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.

Food in France

I have just read what I have wanted to write. It’s an article in the New Zealand Herald by Robyn Pearce about food in France. More specifically, it’s about what is different about eating and food and meals in France. It’s very, very hard to explain, but she has done it. 

Here’s the link to her article:

http://www.nzherald.co.nz/small-business/news/article.cfm?c_id=85&objectid=10826883

and here’s the excerpt that really rang my bell:

“Eating was an exercise in slowing down and savouring every phase of the three course dejeuner [which] was laid out with care and enjoyed in a leisurely way. The three of us relaxed, chatted and joked between courses. A few wines slipped smoothly down as we watched the yachts, fishing boats, seagulls and tide and laughed at our communication mistakes (my beginner French is about the same level as their English). At least an hour and a half was enjoyed at the table, with occasional forays to the kitchen for the next delicacy.

“Was this a special meal, with extra time taken because they had a Kiwi friend to stay? After all, I'd done the same for them when they visited me in New Zealand during the Rugby World Cup last year. Yes, but only in part. I saw the same care put into food selection, preparation and eating with every dejeuner and dîner (dinner) in each French family I visited. And I sensed something different - an intangible quality I couldn't quite put my finger on.

“A week later it was my close friends Jean-Michel and Béatrice who solved the puzzle for me (in their excellent English):

'Robyn, in France we honour both the food and the meal time. When you eat with your family, it is a time to stop work and enjoy sharing the matters of the day. We don't rush. We enjoy our food and we put importance on spending that time together. It helps to keep families connected. If it is a business meal, the dining experience is treated most seriously. We enjoy sharing good food before we talk business, usually in a restaurant. And much business is done in France over a meal table.'

“Finally I got it. Every stage deserves focus. The French people I observed are very 'present' as they purchase, prepare, serve and then enjoy. The food is treated with respect. The serving of the food is treated with respect. And the people who sit down to enjoy the food are also treated with respect.

A meal (and the preparation of it) is not something to be rushed through so you can get to the next important task.”

And there you have it. I love eating out in France. The food isn’t always the best (it’s true!) but the courses are separated with space enough between to dwell, chat, digest, savour, and enjoy. It’s how our French friends eat here in France. It’s how our children eat at their canteens at school (primary and college). And it’s how I like to eat now too.

Bon appétit! Savour your meal!

Lunch with the French Ambassador to New Zealand, Mr Francis Etienne

Our friend Marleen at the French Embassy kindly passed a copy of the English version of my book to His Excellency, Mr Francis Etienne, the French Ambassador to New Zealand. He read the book, he chuckled, and then he invited us all to lunch at his residence in Wellington. Really! Vraiment! 

Here's a fabulous photo of the Ambassador and his wife, and their adopted dog, Tippy, plus a link to a Dominion Post article about them and Tippy: click here. (There's a photo of us with the Ambassador at the end of this post...)

So one day, during our recent visit to New Zealand, we put on our best frocks and trousers, we slicked down the boys' runaway hair and we primed the kids to behave better than ever before. Come on kids, you can do it! 

And they did. Phew. 

We stayed for almost two hours. And here's how it went... 

I had been aware of this magnificent, corner-sited residence on Hobson Street in Thorndon because 1. it is such a beautiful, old New Zealand wooden building, and 2. the nice ladies (Sue and Jen) who 'did' our curtains in our Karori house 'did' the curtains in the Ambassador's residence some years ago too.

We rang the bell, we entered the grounds. There were no hounds to run us off the property so we gamely continued to the front door. We shook out our umbrellas because yes we were in Wellington and yes it was winter and yes of course it was raining (thankfully not horizontally). The door was opened by a staff member who took our coats, our hats, our scarfs, our umbrellas and we paused to look around. Glowing warm wood! Walls, floors, stairs, everywhere! Was it, could it possibly be, kauri?? Probably, it was.

A dog barked. He was half-way up the stairs. He looked like a darker version of Snowy/Milou (from Tintin) so we didn't feel too threatened. We just wanted to give him a cuddle. In fact we are pretty sure he was the doggy in the photo above.

And then the Ambassador arrived from a room off the entrance. We were warmly greeted with a bisous for the kids (kiss, kiss on each cheek) and a jolly handshake for lovely husband and I. Lovely husband cleverly remembered to call the Ambassador "Your Excellency", while all I could manage was a "very-nice-to-meet-you" despite wanting to say something sparkling and clever in French. Then we met the barking French dog. We figured he wouldn't speak English (the dog) so we tried to think of what to say to a barking French dog but were assured that he was now bilingual and could cope with English just as well. We didn't have time to talk much to the doggy because we were then greeted by the Ambassador's tall, gorgeous, flame-haired Australian wife, Jane, who warmly bisoused us all with a perfectly-accented "Enchanté". (The English translation is basically, "I am enchanted to meet you". Awwww.)

"Call me Francis", "Call me Jane", they offered. Alright, we will! We moved through to the formal sitting room that was less formal than super comfortable with great big, soft, squishy sofas and finely furnished chairs, and with what I suspect was a mixture of New Zealand and French art on the walls.

So we chatted. They had moved from France to Germany with their daughters who had faced very similar experiences to us with a new country, language, life and culture overnight, hence their interest in my book. They had had the foresight to provide a tutor for their girls from the start, and for seven days a week until they were confident with their schooling in German. Lovely husband chatted with Jane, while I chatted with Francis. I found my mojo and managed to elicit some French from the recesses as we talked about our respective children's adjustments to new cultures and languages. 

We were served kir royal (champagne with blackcurrant juice, a French speciality) and yummy nibbles. The children had juice. 

Both Francis and Jane wanted to talk to our children and to hear from them of their thoughts on moving to, and life in, France. We had told the children that the residence of the French Ambassador was officially French, and that therefore it was obligatory to speak in French if they were spoken to in French... That seemed to work, and they, for the first time during our visits back to New Zealand, spoke their second language, fluently, beautifully and confidently.

We talked about the 2011 Rugby World Cup, especially as the final was between New Zealand and France, and we were in France at the time (see an earlier blog post about this). Apparently the French rugby team visited the Ambassador's residence after their horrific loss to Tonga. Clearly, they needed some help. According to Jane, the Ambassador inspired them all with a very stirring speech, inciting national pride and fervour, followed by a little champagne and relaxed chatting. They went on to win their next match against England, so something worked! 

I then perceived (being overly attentive in new environments) a nod from their staff member to say that lunch was ready. We moved through to the circular conservatory overlooking the rainy (beautiful) winter garden and started lunch. Jane introduced us to her right-hand staff member, and spoke warmly of their staff and especially of their French chef who has children of his own and knew what kids liked to eat. Jane hosts cooking classes with their chef at their residence in order to raise money for renovations to the house. They are popular and well-attended. (I'd love to go!)

So here's the menu:

Entree: an avocado, salmon, orange and rocket salad with balsamic dressing

Plat principal: chicken with a reduced vegetable sauce

Dessert: apple tart with chocolate and berry sauces

Followed by: coffee.

Apart from youngest son (7) having two, no three, urgent calls of nature during the meal, the children did extremely well to eat politely, quietly and to engage in conversation. In fact youngest son hopped up to ask me during the meal if he was doing well... ("Darling, of course you are! Now pop back to your seat and keep waiting patiently.")

And then it was back to the comfy sitting room where I presented the French version of my book to the Ambassador. He has kindly offered to write a foreword to the book, and we spent some time talking about that. After he had refilled his fountain pen with ink, I happily wrote a dedication in my book for him (which seems to be an important and significant thing for a writer to do for their readers in France). I then asked if we could take a photo. Before we could take one of him with us, he whipped out his phone/camera and took a photo of us in front of his fireplace with the flags of the European Union, France and New Zealand on the mantelpiece. Jane had slipped away before dessert as she was teaching English to her students at Victoria University that afternoon, so we had said our goodbyes earlier. And then it was our turn, so here's lovely husband's photo of us with the Ambassador:

His Excellency Mr Francis Etienne, Sara Crompton Meade, and the kids! with a French version of my book

And just so that you know, I think the five most important requirements for the job of Ambassador are:

1. to have a warm and welcoming personality,

2. to be able to instantly put people at their ease,

3. to be really, truly interested in what others have to say,

4. to promote your home country and your host country with equal fondness, and

5. to have a fantastically supportive and delightfully personable partner to share the socialising rigours and pleasures.

It was an honour, pleasure and privilege to be invited to such a special occasion and we were all so impressed with the graciousness and warmth of both Francis and Jane. What an exciting lunch!

Marleen told us later that we were the first family to be invited to this Ambassador's residence, to her knowledge. We felt honoured, proud and very special. A great experience and probably a once-in-a-lifetime one. Yay! Well done kids! And thanks France for choosing such a great Ambassador who clearly loves New Zealand.

(And here's a Createspace Amazon link to my book in English 'Waking up in France and surviving with a smile', click here, and to the French version 'Se reveiller en France et survive le sourire aux levres', click here. It's also available in ebook and paperback formats from all major Amazon websites.)