The Salon

I adore the salon! But I already knew this - When I was in Aix, my host mother took me to slightly pricey salon where my head was massaged and washed and I was served coffee/tea and cookies while my hair was cut and styled. It was a wonderful experience!

 The block I live on here in Toulouse is amazing! A pizza shop, a hair dresser, supermarket, ATM, fax place, pharmacy...it's got everything! And of course there's the lovely Garonne flowing by my building. Out of convenience, I set up a hair appointment with the salon on my block....now that the experience is over I have to say that my block rocks even more and I still love French Salons.

Strolling in for my appointment, I pushed the nervous butterflies in my tummy down down down as far as they would go. I'm always nervous about my hair - not that I have fabulous hair - I just don't know how I want it or what looks good...and often I wish the hairdresser would just tell me to sit down and she'd choose for herself what to do with my mane. Ah but the French hairdresser....now there's a keeper.

After the kind mid 50's beautician helped me out of my coat and hung it up, she ushered me to the wash basin...."but I washed it for you". She felt of my hair, decided it was not good enough and turned on the water...guess I was having my hair washed again for the second time in just a few hours. When she touched my head every hint of annoyance left my body. She massaged, she hummed, the water was perfect...I was in a state of bliss. With a dreamy smile I let myself be led to a station where she and I discussed my bangs..."I don't want bangs straight across my forehead...but sweeping to the side....but I want to be able to style them on either side too." The hair dresser thought about it while she ran her fingers through my now chin-length bangs, then she said "Okay, I know what to do.We'll do something 'souple' (soft/flexible) and 'jeune' (young) and 'degrade' (tapering). "

In nervous anticipation mixed with the little chills your body gets when someone's playing with your hair I watched as she cut, combed, shaped, and dried my mane... She took her time, she was gentle, she knew when to talk (it always annoys me in the salon when you want to be immersed in the experience and the hairdresser wants to chat away about nothing), she didn't fill my head with product (also annoying that all the salons I've been to in America spray this and that on your head which makes hair look fabulous and shiny for that day but the next day it looks like one greasy, limp mess), she didn't leave me to answer the phone or chat with a colleague...all her care and attention was on my hair and I loved it.
 Furthermore, she asked my opinion...the American hairdressers I've had simply go to town on my head after the initial discussion of the look I'm going for and then straighten my hair repeatedly at the end as if that counts for styling it.... this french woman somehow tamed my mess into soft curls with just her fingers and the hairdryer and she also asked at a couple different points if I was okay with the cut so far.

The price was a reasonable 26 euros for a wash, cut, and loose styling...oh and I got chocolate candy at the end too! If you come to France...whoever is reading this...go to the salon and let yourself be treated like an old friend. It's a truly wonderful thing.

~Tam in Toulouse

I've become Laura Ingalls

I never tried washing my clothes in the machines here. There's a set of machines in my apartment building as well as a dry cleaner's on the corner of my block so it's not like the option doesn't exist. When I moved into my apartment, I thought hard about the cost of washing and drying using the machines versus how many crepes I could eat with said cost. Wisely, I chose crepes.
After a trip to the supermarket where a kind lady pointed out the 'meilleur'  washing powder (brand name: Genie),  I came home prepared to learn to wash clothes by hand in my bathroom sink (since I have no tub). I'm not talking about just my delicates....nope, I was committed to washing EVERYTHING in my bathroom sink. And for the last few months I've become very experienced with the process.
It sounds like I've lost my marbles but really washing my clothes in the sink is relaxing. There's something about plunging my hands into the hot soapy water. I pretend I'm kneading dough as I smush and swoosh my clothes against each other. I even bought a little cleaning brush to scrub any spots or stains. It only takes minutes as opposed to a half hour washing cycle in a machine and I can attack the parts of the garment that are dirtiest. I listen to music or tape up note cards I'm studying to the bathroom mirror..... I multitask.
 After washing my clothes I hang them on the special rack that I also picked up at the supermarket which stands diagonally in my shower. It takes a few days for really heavy items like jeans to dry, but I usually speed up the process by bringing said rack into my living space and setting it in front of the heater. 
The other day I realized my sheets and blankets needed to be washed....a task impossible for my little sink and rack in the bathroom. So, I payed 14 euros to watch the machine brutally attack my linens and dry them to a crisp. Besides the obscene price for my one sheet, two towels, and two tiny throw blankets to wash and dry, it occurred to me that I prefer my laid back bathroom method.
  I think I'll definitely be sticking to those crepes and to hand washing for the duration of my time here. :-)
~Tam in Toulouse

Ira (Latin for Ire)

I realize that this blog gets happier and happier .... okay that's exactly the opposite of what I mean. But I can't help it. As I sit writing lists of words I'm supposed to learn for Latin (2 years' worth), going over my notes for my final paper on Salome, and attempting to memorize the morphologie from Ancient French to Modern French I get angrier and angrier. I'm angry because my notes don't match what's in my text book (even though they were copied exactly from the board). I'm angry because nothing makes sense no matter how many hours I study it.....I'm angry with everything....

 And I don't know how to stop being angry or how to force it all to make sense either.

Did the homework? Yep.
Went to classes? Yep.
Went to 8 am Latin year 1 every week even though I wasn't enrolled? YES!
 Asked pertinent questions? Yep.
Got help from classmates? Yep.
 Looked at it in English online? Yep.
Made notecards? Yep.
Did samples and exercises? Yep.
Should pass the exams right? Kill me now (not literally).

I feel stuck in quicksand ... why not give it my best right? Continue flailing my arms and legs in an attempt to free myself.

~ Tam (mad at the world) in Toulouse

P.S. In case anyone still reads this, I promise to have happy posts from Christmas to New Year's.

Two Unrelated Things

I'm not officially on Christmas Break just yet. I still need to go to Le Mirail tomorrow to try to change the class meeting times for two courses next February, but since I'm so close to break (aka no work due), I have been a very lazy bum the last 24 hours. During that time two things keep circling my head, so I suppose sharing them might alleviate the constant 'thought' reel in  my brain.

1) Just give him the chance to do something. I mean God that is.
See, this week has been 'bien mieux' than last week. In fact, yesterday, Wednesday, I couldn't stop smiling - I was lighter than air and every one of my french friends noticed. But last week, ugh last week was horrid as my previous blog posts have revealed. Today it occurred to me, that, had I not complained so much, had I not eaten an entire package of oreos, two medium pizzas all by myself, and an entire box of cereal (all within 48 hours), had I not loathed my french existence and glared at the Heavens....had I not done all that, the outcome still would have been the same and maybe I wouldn't have gained some pounds and pushed people away with my grumpy mood. Eleanor Roosevelt said, 'No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.' I choose to insert mad  in the place of inferior because I think it aptly applies. Her quote is about the active passivity that we all are guilty for. For Christians I think we encounter obstacles and  we complain that God isn't doing anything helpful. Never, do we really give the Lord a chance to do something though. (Trust me I'm a classic example) A bad day at school (well a couple actually) and I wanted to nab the first plane home. One week, that's all God needed to bring me back to happy. One week. But I didn't give him a chance before deciding He'd already botched the job, I only gave Him one day. I think that it's important, when things are going wrong in such a manner that we can't directly help ourselves and it looks hopeless, that we give the Lord a chance to do something. I'm not saying we should block our feelings about it, but the manner in which we deal with such feelings can be quite telling. So...from me to myself to whoever reads this....just give Him some time yeah?

2) Tears. They affect your whole face; dry salty cheeks, brittle eyelashes, a runny nose, a flushed face, puffy eyes...the after-effects of crying just aren't pretty or pleasant. Usually, we're in privacy when we cry, so all this yuckiness is excused. However, there are the rare cases when the public is privy to our mess. Last Wednesday was one such incident. Appropriately, as I sat in 'Melancolie (19th century Romanticism)' telling my friend about my despair, the tears announced themselves.
( I tend to cry about weird things or maybe those things that seem unjust and awfully bad-timed in my sphere. I've cried about plans being changed abruptly, important thing being lost, writer's block the night before a paper is due, feeling overwhelmed....things like that. Yet my eyes have remained dry in the past during breakups, deaths, accidents, being hit multiple times in cheerleading, spraining and straining my body, and high stress real life-changing moments.)
Thus, I was mortified to be silently shedding tear after tear in class while my french friend rubbed my arm and the Professor continued his discussion on spiritual suffering while gazing intently, if curiously, at me....I was doubly mortified because I didn't feel like I had a good reason for crying in public. I even apologized several times to my friend. As if crying in public is 'interdit' in someway....it's not! That's my second point...why are we so ashamed to cry in front of people? If something affects us, why are we ashamed of our tears? We're not shouting or carrying on or interrupting anyone's lives...little salty, itchy, wet things are running down our face....it's not a crime. This shame we carry confuses me indeed.....

Desespoir (part 2)

"So, what do you expect me to do for you?"

Rather than screaming "I'D LIKE SOMEONE TO HELP ME BY EXPLAINING HOW CLASSES WORK AT THIS INSTITUTION FOR INTERNATIONAL STUDENTS, OR IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?!?!?!" .....yes, rather than that, I calmly asserted that perhaps I could be graded like the Erasmus students. Or perhaps I could chuck number grades in favor of a pass/fail system. I didn't know what I wanted because I didn't understand the system or my options....I just NEEDED to understand how I could keep from failing my courses. The entire time I explained this in gorgeous French, E just stared at me like I was an annoying, lost cause while fiddling with a candle on her desk.

"You can enroll in DELF courses. They are French courses that will help your written French." At her suggestion, I succeeded at not groaning aloud. Sure, why not enroll in more classes on top of my already full load? Besides, " this semester is basically over. I will still fail this semester...."
E glanced at the ceiling, thought a second, and said, "well you can always talk to your professors."
At this point in the conversation I considered how much trouble I would get it if I shouted my displeasure at the lack of 'international support' at Le Mirail.
"I have talked to my professors and voiced my fears. They know I'm American. They continue to tell me to do my best - WHICH I AM! However, that does not help us arrive at a way to GRADE MY WORK!" (The words in Caps Lock I did not yell or even forcefully emphasize- I simply yell here in the blog where I can finally release my frustration).
E wrote a name on a post-it, handed it over, emphasized 'batiment (building) 14' and directed me to the door.

What I had was a post-it with the DELF director's name on it and directions to the DELF office (which was closed, by the way). I will try again tomorrow morning ...

Now, perhaps this entire dilemma could be solved if I simply asked a French friend to correct my papers from now on before they are due -  except remembering the fact these students are busy too (though several have offered to 'help'). I feel that it is unfair to make then correct 10 pages line after line of awful french, and such a request is unreasonable during this time of final papers and presentations; it would be nearly impossible for me to try to work ahead so far in advance that they can correct said papers before they start working on their own. I might also mention that I certainly won't be able to turn to them for help during the WRITTEN FINAL EXAMS.
Is it more beneficial that the professors notice my level of written french now, so that the final exam reflects my level throughout the course? Or is it more beneficial to have flawlessly corrected papers now and then stumble through the final? How beneficial is my year here if I fail my courses? And what effect would that have on future French graduate school prospects?

Bah Humbug!
~Tam in Toulouse

Desespoir (despair)

This week I turned in a real assignment. When my professor handed back the corrected version we had a little chat she and I. Apparently I am ungradeable - my spoken french is tres bien, but my written french needs to be corrected in every line of whatever I write. Usually such corrections aren't major, an 'e' here a tense there, maybe a word that completes a french expression the correct way. Nevertheless it is the line by line correction that makes my writing below a failing grade  (despite my vocabulary or my actual ideas). To add to the demoralizing situation, the professor pondered aloud how she should proceed with me...with a paper due this next week and a final paper due in January she voiced a concern about me receiving a grade in her course. What to do?

The dilemma here is my independence. The European exchange students are 'Erasmus' and they are graded differently that a normal French student. Then there are the American students that come to Toulouse (or so I've been told) every second semester with a program from an American university. These students are in a program, so the manner for grading them and the classes they have would be completely different from my situation. I am here all alone. No program, no exchange, no 'French for foreign students'. I chose Licence 3 - Lettres Modernes because in my undergraduate career I was a French Literature major. I did not come here to sit in conversation classes, I came to be immersed in Hugo, Racine, Verlaine, etc.... and I feel like I'm being punished for such an ambitious idea.

Today I visited EIMA - the organization for international students - to seek help about my grade problem. I certainly don't WANT to fail my courses here and I am working hard in all my classes, but it's not enough I suppose. The French student in charge, who very kindly complimented my French and spoke to me in English, was baffled by my situation. "So, your not in an exchange program and you're not in French grammar classes and you're not Erasmus either?" "Precisely." "Hmmm....that's very strange. Go to the International Students office next door." At the office next door I sat down and explained the situation once again to the woman (we'll call her 'E') behind the desk. "I'm going to fail it seems and I don't know what to do, because I'm working hard (going to class, taking notes, doing homework, etc) but my written French is so terrible my professor literally can't grade it."

The response I received made me (for the first time in my life) want to reach across the table and physically harm E....

-continued in next post-
~Tam in Toulouse

A Toulouse Blessing

I think she knew. I'm not sure how, but I think Toulouse (the city aka feminin) knew that Tuesday and today were going to be tiring, irritable, bad mood, bad news days. The expression "when God shuts a door he opens a window" quite literally applies to my life the last 48 hours. I've promised myself, despite my fierce desire to do so, that I shall not write about the academic disappointments and frustrations very recently. Instead I shall exalt the city of Toulouse for her kindness.

The last two days the weather has been ridiculous! Just this weekend we had a dusting of non-stick snow, yet the last two days a warm 60 degree temperature has prevailed. For someone whose mood is strongly tied to the weather (I hate the cold - it makes me irrationally angry), this change has kept me from tears that would have won out thanks to aforementioned annoyances. Along with the lovely warm air, the sun has been shining violently, beaming into the frigid classrooms, helping me stay awake during my courses. The academic door may have been slammed in my face but my apartment window has been thrown open to allow the nice breeze inside.

I've also been immensely thankful for the bakery on my street where I can spend 2 euros on the most mouth-watering 6 inches of bread baked with chocolate chips and a hint of orange and topped with huge sugar crystals. I adore the corner supermarket where the owner waves to me and calls me mademoiselle in a sing-song voice to which I cannot help but smile. Even the Pizza place on my street has contributed to keeping me emotionally afloat with their yummy fresh ingredients and generous portions ( the 25% student discount also helps). My 8 am journey to Latin class on Tuesday was blessed by a gorgeous pink sunrise worthy of a being turned into a postcard.

The city has been a reliable friend this week indeed! Here's to hoping for another beautiful sunrise tomorrow morning!

~Tam in Toulouse

The English Surprise/The French Conspiracy

As I was sitting in class today listening to my french 'comrades' stumble through an English passage, trying to pronounce words like 'this', ' that', and 'her', I began to believe that maybe my lack of friends here can be attributed to my nationality. I'm 'the American'. I speak English. Perhaps, just perhaps, the people in my classes weren't speaking to me or sitting by me out of timidity about their ability to converse with me. Their English needs work, as does my French, so maybe a shyness on both sides was the issue.

The following class period taught me two things: almost EVERYONE speaks English & my nationality has nothing to do with sub par friend making.

Last Wednesday, a girl who'd been sitting next to me for weeks suddenly revealed her English ability. We'd had conversations about educational systems, Christmas plans, career plans, and the 'grèves' all in French during various classes, but as we walked to the metro on Wednesday she suddenly switched from French to perfect English. I literally stopped in my tracks and berated her for hiding her English from me. She, in turn, said that I needed to stick to French since I'm here to learn the language after all.

Today, another classmate (also as we're walking to the metro) suddenly decided to reveal her English language knowledge. I assured her that I detested her (jokingly of course) for hiding her skill from me. After she revealed her capability, she switched back to French and said she'd prefer if I spoke it as well.

In both instances, with both girls, I've said things in English to them before and received curious looks and "je ne comprends pas". I  asked them if they spoke English and both said "no". So, my surprise was overwhelming when both spoke to me in my own language. I asked a couple people from class standing nearby if they knew English as well. "Of course" they said. Of course? Of course!

How come when I've posed questions in class that the professor/class could not understand no one mentioned asking the question in English? How come my classmates hid their ability from me like a 'make the American believe we can't understand her no matter what language she speaks' conspiracy? How come the two girls decided to reveal their knowledge just as I'm starting to speak a little better? If my classmates know English then surely my professors know English which begs the question, why don't they explain terms I've clearly never heard before IN ENGLISH?!

I suppose the English surprise was supposed to put me at ease, but it makes me angry. I'm here to learn French - duh- but I had a rough time my first two months here, and it could have been a lot easier had I just been able to substitute a French word here and there with an English one so that I could express myself or better understand my courses. It would have been nice if English hadn't been hidden from me for the last three months.

So, I take it back, when I was told in coming here that 'everyone would speak English' I was not lied to. It's simply that the French really do almost forcefully PREFER that I make myself speak their language. Another day, another something learned...

~Tam in Toulouse

Titre de Sejour

At the crack of dawn this morning (well the crack of dawn for a Saturday on which I wanted to sleep in, aka 9 am) I rolled out of bed for my Titre de Sejour rendez-vous at OFII.

The Titre de Sejour is a sticker that the French government puts into your passport in order to affirm that you have official resident status in France. If you're a student like me, it allows you to return to the U.S. over the holidays and get back into France afterward or to travel around Europe officially. This sticker (in addition to your visa) is very important, and lots of administrative offices need to see it to know that you haven't forged anything and that the government knows you are in France.

As I was saying, at the crack of dawn I put on my most french outfit (option number one from my last post), gathered my documents, and made my way to OFII. The sun was shining after weeks of clouds and there was a soft dusting of snow quickly melting to create a sheen on the pavement,...good omens for an administrative rendez-vous.

After waiting for so long at OFII that I almost dozed off with my head up against a wall (because you wait for everything in France) I was called into a room for preliminary questioning. "Nationality? Height and weight? Eye color? Do you smoke? Are you pregnant? When were your last vaccinations?" I briefly panicked at the last question, cursing my doubt that I would need my vaccination record in France. A fear gripped my stomach. I knew I'd be sent away and told to return when I did have my vaccination record. Contrary to my fear, the woman simply asked me to recall my record by memory the best I could. Almost in disbelief I followed the woman to a room to be weighed in kilos and to get my height in centimeters.

Here in France I've not exactly been eating nutritiously. I do my best to have at least one serving of veggies a day, I munch on fruit all day long, and I even try not to eat solely bread and cheese every day (though it's a hard battle)...but my downfall is sweets. I absolutely crave something sweet every day as well as something chocolate. Therefore my cupboard is filled with oreos, chocolate truffles, chocolate cereal, and nutella. I also eat about every three hours. In any case, I'd been feeling a bit heavier than usual lately.

I stepped onto the scale, the woman scrawled some numbers and said, "tres bien". I was tres bien? I had no idea what my weight was but if I'm tres bien then bring on more oreos. Her words gave me a thought- if every scale measured weight by words perhaps individuals would feel less obsessed with it. Manger plus, tres bien, normal, pas bien, risque a la sante - perhaps those words would be a better alternative to numbers

The preliminary woman left me in a new waiting area from which I was called into the secondary examination room. "Take off all that." The next lady motioned at my top half shrouded in layers. Obligingly I removed all my outer layers and asked, "Ca marche?" "No, that doesn't work" she said back in French. "Remove all of it. Nude." Come again? She wanted me to do what? Feeling quite awkward and covering my lady bits, I followed her instructions and was lead to an x-ray machine. "Touchez." With a sigh and a tiny huff I dropped my modesty and touched the panel with both hands. "No. With those." She motioned again at my top half as my mouth fell open in disbelief. Could this get anymore weird? As I showed her my best "I hate this" frown and became intimate with the cold panel in front of me, she positioned my arms and took the x-ray. "Fini." I practically dashed for my clothes.

More waiting and then into an examination with a male doctor. My heart beat quickly as I imagined failing a blood pressure test or worse, having my bottom half examined. The doctor ushered me in, related his knowledge about Alabama & Mississippi, asked what course of studies I was following in Toulouse, checked my x-ray, checked boxes on documents while we chatted, and ushered me out again. I was relieved.

The final phase in getting the Titre de Sejour loomed ahead. With excited anticipation I sat listening to American songs over the radio in the waiting room wondering why the French love our music, our cinema, our celebrities, etc. A woman not dressed in a lab coat showed me into a small room. In a pointed, business-like manner she asked for my 55 euro Titre fee (there's always a fee for whatever you're trying to get when it comes to the French government), examined my passport, certificate of residence, and clicked away on the computer. Silently I sat examining the pristine whiteness of the surrounding walls while hoping that my documents were sufficient. A yellow sticker under a shiny clear protective one was stuck onto the passport page above my visa..."Au Revoir." Just to make sure, I asked, "C'est tout? C'est le Titre de Sejour la?" "Oui."

In exiting the OFII building I thought back on the Titre rendez-vous. Quick (by French standards), efficient, and finished. A smile spread across my face. Sometimes things go exactly the way they should here, no missing documents or numbers, no 'return another day', no 'you didn't follow the right procedure'.....this was one of those times.

~Tam in Toulouse