I have committed to writing this blog. It is an opportunity to practice writing and let my friends know what is going at the same time. So I might as well introduce the characters that enliven the tragicomedy that is my life in France.
1. Moi - that's me. A Russian immigrant to the US at the tender age of 12, I apparently love culture shock. This is my second time in France, I was a student at a French University a year and a half ago. A glutton for punishment and high-quality food, I love life in Europe. It's slower and less clingy. I'm not one of the idle rich, which somewhat deflates my erstwhile enthusiasm. I love the Fiery Furnaces, picked herring and black bread, whole wheat spaghetti, pistachio flavored everything, fake crabmeat, Cantonese food, Manhattan, the stuff I learned in college, being left alone, B., and my mom. I have a nostalgia tumor lodged somewhere inside my mind, so I am often under its spell. Currently I am teaching high school students at "the most prestigious high school" of the city, mon oeil.
2. B. - the boyfriend. Part court-jester, 5-year old boy, professional chef, and medieval minstrel, B. is someone to whom being charming comes naturally and effortlessly. I envy him that. He loves to cook stirfrys, make his own pasta, play guitar, play capoeira, speak portuguese, chase me around the apartment, and the Phillip Glass of France, Yann Tiersen. I assume he also loves his family, although they're a handful. He is also a teacher at a "sporty" school, where in between classes students entertain themselves with such activities as handball, wrestling, swimming, and what can only be described as running around a forest with a map - which is also sport.
3. the assistants - there are many in this city. Some we know are I. - a British young lady from somewhere like Birmigham or Nottingham. She's nice and defiantly vegan, which I respect but would not attempt in France. She loathes twinkling Christmas lights and likes smoking chicha or nargile or what we call hookah. J. - who teaches English in the middle school of my school is also nice and Northern Irish. She has red hair. M. - is from New Zealand and she pronounces 7 like siiii-van. That astounds me. All others are a hodge-podge of young able-bodied foreigners from exotic locales such as Spain, Argentina, India, England, Ireland, California, and lots are from Kentucky. I don't know why.
4. My friends - they are wonderful and sadly spread all over the place. Some live in Minneapolis, Tucson, Atlanta, Cleveland, Puerto Rico, NYC, and even Russia. One of my bestest friends has recently went through a personal tradegy and I think about giving him hugs every day and cannot wait till he comes to visit, because I believe if anyone is suited to appreciate France in a unique way, it is him.
5. My parents - an odd couple worthy of a sitcom if it was entitled something like "Angry Domineering Russian Bear Dad and Quirky Emotional Loving Mom."
6. The apartment - lavishly spacious by Manhattan standards, it is nice and cozy by regular standards. It's on the fourth floor to us, and on the third floor to French people of a building that is technically older than the Constitution of the United States, and among its residents once lived a man who discovered the uses of iodine. There's a plaque. Sweet. Our place is up high and our bedroom is nothing but an attic with criss-cross beams providing many opportunities for pure slapstick and also a nice view of rooftops. We have a moonlight. Our stove consists of two gas hotplates wired into the kitchen counter, which is slanted but has a little border on the end which allows all the little crummies stay and make the counter their home. I consistently have to arm myself with a towel and go on a (what the household newspapers have called ) roaring rampage of revenge against the goddamn crummies. We don't have a view of the street and we don't know our neighbors, except for the old lady whose window looks into our living room who has a knack for opening her curtains at wholly inappropriate moments or times of the day.
7. My gym - I have recently joined a French gym. It has a name of a fictional South American country and it is the only gym I've ever been to where the patrons greet each other as they walk into the changing room or an exercise room. The ladies who frequent it seem to enjoy having makeup clog every single one of their pores as they sweat, while the men seem to like wearing the tightest workout pants possible, perhaps as a welcoming gesture to me, the newest member. Nevertheless, it's fun and they play old French, Canadian, and American music videos on a big-screen TV in the cardio room AND you can watch the trains go by.
8. the teachers at my school - they are absolutely insane. period.
9. the students at my school - the poor things are exhausted and overworked, which, strangely, does not stop them from being completely retarded 15 year-olds sometimes. They have classes from 8 am until 6 pm. I can't imagine what that is like.
10. The town - it's cute, not too big, not too small, very bourgeois, and beautiful. And there's great shopping.
P.S. Today one of my students asked me where in Manhattan would he be able to buy a pimp hat. I thought I heard him wrong. Later on, I could not get this image from my mind.
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