have never managed to master this aspect of French
culture.
I have given a peck on the cheek and pulled back to see the other cheek
proffered, and a vague look of offence visible in the eyes as I clearly had not
intended to deliver a second peck.
I have given two pecks (one on each cheek) only to have caused confusion
over which cheek with which to start, and then (on occasions) realised the lady
in question was expecting a further two pecks and was vaguely insulted I had
stopped at just two.
Yes, you may be required to give four pecks, two on each cheek, but I
can offer no solid advice on where to start or exactly how many pecks to offer,
except to suggest that if you are meeting a number of ladies you should treat
each one in the same manner as differentiation in the number of pecks might
also cause offence!
In the early 1990s my colleague Colin and I accompanied a group of six
S4 girl pupils on an exchange trip to Rennes, and André kindly organised a
welcome party at his country home. Apart from the eight members of our group,
he also invited our pupils’ exchange partners, some of their parents and some
staff, amounting to some thirty guests. Everything went very well and a very
pleasant time was had by all, but before we could get down to discussing the
detail of the plans for our trip, it took about twenty minutes just to say
hello as each of us met and embraced each other guest.
The, of course, this whole process was revisited at the end of the
social event when everyone said goodbye!
Much to pupils’ astonishment I have discussed this important aspect of
French culture with many classes, and in an attempt to introduce an interactive
element to my lesson, and to prepare them for this onslaught of handshaking and
cheek-kissing, I have frequently told a class that they will have to say
farewell to me in the traditional French manner before being allowed out of the
room. The boys were usually fairly amused at the prospect of shaking my hand,
but the girls! The very thought of having to go anywhere near my cheek came
close to provoking illness in some and a plain refusal in others. Eventually,
of course, I relented and accepted a shake of the hand from all as they
scurried out of my room.
Another overwhelming (and immensely pleasant) aspect of French culture
is their hospitality. The French are astonishingly hospitable, sociable,
welcoming and congenial hosts. Very keen to invite guests to their homes for a
meal, they take huge pride in offering high quality traditional fare,
especially to foreign guests who will be informed in considerable detail of the
background of each dish and just how each is prepared.
They will go to great lengths to make you welcome – I knew one teacher
in Le Havre who kept close to 40 different types of whisky (as well as a large
stock of different wines) in her cellar, and had cigars, cigarettes and a
lighter to hand despite not smoking herself.
An English-teaching colleague in Rennes, Jeannette, was kind enough to
invite me to her home on a number of occasions and to celebrate a special event
(the exact reason for which now escapes me), she and her husband Jean-Yves
invited ten guests, including me and my wife Alison, and André and Elisabeth.
Nothing could have prepared me for that evening and I still think of it
as a French meal “par excellence”. We started with nibbles and aperitifs at
7.30 and sat down at the table at 8 o’clock. There followed a veritable
onslaught on the senses. The table was beautifully decorated with vividly
coloured flowers and there were nine courses (all a sensible size), each
accompanied by a different wine to suit the dish, while the sound of joyous
chatter and recounting of anecdotes and news was virtually deafening.
Quite apart from the merriment and sociability of the group, what really
came across to me was the fact this all appeared normal to the French guests –
they were clearly in the habit of doing this sort of thing and were full of
questions and comments not just about events and shared experiences, but about
the food, how it was prepared, where it came from, cooking times etc..
Similarly with the wine – they discussed the region of origin, the year, and
how the weather and locality had affected the flavour. It really was an
eye-opener to a different culture.
I, however, had a slight problem. I have no idea why but for some months
my left knee had ached if I didn’t move my leg fairly regularly, and if I
couldn’t alleviate it, the pain went from a dull ache to something akin to
sharp toothache which seemed to worsen with every heartbeat.
As I said, we sat at the table at 8 o’clock. By about 9 o’clock the pain
in my knee was making itself felt. I tried to relieve it by moving my leg
within the limited space available under the table, but I really needed to
stand and stretch my legs which was, of course, impossible as we had only
reached the third course.
By 10.30 and the sixth course the pain was quite excruciating. It
started to dominate everything – I couldn’t think of what to say to my fellow
guests and I was having some trouble following what was going on as my main
focus was the pain in my knee.
Then, about 11 o’clock and on the seventh course, a miracle happened.
The pain started to dissipate. Through sheer relief and joy I began to readily
participate again in conversation and take greater pleasure in the general
proceedings.
Within half an hour the pain had gone completely and I was absolutely
delighted. Why hadn’t I done this before, I thought. Clearly the solution was
just to get through the pain and eventually it would go. Quite apart from the
happy atmosphere engendered by the evening, I was now elated at the thought of
having rid myself of the wretched pain in my knee, presumably permanently.
When we finally rose from the table at 1 a.m., after nine courses, a
coffee and then a pousse-café (yet more alcohol), my pain was gone and I felt
on form! Of course, the alcohol might have had some effect on my mood, but I
was just delighted with myself and my pain-free state.
It had been a long and very pleasant evening. Five hours was the longest
I had ever spent at a table, but clearly it was all worth it.
The next morning, after a fitful sleep (I never sleep well if I eat late
or “make merry”) I got up, and as I was dressing I realised I had a strange
feeling from my left knee down my shin to my ankle. It was numb. No feeling in
that area whatsoever. I even resorted to giving myself karate chops the length
of my shin, all to no avail. I reasoned that if I had to lose feeling somewhere
in my body, that was probably the best place to lose it, but I can’t say I was
very happy about it.
My “relief” from my knee pain hadn’t been relief at all, indeed the
situation had worsened considerably! In the end, it took three days of gradual
recovery of feeling and persistent pins and needles to get back to normal, and
I have managed to avoid five-hour meals ever since.
A feature of French life and society I never encountered or put to the
test in Le Havre was medical care, though clearly I paid a price for that a few
years later in terms of dental treatment.
In France, you pay for visits to the doctor or dentist and pay for
treatment, claiming costs back from insurance companies and a small percentage
from the State only afterwards. Fortunately, I’ve always enjoyed quite robust
health so I wasn’t too concerned about having to visit a doctor, but I did
learn a lesson regarding dental care and I saw my dentist in Scotland shortly
before leaving for Rennes, and he reckoned I could go another year without
treatment.
Needless to say, within three months I became aware of a nagging pain
and I realised I was going to have to see a French dentist – I wanted to avoid
a repeat of my previous (self-inflicted) experience at all costs.
André was as helpful as ever and even accompanied me to meet his dentist
in Rennes. He was a slightly balding, grey-haired and bearded man of average
height in his late forties. Attentive and dynamic, he quickly took a look at
the problem and took some temporary measures that alleviated the pain, but then
announced that he was less than impressed with the standard of Scottish
dentistry if my mouth was anything to go by. He immediately picked up his
appointments schedule and started to pencil me in for no fewer than a further
eight sessions!
Somewhat taken aback, but in no position to offer any arguments, I
inquired as to the cost (bearing in mind my NHS contributions counted for
nothing in France), and he advised me it would cost in the region of the
equivalent of £400.
I really wasn’t sure what to do. I was limiting myself to £300 a month
in France as the mortgage and other monthly bills still applied at home. Could
I ask him just to treat the tooth that caused me pain?
Obviously, there was a look of pained anxiety on my face (remember my
inner feelings are always revealed by my expression) and, after a moment or
two, the dentist told me not to worry because he had a proposition for me.
That was the first time I ever saw a dentist as anything more than
“just” a dentist. Here was a savvy, intelligent businessman offering a deal
that would benefit both of us.
He explained that he had three children, all secondary school age,
including his eldest daughter who was due to sit her Baccalauréat (equivalent
of Highers/A Levels), and all were studying English and would benefit from
private lessons. If I was interested, we could trade his dental treatment for a
series of English lessons for his kids.
I could hardly believe my luck. Once again, I seemed to be in the right
place at the right time and I accepted his offer immediately.
While I can’t say I enjoyed the dental work, I did enjoy my visits to
his home and giving lessons to his children. They were attentive and keen to do
well, and I was something of an exotic guest/teacher. We all got on well and
eventually I was invited to stay for dinner after the lessons.
Clearly it would be wrong to generalise from this outcome. Might I
suggest that you carry with you a means of paying for emergency treatment if
you travel to France? Not everyone will be lucky enough to meet a dentist whose
children need English lessons.
As I mentioned previously, my father died in 1984. My mother was 64 at
the time and proceeded to withdraw into herself and away from society in
general. She saw family and neighbours but made little effort to engage in
anything approaching a social life until, at a cousin’s insistence, she
attended a church fund-raising event and was introduced to a chap called Fred
late in 1987.
Although my mother was not keen on pursuing a romantic involvement at
first, Fred persisted and eventually my mother agreed to go out with him on a
date (after which she phoned me to say she had “got herself into trouble with a
man”, at which I laughed and suggested this was unlikely at the age of 67).
One thing led to another and in February 1990, just two weeks short of
her 70th birthday, my mother married for the second time.
I was delighted for them both as it gave each of them a new lease of
life (Fred was 74) and a desire to travel and share new experiences, and they
visited me in Rennes at Easter in 1990.
Fred was a likeable and affable Londoner, a retired optician and a man
of considerable knowledge and confidence, though sometimes he knew less than he
thought he knew.
During their visit to Rennes, my mum and Fred were keen to taste the
ambiance of the city and try out the famed French café society. On one outing
we went into a typical traditional café – dark wood everywhere, contrasting
with the silver and black modern coffee machines which noisily produced black,
tarry coffee. There were too many tables for the cramped space and too many
customers chatting animatedly over their small cups of espresso as they smoked
and put the world to rights.
Mum and Fred were quite captivated by the whole atmosphere and just
wanted to join in.
They said they wanted coffees so I hurriedly explained that the nearest
equivalent to what we had at home was “un grand café-crème”, a large coffee
with cream and sugar if they so wanted. They accepted my advice and ordered the
coffees.
When the coffees arrived the cream/milk was served in a separate small
jug so the mug-size cup was full of very black and very strong coffee. While
waiting for the arrival of the coffees, Fred had been observing the other
customers, their manner, their attitudes, their lively participation in
discussion, and their coffee.
When I pointed out the cream and sugar, Fred said very decisively that
he was going to have his coffee the way the locals had theirs – black, no milk
and no sugar.
After a quick recce to establish what he was referring to, I tried to
point out to Fred that the other customers were having espressos – strong black
coffee in cups that were about a third of the size of ours, and that given the
size and strength of our coffees, he needed milk and probably sugar. However, I
only managed to get out “But they’re not …” before Fred interrupted me,
insisting he was going to have his coffee French style.
“But Fred …” was all I was able to say before he quoted some Spanish
phrase (he knew Spain and spoke Spanish quite well) about the qualities of pure
black coffee, and started to down his large pure coffee without cream and
without sugar.
It didn’t take long. We spent about twenty minutes in the café and as we
left Fred muttered something about his stomach not feeling quite right. We
continued into town for about five minutes when my mum stopped me and said Fred
really wasn’t feeling too good. I looked in his direction and he was, indeed,
looking distressed. He was very embarrassed but felt he couldn’t go on and suggested
returning to my flat.
Once in the car, he removed his flat cap (which he always wore when out)
to reveal several streams of sweat emanating from the top of his head and
rolling down his forehead, ears and neck.
I drove as quickly as I could and got him installed in the bathroom as
soon as we got in. The poor man spent the next five hours shuttling between the
bedroom and the bathroom.
Fred died eight years later (not as the result of this experience!) and
in that time not a single drop of coffee passed his lips. Indeed, if he was so
much as asked if he wanted a coffee, his head would lower and his lips turned
down as a certain queasiness seemed to invade his stomach.
Best start with an espresso and build up to a “grand crème”.
A couple of anecdotes I have recounted to pupils to build awareness of
and bring to life some of the dangers involved in using the roads in foreign
lands (or indeed at home).
Traffic in cities is never easy, but there are certain rules you expect
to be international, conventions you expect every driver to respect and
precautions you expect every driver to take.
Something happens to drivers in cities. Maybe it’s stress, maybe it’s
pressure or maybe it’s simply because they’re in a hurry, but frequently
drivers in cities fail to consider other road-users, pedestrians and safety in
general, and I ‘ve seen examples of this in most places I’ve visited, including
Glasgow, Edinburgh, London, Paris, Brescia (Italy), Athens and Heraklion in
Crete.
In the centre of Rennes flows the river La Vilaine, and one-way roads
have been built on each side of the river. At one point, just east of the city
centre and on the southern bank of the river there are traffic lights at a
junction, with a zebra crossing some thirty metres beyond them.
One day, as I was walking along the river bank, moving eastward, in the
same direction as the traffic, I saw a considerable queue of cars backed up
over two lanes of traffic at these lights. In itself, that was nothing – once
the lights changed, the drivers would rapidly make their way through the city
streets. What caught my attention was the pedestrian on the far side of the
zebra crossing who had pressed the crossing button to allow him to cross the
road and join me on the river bank, just as the traffic lights were about to
change. It struck me that this was a rather silly place to set up a zebra
crossing as waiting for pedestrians to cross after already waiting at traffic
lights was only going to cause frustration.
The “green man” at the crossing lit up just as the traffic lights
changed to green and the pedestrian stepped on to the crossing, giving him
right of way.
For a moment, I actually felt sorry for the drivers as they accelerated
toward the crossing and the pedestrian who was now about a third of the way
across the road, knowing they would immediately have to brake and allow the
pedestrian to pass.
I needn’t have wasted my sympathy – it became clear that the cars were
not going to stop. They continued accelerating toward the crossing as if no-one
was there, and the pedestrian displayed exactly the same attitude – he carried
on as well!
I braced myself for the impact in disbelief as the two seemed to be on a
collision course, but instead I witnessed bodily dexterity and coolness under
pressure such as I had never seen before.
The pedestrian casually looked in the direction of the cars and
continued on his path, stopping in the middle of the crossing and, without a
single sign of anxiety, he dodged the cars and their door mirrors as they shot
past him, in front and behind, and he nonchalantly moved his hips forward to
avoid mirrors attacking his rear, then backward to avoid mirrors that would
have collided with his front. He waited until all the cars had passed and then
continued to cross at the same leisurely pace.
Everything about the pedestrian’s manner suggested he was used to this –
he just dealt with it.
Perhaps a little training with a hula-hoop would not go amiss before
tackling French road crossings in cities.
I saw a markedly different reaction to road crossings and traffic when,
after driving out of the school where I was teaching, I negotiated the one-way
system and series of mini roundabouts, and approached a very narrow zebra
crossing. The road is reduced to a single lane at that point and a very elderly
lady was waiting to cross. She had not set foot on the crossing and was clearly
waiting until she felt it was entirely safe before embarking on the ten-foot
journey to the other side.
Feeling a considerable degree of sympathy for this old lady, I pulled up
and waited for her to cross.
She didn’t move. Indeed, she didn’t even look in my direction, but as
the car remained immobile on the edge of the crossing she must have felt under
pressure, and a few seconds later she glanced toward me.
I waved to her to cross.
She stared back, unmoving.
I waved again, this time a little more insistent.
She looked me in the eye and shook her head slowly and deliberately.
I pointed at the road and gently and slowly traced my way across the
road with my finger.
This time she shook her head almost frantically, insisting she was going
nowhere.
I gave in and crept forward, especially because a number of cars had by
now gathered behind me, but I couldn’t help but feel guilty for the fear I had
obviously caused to this old lady. Surely she didn’t think I was going to wait
until she reached the middle of the crossing and then maniacally leap forward
to increase my body count of innocent pedestrians?
Perhaps it was simpler than that – maybe she had also witnessed the
incident with the pedestrian in the city centre ….
While in Rennes, Alison and I received a few guests, including our
friend Fiona. Wanting to show her some of the local scenery, we headed off to
the coast for the day and after a long and leisurely lunch we set off on a walk
along the coastal path.
As we walked along the path, chatting and admiring the landscape and
catching up on all the news from home, we saw a medium-height, dark-haired
woman about our age approaching. I paid no real attention as we were well away
from our local haunts and I was more preoccupied with thoughts of where we
would go next than with this stranger whose path we were about to cross.
However, as we were about to pass her she stopped, smiled, and said “Well
…. Bonjour!” with a distinctly Scottish accent. I looked at her properly and
realised in utter astonishment that she was a teacher of Home Economics at
Invergordon, a woman I’d worked alongside for several years, who had invited us
to dinner in her home, whose husband taught locally and whom I also knew well!
The only thing I couldn’t remember about her was her name! Undoubtedly it was
due to the change of context, the length of time I hadn’t seen her, the effort
I had put in to making a place for myself in France and had therefore forgotten
(apparently) the detail of my life in Invergordon. All of that was certainly
true, but it didn’t help me one iota – I still couldn’t remember her name!
I managed to steer the conversation so names didn’t have to be mentioned,
frantically thinking of topics to discuss and avoid, inquiries to make and
tales to tell – all in an attempt to avoid not so much the elephant in the room
as the friend and visitor standing beside me who every now and then looked like
she was going to ask the obvious question, and that was the one area I was
trying to circumvent.
Finally it came, and I knew in my heart it had to. “Aren’t you going to
introduce us?”, as though it was a simple thing to do ….
In one final attempt to get around the problem, I introduced Fiona in
the hope that my nameless colleague and friend would then introduce herself,
but that subterfuge failed miserably, indeed it only made matters worse as,
having named Fiona, both parties looked expectantly and then somewhat incredulously
at me, and I had nothing.
I just wanted to disappear from this Earth as their stares bored into me
and I could think of absolutely nothing to say.
Within seconds (which felt like a lifetime to me), Susan tutted, shook
her head and introduced herself, and I was left feeling guilty and totally
inadequate. I never discussed it with Fiona or Susan, knowing that whatever
justification I offered would only add insult to injury, but to this day I
squirm when I think of that totally random meeting somewhere on the French
coast.
Fiona is a spirited, adventurous girl who likes to live life to the full
and one evening she noticed a bottle of Calvados in our drinks cabinet in
Rennes, and was most intrigued by it.
After establishing it was apple brandy (and explaining about “le Trou
Normand”, its strength and how to consume it), I was surprised when Fiona
sought out a brandy glass and proceeded to pour herself a very large one. I
hurriedly reiterated that it should be consumed in very small quantities, actually
in a thimble-sized receptacle. She chose to ignore that element of French
tradition, though I noted she had a good stab at fulfilling the other element
of the “Trou Normand” tradition by attempting to down the whole in one go.
Thankfully, she didn’t quite make it, but she did manage to drink what was
effectively at least a quadruple Calvados in about twenty minutes.
To my utter astonishment there were no obvious signs of inebriation –
she was perfectly lucid, balanced and sensible having consumed at least twice
as much as I had drunk as an assistant, and that quantity caused me to outrun
cars and wave hysterically to their occupants in a city centre at one in the
morning.
We decided it was time for bed as I had to work the next morning, but I
was quite disconcerted by Fiona’s apparent capacity to hold her drink, to the
point where I felt I might have been a bit of a “wuss” in my younger days.
When I got up at seven the following morning and made my way into the
kitchen, I have to confess that the sight that met my eyes gave me considerable
satisfaction.
Here, seated on a kitchen chair and slumped over the small table, was a
leaden-eyed and totally dishevelled Fiona with a glass by her left hand and a
large bottle of still water on her right.
She looked toward me as I entered, struggling to find the strength to
raise her head and focus her eyes. She explained in a feeble voice that she had
monumental heartburn through the night, had managed to sleep for about one hour
and was still in great discomfort. She had gone into the kitchen looking for
some means to calm the heartburn, found several bottles of nice cool water in
the fridge and had consumed something in the region of three litres to quench
the fire within, consequently having to make numerous visits to the loo and
disturbing her sleep even further.
I did show compassion, but I headed off to work reassured that Calvados
had, eventually, had its effect.
I have been told by more than one French man that every (French) man is
not just entitled to his opinion, but every (French) man feels his opinion is
right, and this is treated as a matter of principle. Apparently, this means
that they are willing to defend their position to the bitter end.
This trait, according to my sources, is greatly admired and is clearly
the basis of the great French play “Cyrano de Bergerac” by Edmond Rostand, in
which the hero Cyrano refuses to surrender to pressure to compromise and
insists on pursuing his own path, come what may, even if this leads to conflict
and romantic tragedy.
In 1990 a sumptuous and much-lauded film version of Rostand’s tale
starring Gérard Depardieu was produced, and I was informed of a special showing
for pupils who were studying the play for their upcoming exams. Colleague and
friend Jean-Claude (a teacher of French) asked if I would accompany him and his
group of pupils. Being keen on cinema in general and keen also to see what all
the fuss was about, I willingly accepted his invitation.
The day came and we set off for an early showing (at 10 a.m. in order to
avoid the general public). Our group of about twenty headed off for the city
centre cinema I had visited often during my stay, a little bleary-eyed but
reasonably enthusiastic.
It was a spacious and comfortable cinema with high quality projection
and sound. It was situated in the heart of the city, looking on to the river
that runs through the centre, and was on one of the main bus routes so getting
there was no problem at all. The only real problem was that it was also closed.
We arrived with about ten minutes to spare and we felt it was not unreasonable
to expect the building to be open at that time, but there was not a soul around
to whom we could direct inquiries. It is not good if things don’t go according
to plan when you are in charge of a number of pupils – they lose interest,
their attention starts to wander and eventually they start to wander. Teachers
feel under great pressure when events occur beyond their control, so we were
delighted to see someone arrive bang on 10 o’clock – a bit late, we thought,
but at least things were now in hand.
The middle-aged lady who had just arrived looked at us with a mild air
of incomprehension, muttered “Bonjour”, turned a key in the door and went
inside, promptly closing the door behind her, leaving our group stranded and
bewildered.
Jean-Claude and I shared a look of bemusement. The lady could at least
have welcomed us and told us how long we’d have to wait. Even if she had
acknowledged the purpose of our being there, we’d have felt better.
Jean-Claude was not the most patient of men, but he had good reason to
be annoyed – we were responsible for a party of kids who were left standing in
the cold morning air and we had just been largely ignored by the only
representative of the cinema we had seen. He told me to stay with the pupils
and brusquely opened the door and went in.
None of us could see what went on behind the entrance to the cinema, but
we could hear. The manager’s office was apparently on the first floor,
overlooking the street, or at least that’s where two very loud and very unhappy
voices came from. I couldn’t make out exactly what was being said and neither
could the kids, but the tone was clear and neither man was happy with the
position in which he found himself, but neither man going to give way to the
other. The arguing and the bad-tempered exchange continued for over five
minutes, which is a long time when you don’t know what you’re going to end up
doing with twenty pupils!
Eventually silence descended and we were left in limbo, but the whole
event had hardly been positive so far, so we expected the worst.
Jean-Claude barged through the door and instructed the pupils to enter
in an orderly fashion. The film would begin in ten minutes.
I looked at him in disbelief, my expression inviting an explanation.
“He claims nobody told him about it and he can’t understand because it
isn’t commercially viable to show the film to such a small group, turn on the
heating, and with no staff so he will have to operate the projector. I pointed
out he or his bosses had made a commitment so they had to keep to it – money or
not. Pupils and staff made the effort to be here at the arranged time so he had
to honour his commitment”, said Jean-Claude. Apparently, the manager kept
repeating it all made no sense and that he knew nothing about it, but in the
face of Jean-Claude’s incessant badgering and demands that he fulfil his
organisation’s promises, he caved in and agreed to show the film himself.
At the end, we just left the cinema – no thanks were passed on to the
manager and no effort was made to show our appreciation. There was no visit
from the manager either, so we just went on our way.
The following day at school, Jean-Claude came up to me quite excitedly
and with a fairly large grin on his face. In the lead-up to our trip, he had
failed to mention to me that our group was just one of five or six from various
schools throughout the city who had been due to see the film. Somewhat confused,
I asked where they had been the day before.
“It turns out we went to the wrong cinema. The others saw it in the
cinema next to the shopping centre. I just assumed it was at the cinema in the
city centre”, said Jean-Claude.
When I pointed out the manager had been right all along, Jean-Claude
simply smiled broadly, shook his fist and said, “That’s French determination!”
He gave me a copy of the play as a souvenir and wrote a dedication to me
on the inside leaf, just so I would remember.
As if I was going to forget!
By the end of my year in Rennes, I had gained hugely. As a teacher, I
learned the importance of analysis – breaking lessons into manageable chunks,
bearing in mind what pupils had done previously and where they were going, and
offering clear explanations while linking everything together. I also learned
the importance of trying to stimulate pupils’ interest while maintaining
discipline, and of course the most obvious thing – the importance of thorough
preparation and testing.
On a more personal level, I learned to appreciate family and friends,
relationships with colleagues, and the importance of listening to and getting
on with others.
Before I left Invergordon for Rennes, a colleague told me she thought it
would be a worthwhile experience if only to learn to appreciate what I already
had, and I think there’s a lot of truth in that statement. It’s worth going
through potentially painful experiences in order to grow, develop and become
surer of what is important to you, and I came home more settles and more
appreciative of my surroundings.
Having said that, I could not have wished for more supportive and
welcoming colleagues in Rennes. Their willingness to understand my situation,
discuss professional matters and share their homes helped me evolve both
professionally and personally.
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