The professors come in and lecture, for TWO HOURS....it's infuriating for a student like me who needs to interact with the material to learn it. Out of my 6 courses, 2 involve active participation, and that participation is in the form of translating between French and another language.
The 'cold' feeling of Le Mirail also stems from it's location. Far from shopping or fun cafes or cute french 'places' (squares), the students only hang around the school for class and class only. No sports arenas to cheer on sports teams. No cafeteria in which to eat with people while you study or commiserate over an upcoming test or paper. No student union where you can sign up for fun events or check your student mail box.No lounge areas where you can sit in an armchair and finish your homework or wait for a friend. You sit next to people in class that may live outside of Toulouse, and almost everyone takes the metro to get to Le Mirail from other parts of the city and surrounding area.
Trust me, I wish I could gush about how pretty the school is or how great the atmosphere is, but I stand by my honesty. If I've painted a dismal picture of Le Mirail, it's because for me, an American southerner from a small, private college on the top of a mountain in Tennessee, it is dismal. But I'm getting a challenging, good education here and improving my French day by day. Here's to silver linings !
~Tam in Toulouse
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Le Mirail prt 1
After attending class for the last month I've decided that class at Le Mirail is never going to be what I wish so fervently it was, which is anything akin to my undergraduate experience.
The students here are very bright. I'm amazed that they take notes in a thorough manner, using highlighters for important things, underlining, and using their margins. I've never seen an American take such fantastic notes, but EVERY Mirail student I've met does so. Aurora, a girl from two of my classes, says that in high school their teachers write on the board the same way, using different colors and highlighting and such, the students simply picked up the habit. I'm stupefied that the students I attend classes with write EVERYTHING that exits the professors mouth. Their highlighters and pens never leave their busy fingers even though classes are two hours long at minimum.
You read that right. Classes here are two hours long. To be honest, and I'm pretty good at paying attention, it's quite hard to sit still for two hours, urgently copying every piece of information that the professor gives, knowing that you have three more classes after the one you are currently in. My American brain, by the last class at 6:00 pm on Monday, is shot. I can't imagine doing homework or even speaking French after a day of full classes.
One of my Sewanee professors warned me that Le Mirail was 'cold'. She was quite right. Every building looms like the gate to some hideous industrial city. Everywhere is concrete, metal, and plexiglass. The tables are false, plastic wood and metal, as are the chairs I sit in for two hours at a time. The classroom floors are linoleum over concrete. There is no warmth and no pride in the institution at all. Graffiti covers the walls and many things are slightly broken. It's November and already I wear my coat in class because the cold air sinks into the stones at night and never seems to leave. There are no blinds for the windows, merely harsh metal grates to protect the classrooms from further vandalism when the school day is done. I attend class in an urban architectural hell.
The upside to the lack of warm surroundings is the professors, which have all seemed kind, although intimidating. Class is class no matter where you are. The first couple of meetings are spent doing busy work and getting a feel for each professor's style. There are differences though from American university, things that I'm missing terribly. Office hours don't exist -yes I've asked- I've been told by my professors to seek help from classmates or e-mail if I have a specific question about a specific assignment. Syllabi don't exist either. I have no idea where my courses are headed or when assignments are due. I don't know how my professors will calculate my grade or what their emails are....As far as I can tell the process is to read EVERY book you were required to buy, and those on the suggested list, hope you never have to miss class, and try to keep up. I haven't seen a single student ask questions in class, none of my courses are discussion based, and the professors don't use any one's names because they don't know them. I'm called 'the American', the Anglophone, the 'neighbor' of my classmate, 'next' or 'you'.
The students here are very bright. I'm amazed that they take notes in a thorough manner, using highlighters for important things, underlining, and using their margins. I've never seen an American take such fantastic notes, but EVERY Mirail student I've met does so. Aurora, a girl from two of my classes, says that in high school their teachers write on the board the same way, using different colors and highlighting and such, the students simply picked up the habit. I'm stupefied that the students I attend classes with write EVERYTHING that exits the professors mouth. Their highlighters and pens never leave their busy fingers even though classes are two hours long at minimum.
You read that right. Classes here are two hours long. To be honest, and I'm pretty good at paying attention, it's quite hard to sit still for two hours, urgently copying every piece of information that the professor gives, knowing that you have three more classes after the one you are currently in. My American brain, by the last class at 6:00 pm on Monday, is shot. I can't imagine doing homework or even speaking French after a day of full classes.
One of my Sewanee professors warned me that Le Mirail was 'cold'. She was quite right. Every building looms like the gate to some hideous industrial city. Everywhere is concrete, metal, and plexiglass. The tables are false, plastic wood and metal, as are the chairs I sit in for two hours at a time. The classroom floors are linoleum over concrete. There is no warmth and no pride in the institution at all. Graffiti covers the walls and many things are slightly broken. It's November and already I wear my coat in class because the cold air sinks into the stones at night and never seems to leave. There are no blinds for the windows, merely harsh metal grates to protect the classrooms from further vandalism when the school day is done. I attend class in an urban architectural hell.
The upside to the lack of warm surroundings is the professors, which have all seemed kind, although intimidating. Class is class no matter where you are. The first couple of meetings are spent doing busy work and getting a feel for each professor's style. There are differences though from American university, things that I'm missing terribly. Office hours don't exist -yes I've asked- I've been told by my professors to seek help from classmates or e-mail if I have a specific question about a specific assignment. Syllabi don't exist either. I have no idea where my courses are headed or when assignments are due. I don't know how my professors will calculate my grade or what their emails are....As far as I can tell the process is to read EVERY book you were required to buy, and those on the suggested list, hope you never have to miss class, and try to keep up. I haven't seen a single student ask questions in class, none of my courses are discussion based, and the professors don't use any one's names because they don't know them. I'm called 'the American', the Anglophone, the 'neighbor' of my classmate, 'next' or 'you'.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Bibliophile <--- GRE word of the day!
I've been here almost two months now. For my semester abroad in Aix, two months was just a little shy of half way through. Two months here is approximately 1/4 th of my total time. Somehow, (okay precisely would be via Amazon Books, the University book store, and the book store at Captiol) I have acquired a ton of books in two months. Here's my current list :
An Introduction to English Literature
GRE Literature in English
Barron's GRE
GRE Advanced Verbal
Grammaire Pratique du Français
Huysmans - Against Nature
Huysmans - A Rebours
Claude Simon's The Flanders Road
Claude Simon's La Route des Flandres
Initiation a la Langue Latine
Latin/English Dictionary
Ancien Français
Précis de Phonétique Histoire (Ancien Français)
Ancien Français Fiches de Vocabulaire
Chateaubriand - Atala- René
Verlaine - Poèmes Saturniens
Baudelaire - Les Fleurs du Mal
Flaubert - Trois Contes
Oscar Wilde - Salomé
Vigny - Stello
Nerval - Les Filles du Feu/ Les Chimeres
Technically, a few books for my current courses are missing off of that list because they are supplementary texts (supplementary just in name...the teacher 'strongly' encourages we read them for the final exam). So, when you are wondering where the blogs about actual Toulouse have disappeared to, you can blame the aforementioned books that I am drowning in at the moment.
-Tam in Toulouse
An Introduction to English Literature
GRE Literature in English
Barron's GRE
GRE Advanced Verbal
Grammaire Pratique du Français
Huysmans - Against Nature
Huysmans - A Rebours
Claude Simon's The Flanders Road
Claude Simon's La Route des Flandres
Initiation a la Langue Latine
Latin/English Dictionary
Ancien Français
Précis de Phonétique Histoire (Ancien Français)
Ancien Français Fiches de Vocabulaire
Chateaubriand - Atala- René
Verlaine - Poèmes Saturniens
Baudelaire - Les Fleurs du Mal
Flaubert - Trois Contes
Oscar Wilde - Salomé
Vigny - Stello
Nerval - Les Filles du Feu/ Les Chimeres
Technically, a few books for my current courses are missing off of that list because they are supplementary texts (supplementary just in name...the teacher 'strongly' encourages we read them for the final exam). So, when you are wondering where the blogs about actual Toulouse have disappeared to, you can blame the aforementioned books that I am drowning in at the moment.
-Tam in Toulouse
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Typical Day
BUZZ! Bolting out of my wonderful sleep complete with fabulous, positive dreams, I stumbled my way to my door. Some overly happy fed-ex mailman greeted me BONJOUR! and held up a package with a smile. You are Mlle. Tamra .... - I interrupted his confirmation by pointing to myself (sans actual communication) and motioning for the package. Barely giving him time to hand it to me, and certainly not enough time to sign for it, I mumbled 'merci', closed the door and went immediately back to sleep.
Much later...after some GRE studying, I motivated myself to visit EDF (the electric company). I hadn't received a bill in the mail and definitely did NOT look forward to a late notice for this month's overdue payment. So, I thought I'd visit and seek out the missing 'fracture' (bill). Except that, when I reached the office it had disappeared. I looked at the address from an old bill just to be certain I was indeed at the EDF office; I was, but EDF didn't seem to exist anymore. Bewildered, and annoyed that I had not received a letter in the mail about a change of office location, I asked the nearest person I could find. 'Oh, they aren't working here anymore, you can find an office at 'Place Capitol'. Awesome, what was going to be a thirty minute errand (because of all the walking) was now going to be much longer.
Arriving at Place Capitol, the town square of Toulouse which has several busy streets branching off from it, I knew I would need help. Timidly I approached the gentleman manning the tourist office's counter. He drew a circle on my map of Toulouse and pointed to the door while telling me it was just a right and a left away. 'Okay'. However, upon consulting my map his circle looked like it was down a side street from the Place. Off I went to discover EDF's top secret hiding place.
I had walked for over an hour down every side street off the Place and asked at least 6 people on the street (all of whom gave me conflicting directions) and still could not find EDF. I decided to ask just ONE more person and was resigned to giving up for the day after that. In front of the MacDonald's on the Place, I approached a gentleman and asked him if he knew where EDF was. He signaled that he was deaf. AWESOME! Okay, not awesome that he was deaf, BUT I knew the alphabet in sign language so this prospect would not be a loss. I spelled out E-D-F and raised my hands in a lost manner. He motioned for me to sit with him and wait for his wife, who was not deaf, but who was in the line getting coffee. I signed m-e-r-c-i, thanking Heaven for my mischievous friends in sixth grade who had learned the alphabet with me so that we could annoy teachers with across-the-classroom 'silent' conversations.
Soon his wife joined us, 'Do you need something?' 'I'm looking for EDF and I have searched and searched and the man at the office of tourism said it was just right here (showing her my map) but I don't really know where that is...' The woman softly turned me toward the Place and pointed straight across from our location to three golden letters, EDF, on the opposite building's facade. She gently rubbed my arm when I admitted my stupidity. I explained that I was new to Toulouse...still. After thanking her, and her spouse, I headed across the square toward the building thinking, "I may not speak French with grace...but at least I know the alphabet, and in some situations it's enough."
-Tam in Toulouse
Much later...after some GRE studying, I motivated myself to visit EDF (the electric company). I hadn't received a bill in the mail and definitely did NOT look forward to a late notice for this month's overdue payment. So, I thought I'd visit and seek out the missing 'fracture' (bill). Except that, when I reached the office it had disappeared. I looked at the address from an old bill just to be certain I was indeed at the EDF office; I was, but EDF didn't seem to exist anymore. Bewildered, and annoyed that I had not received a letter in the mail about a change of office location, I asked the nearest person I could find. 'Oh, they aren't working here anymore, you can find an office at 'Place Capitol'. Awesome, what was going to be a thirty minute errand (because of all the walking) was now going to be much longer.
Arriving at Place Capitol, the town square of Toulouse which has several busy streets branching off from it, I knew I would need help. Timidly I approached the gentleman manning the tourist office's counter. He drew a circle on my map of Toulouse and pointed to the door while telling me it was just a right and a left away. 'Okay'. However, upon consulting my map his circle looked like it was down a side street from the Place. Off I went to discover EDF's top secret hiding place.
I had walked for over an hour down every side street off the Place and asked at least 6 people on the street (all of whom gave me conflicting directions) and still could not find EDF. I decided to ask just ONE more person and was resigned to giving up for the day after that. In front of the MacDonald's on the Place, I approached a gentleman and asked him if he knew where EDF was. He signaled that he was deaf. AWESOME! Okay, not awesome that he was deaf, BUT I knew the alphabet in sign language so this prospect would not be a loss. I spelled out E-D-F and raised my hands in a lost manner. He motioned for me to sit with him and wait for his wife, who was not deaf, but who was in the line getting coffee. I signed m-e-r-c-i, thanking Heaven for my mischievous friends in sixth grade who had learned the alphabet with me so that we could annoy teachers with across-the-classroom 'silent' conversations.
Soon his wife joined us, 'Do you need something?' 'I'm looking for EDF and I have searched and searched and the man at the office of tourism said it was just right here (showing her my map) but I don't really know where that is...' The woman softly turned me toward the Place and pointed straight across from our location to three golden letters, EDF, on the opposite building's facade. She gently rubbed my arm when I admitted my stupidity. I explained that I was new to Toulouse...still. After thanking her, and her spouse, I headed across the square toward the building thinking, "I may not speak French with grace...but at least I know the alphabet, and in some situations it's enough."
-Tam in Toulouse
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Diagnosis: Needs Christian Fellowship
I miss Sundays.
Greeting sweet elderly ladies and gentlemen, settling into the pew while admiring the stained glass, feeling a sense of peace as the piano strikes the opening chords of my favorite hymn....I miss church. It's not 'any' church I miss. If that were the case, I'd take a stroll and come across a half dozen Catholic ones. No, I miss my small, close knit Baptist church from home. I even miss the big, beautiful Episcopalian church from Sewanee. To sing together with other believers, feeling the harmony wash over me as the words both challenge and call to my heart, I long for singing. Communion, soft bread turned red from it's brief moment dipped in the bitter wine, remembering the blood and body of Christ that was given in my name, I hunger for Communion. Listening to the teaching, to the message, of the minister while I think about how his words apply to my life at present, I need direction, accountability, scripture. Where is Sunday here?
In defense, I did look up an international church when I got to Toulouse. There's one in a suburb nearby that I'm not sure how to get to. The website for the church boasts lots of Bible studies and Sunday services in ENGLISH! I've just been nervous about going to a new church all by myself. More honestly, I'm nervous that I may encounter beliefs radically different from the Christianity I know. I realize that my lack of spiritual nourishment is no one's fault but my own. However, like all things French, it's not just a general experience I miss, but rather my own, specific experiences unique to America.
Greeting sweet elderly ladies and gentlemen, settling into the pew while admiring the stained glass, feeling a sense of peace as the piano strikes the opening chords of my favorite hymn....I miss church. It's not 'any' church I miss. If that were the case, I'd take a stroll and come across a half dozen Catholic ones. No, I miss my small, close knit Baptist church from home. I even miss the big, beautiful Episcopalian church from Sewanee. To sing together with other believers, feeling the harmony wash over me as the words both challenge and call to my heart, I long for singing. Communion, soft bread turned red from it's brief moment dipped in the bitter wine, remembering the blood and body of Christ that was given in my name, I hunger for Communion. Listening to the teaching, to the message, of the minister while I think about how his words apply to my life at present, I need direction, accountability, scripture. Where is Sunday here?
In defense, I did look up an international church when I got to Toulouse. There's one in a suburb nearby that I'm not sure how to get to. The website for the church boasts lots of Bible studies and Sunday services in ENGLISH! I've just been nervous about going to a new church all by myself. More honestly, I'm nervous that I may encounter beliefs radically different from the Christianity I know. I realize that my lack of spiritual nourishment is no one's fault but my own. However, like all things French, it's not just a general experience I miss, but rather my own, specific experiences unique to America.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Rude Awakening
I was so proud of myself! All of yesterday I maintained my strike. I ate sushi, pizza, and oreos, watched a movie, and sat on the internet till bedtime.
This morning I dragged myself out of bed at the crack of dawn (literally the sun was just coming up) for my 8:30 am Literature class. Warm in my layers, jamming with American music blasting through my headphones, I set out for class.
Arriving on campus, I noticed there were less than twenty students milling about. Then I rounded a corner and saw a mountain of tables, desks, and chairs still blocking every entrance to the academic buildings.....
LE MIRAIL EN GRÈVE?
LE MIRAIL EN GRÈVE!
My university is still on strike! Not that I'm truly complaining since this gives me extra hours to figure out my grad school personal statement, but I fought myself out of MY GRÈVE to go to school today! Not to mention that I need books from the university library and I had a group meeting with fellow students for a project.
The question now is....do I go back to sleep and revel in the University strike even though my strike is over OR do I flout strikes all together and put my nose to the grad school application grind stone?
This morning I dragged myself out of bed at the crack of dawn (literally the sun was just coming up) for my 8:30 am Literature class. Warm in my layers, jamming with American music blasting through my headphones, I set out for class.
Arriving on campus, I noticed there were less than twenty students milling about. Then I rounded a corner and saw a mountain of tables, desks, and chairs still blocking every entrance to the academic buildings.....
LE MIRAIL EN GRÈVE?
LE MIRAIL EN GRÈVE!
My university is still on strike! Not that I'm truly complaining since this gives me extra hours to figure out my grad school personal statement, but I fought myself out of MY GRÈVE to go to school today! Not to mention that I need books from the university library and I had a group meeting with fellow students for a project.
The question now is....do I go back to sleep and revel in the University strike even though my strike is over OR do I flout strikes all together and put my nose to the grad school application grind stone?
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Birthday Strike?
France is on strike? But am I on strike?
I don't know. I think I want to be. I think I want to be on strike from my reasonable self.
Everyday for three weeks I've juggled latin, ancient french, modern french, english according to the french, GRE vocabulary, GRE math, and GRE english subject test.....my brain is boggled (---GRE vocab word by the way) and my spirit is approaching 'fed up'.
Today it is my 23rd birthday. It doesn't feel like a birthday though. There will be no party, no little pile of presents, no cake or candles (oh how I long for 23 birthday candles to blow out), no birthday trip to Dublin, and I certainly don't feel 23. Nevertheless, lack of celebration or not, I am 23 today, and I think I want to be on strike.
Various birthday possibilities swirl in my head.....I'd like to eat sushi, I haven't seen a movie in France yet, I have a beautiful outfit I could put on 'just because', I don't own any lip gloss and I've been eyeing Sephora for weeks, eating dinner on a canal boat sounds appealing, maybe I could find a mani/pedi place that could fit me in, I haven't bought a blanket yet for my bed or a good book (in English) to curl up with.
The problem is that I'm one of those rare individuals that cannot 'not care'. I literally do not have the ability to mean what I say when I say 'screw homework'. Thus, even though it is my birthday, I foresee hours spent studying despite my unwillingness.
I wish I could let myself be on a birthday strike.
I don't know. I think I want to be. I think I want to be on strike from my reasonable self.
Everyday for three weeks I've juggled latin, ancient french, modern french, english according to the french, GRE vocabulary, GRE math, and GRE english subject test.....my brain is boggled (---GRE vocab word by the way) and my spirit is approaching 'fed up'.
Today it is my 23rd birthday. It doesn't feel like a birthday though. There will be no party, no little pile of presents, no cake or candles (oh how I long for 23 birthday candles to blow out), no birthday trip to Dublin, and I certainly don't feel 23. Nevertheless, lack of celebration or not, I am 23 today, and I think I want to be on strike.
Various birthday possibilities swirl in my head.....I'd like to eat sushi, I haven't seen a movie in France yet, I have a beautiful outfit I could put on 'just because', I don't own any lip gloss and I've been eyeing Sephora for weeks, eating dinner on a canal boat sounds appealing, maybe I could find a mani/pedi place that could fit me in, I haven't bought a blanket yet for my bed or a good book (in English) to curl up with.
The problem is that I'm one of those rare individuals that cannot 'not care'. I literally do not have the ability to mean what I say when I say 'screw homework'. Thus, even though it is my birthday, I foresee hours spent studying despite my unwillingness.
I wish I could let myself be on a birthday strike.
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