College in France

So, now my big 11 year old boy is in collège in France. For anyone in New Zealand, the equivalent level at school would be the first year of intermediate school, or year 7.

Almost overnight he has gone from a (comparatively) cosseted life at primary school to the rigours and regimes of scheduled classes, tough teachers and plenty of homework. Plenty means not more than 1 1/2 hours each night, but not less than 30 minutes. There’s not just homework though, there’s revision of the day’s work, required for each of their classes. Phew.

He has college every day of the week which normal in New Zealand but a big step up/sideways from four days a week in France at primary school. He springs out of bed at 7am, makes his still slumbering mother a cup of tea, prepares and devours his breakfast, makes his bed, brushes his teeth, tries to plaster his wilful hair into some order, then scoots out the door at 7.50am to catch the school bus at the end of our street.

School starts at 8.30am. Sharp. The entrance doors are monitored. Anyone who is late must have their special correspondence/notification book stamped, and there are consequences for anyone who is regularly late without justification. Once my son’s bus broke down and he was justifiably late, and terribly excited that in week no. 2 of college there had been a Major Incident with the bus. He was late and it wasn’t his fault! Cool.

Each lesson is 55 mins - 1 hour long, with a 15 minute break each morning and afternoon to pause or run to the locker and change some books. No food is eaten during breaks; only in the canteen at lunchtime.

Last week I had a parent-teachers meeting at school. This meant sitting at the kids’ desks while each of the subject teachers gave us a quick run down on work to be covered, general demeanour and aptitude of the class, and his/her requirements (multiple) for ensuring that our children succeeded. The main requirements are that parents ensure that revision and homework is done. It was fascinating seeing and hearing each of the subject teachers. I could understand some of them; most spoke rapid-fire French. I could NOT understand my son’s home class teacher however, with his local Toulousain accent and fascinating ability to mumble into his chin. I swapped notes with my son on each of the teachers when I eventually got home two hours later, and we pretty much agreed on the good ones and curious ones. One in particular is a dragon and she effectively told one of the parents off for asking a question that she considered ridiculous. (!)

Subjects for my son are: French, English, German, history and geography, maths, technology, science, life and the earth (sciences, vie & terre in French), and sport. He’s in a stream of kids who are learning two extra languages, which his primary school teacher recommended for him as he now has English and French notched on his belt. It’s very funny hearing his friends speaking French with a German accent and my son is enjoying learning German. Clearly the German accent sounds the same whether you are English or French.

Lunch is a whole other matter. It is a self-service system. You swipe your card (and the bill is sent to your parents) and then you queue with your tray and cutlery, making your way towards a smorgasbord of hot or cold entrées, main course, desserts (fruit included), plus a drink. You take what you like. There is always a fish option for the kids who don’t eat meat or who are Muslim (lots). You find a table and eat with your friends. They you take your tray to the tidy-up stack and race out the door. If you have time before your next class you might go to the activities club with your friends, or you just hang around in the playground. It is very noisy and very busy, and if you timetable is tight, you might only have 30mins to get all this done and be in your next class.

All the kids have different ‘classifications’ as to whether they have to stay at school all day or whether they are allowed to leave the school grounds if they have a free hour or if a teacher is away. You will see lots of college kids smoking outside the school grounds. Not recommended or encouraged, but pretty normal here. At the end of the day (4.00 or 5.00pm depending on their classification and timetable) kids leave through the monitored exit routes and catch the bus, walk or bike home.

My NZ friend whose daughter was at college in Toulouse tells me that French law states that once someone is 15 or 16 years old they have the right to strike, for their own causes or even in support of the staff. This is a right that is used too. Well, this is France where striking (a manifestation) is expected if you want your voice to be heard.

So college lays the foundation for personal autonomy. My son is rising to the challenge, more than I would have believed possible after his early years of struggling with new experiences/situations. He’s enjoying college life, the requirement of being organised each night ready for the next day, and the variety of subjects on offer. He can link into the school website where his homework is listed for each subject and where his notes (evaluation marks) are listed, along with the class average mark so you can see how well or not your child is doing. It’s a great system. School life is pretty tiring though and he is completely zonked at bedtime which is now much earlier.

But one thing a child at college/lycée/university in France seems to learn NOT to do is to question or challenge the teacher, in a way that would be normal in Scandinavian countries for example, or even in New Zealand, where opinions, thoughts and suggestions are welcomed and encouraged. My Swedish friend finds that very hard.

But so far, so good. It’s a well-oiled machine. Monsieur President, François Hollande, wants to introduce a few changes into the days/hours of school in France. We’ll have to see how that unfolds.

Sex in France, or, being sexy in France

There’s quite a bit of it about. It is normal, good, fun and healthy. I was raised in an Anglo-Saxon culture where sex had quite odd associations. I now live in France and mon Dieu, the attitudes to sex and sexiness here are so markedly different. I am happy being a woman in France and I love being appreciated for my unique 40-mumble feminine beauty. 

Here are my impressions:

1. Women in France (generally speaking) have an effortless sexiness about them. It seems to be about feeling comfortable in their bodies from an early age. Bums, breasts, hips, waists, legs - all are glorious. In fact curvy shapes are celebrated too (think of sexy Nigella Lawson and you’ll get the picture) and model-skinny is not the norm nor is it the goal. NOTE: obesity is not the problem in France that it is in New Zealand, for example. Not that I can see anyway.

2. French men really appreciate a well-presented, attractive woman. It’s okay for a man to smile, nod, voice, indicate his appreciation of a beautiful, well-turned out woman. It’s not sexual violation - it’s open, normal, well-deserved appreciation.

3. Older women make an effort with their appearance. They really do. I’m continually astonished at the number of really attractive older women (60 years plus) who are slim, well coiffured, beautifully made-up, and still with an innate sexiness.

4. Breasts are beautiful, and the French celebrate breasts by featuring them on billboards, advertising and in magazines. There are not something to hide away; they are gorgeous.

5. Sex in films and on TV is more acceptable here and doesn’t come with warnings for our (enfeebled) sensibilities.

6. It’s okay to be topless at the beach. It’s not obligatory, nor is it everyone, everywhere. But when you do see a topless woman you think, yeah! great! There’s a woman who is happy with her body. It probably helps that there is some ozone in the atmosphere over Europe (or is it smog?) and that sunburn isn’t nearly such an issue as it is in New Zealand.

7. Finally, skinny, slight, roundy, tubby, ‘normal’ shapes all add to the rich diversity and variety of beautiful womanity (new word?). And colour is worn. Clothes are bought that enhance a woman’s shape and flatter her curves, and French women really wear their clothes well. It’s not just the styles, but it’s the gracious/graceful/elegant way clothes appear on them. And importantly, a French woman knows how to drape a scarf around her neck. It’s her key attribute I think.

Just a normal day in Paris...

Lunch with the neighbours - French style

It threatened to rain, it was forecast to rain. The clouds looked grim and determined but so we were (but not grim).

We live at the end of a shared driveway serving six houses; three lots of two houses side-by-side (or ‘villas’ as we call them in these parts). They are separated by parking areas for three cars, and what luck! The parking area between houses no. 2 (the empty one) and no. 3 (Frederic and Marie-Line) was big enough to lodge three long tables, multiple chairs, a bar and all of us - 17 neighbourly adults and kids, Eric, Danielle, Dominique and Nicolas, Frederic, Marie-Line, Kevin and Thomas, Eric and Fabienne, Melanie and Ella, and us. 

 

The tables were, of course, covered in cloths and secured with pegs in case of wind. So far, any meal I have been to in France has been served on a cloth-covered table. It’s only at our house that we eat at the table with quelle horreur - place mats - or worse, picnicking outside. An abundance of cutlery, crockery, napkins, all the table essentials were included, as were plates of snacks and nibbles - les entrées. There were little savoury muffins made by Eric (no. 4). His wife, Fabienne, has been teaching him to cook and bake over the last two-three years. It’s slow but steady progress she said, but mercifully the little muffins were tasty. Charcuterie, olives and bread by the other Eric (top of the driveway), and the ubiquitous chips that arrived by magic I think. We all tucked in. It was 12.45pm.

Frederic (no.3) runs a business supplying alcohol around the Toulouse district. He works all night and sleeps all day. He’s always busy. We were not short on supplies and I sampled a vodka and red bull (two cubes of ice, please). Apparently, this is the drink of choice amongst les jeunes at the moment (youth or yoof, depending on your pronunciation) and it was nice. I tried to ignore the 40% alcohol level in the vodka which I figured would be countered by the equivalent of 15 cups of coffee in the red bull (I was told), and the substantial lunch that I knew was on its way. The barbecue was roaring. Kevin was in control (named after Kevin Keoghan - a former famous English footballer I think) and he took our orders for the steak:

Au bleu is raw, only the outside is heated,

Saignant is rare, the centre is perceptibly warm,

À point is also rare but not as rare, the blood is coagulated and the centre is hot,

Bien is what Americans call ‘medium’,

Bien cuit is medium-well done, but the centre is still a bit pink.

So we all sat down and started to eat. Lots of shared salads, bread, Toulouse sausages (a specialty of course) and the steak, and lots of lively conversation. But what’s that??? Rain? In the blink of an eye, a dash of blokes ran off and returned laden with outdoor umbrellas and their bases. In the blink of two eyes we were eating again. It was extraordinary. 

 

The children ate with us all at the table then moved off to play on the driveway and chat to the dog upstairs at no. 1 who wanted to be with us. We continued chatting and drinking, and were just about to move on to dessert when dear husband whispered, “Did you bring the cheese?” “No, did you?” We had forgotten to bring the cheese course. Big faux pas - whoops, it was still sitting cold in the fridge. Here in France, you want your cheese nicely warmed and moving of its own accord when it’s time to tuck in. Accompanied by wedges of baguette, we sampled each of the cheeses courtesy of Betty’s in Toulouse. Betty’s is an astonishing, almost spiritual shop dedicated to cheese, where you don’t serve yourself, you wait to be advised depending on your specific meal requirements, such as number of guests, courses prior and after, mood of the group, type of occasion, etc. Really, it’s amazing.

Specific wine for the cheese course was included. So far, we had enjoyed an apperitif or two with the entrée, wine(s) with the meal, another wine for the cheese, and then what for dessert? Something new of course! Something desserty! Melanie had made Charlotte aux framboises et chocolate (sponge fingers with cream, chocolate and raspberries), fondant au chocolat (squishy chocolate cake) and a tarte aux frambroises (raspberry tart). Eric’s dessert wine choice was perfect.

Time for coffee and a lie down, but the lie down had to wait. There was more chatting to be done. Eric (who’s learning to cook) took the coffee orders and in no time we were perking ourselves up (as it were). The lunch started at midday. I asked Melanie what time she thought we would actually eat lunch and she figured around 3pm. Why so long? She shrugged. It’s the French way she said. Actually, we beat that and ate at about 14.30pm. But at 6pm most of us were still lounging around, enjoying the lovely atmosphere and our full bellies. And what is this? A digestif! Armagnac, cognac and other ‘gnacs were served. Delicious but I just couldn’t do it. I smuggled the Armagnac home in a plastic cup for lovely husband to enjoy later, and left the party with fond goodbyes and cries of let’s do this again soon.

What I enjoyed: the civility and conviviality. Easy, enjoyable, companionable conversation. Delicious shared food, delicious shared wines, an unhurried and relaxed pace. We all knew each other but now we know each other better. What a great way to get to know the neighbours.