Class Breakdown and Drunk Hostels

So this weekend was quite the French weekend.

Friday night, I saw a movie. It was called “Old Boy.” It is a Korean movie, it is in Korean, it is the definition of Korean. And it was subtitled in French.

Let’s talk about how crazy that was.

The movie was violent and surreal and personally assaulting, but it was fantastic. In the way that Fight Club is fantastic. It was so good. It was SO good. But wow. Korean/French/bloody… just all around overwhelming.

Then on Saturday we drove out to a hostel in the-middle-of-nowhere, Bretagne, and slept in a hostel that had the most amazing chocolate cake on the planet. Ever. I almost passed out it was so good. But of course I spent the night following some little French nine-year-old girls around, practically begging them to throw me a bone, but I was perky about it, so I don’t think it was that demeaning. It was just blending. But the best part was seeing all of the adults who were part of the weekend get drunk, and then proceed to break out a CD player and start dancing to YMCA and Mambo #5. By the way, the YMCA arm choreography never made it to Europe. They just sort of jump around and shout out muddled versions of the letters. Which is the best thing ever.

But on to bigger and bright things. Let’s talk shop:

European Art History
This class never ceases to make me smile. I’m not kidding. My teacher, Jean Philippe Lemay, is quite possibly the funniest man ever, in the most unassuming way imaginable. Really, truly fantastic. He’s in his late forties, healthy, slightly balding, glasses, pale skin. He’s basically the most average teacher ever. He’s in love with his slide projector, and he carries one of those little pens that converts into a pointer. And he’s hysterical. He’s always cracking small jokes and leaving little hints to how brilliant he is. I wish I could recount a specific incident, but it’s practically impossible to do him justice. Just remember, he’s awesome. And the class should be great. We’ve split it into two halves, painting and architecture, and we alternate every class, so it’s never boring, and looking at paintings is basically a intense search for religious and psychological symbolism, so I’ve found that I LOVE IT. Which is always fun.

French Civilization
This class is basically a crash course in French social history, and it’s fine. Pascal Monteville, le professeur, is always fun times, and it’s my best as far as grades are concerned. So there you go. It’ll be useful and all that. Plus, he’s the theater director, and he’s married, and he’s metrosexual.

So basically, I’m all for it.

French Literature
Wow, French Lit. Scary, to say the least. There are three requirements:
ONE Do the reading
TWO Understand the reading
THREE Discuss the reading
Now, let’s address the fact that discussing anything in French is a challenge, and trying to use words suited for poetry and manuscripts from the 16th century is, well, it’s a joke. Plus, I can conjugate verbs notatallever. Silly, really, trying at all. And that feeling really comes to a head during this class. But of course, we role with the punches, and it’s interesting, and the teacher, though intimidating, is just the kind of teacher I really respect: demanding, intelligent, and impatient. She won’t cut us any slack, but if we work as she expects us to work, we won’t need any. One problem: We’re three weeks into the school year and I do not know her name.

French Language
This class is, well, it should be perfect. We’re starting at the beginning, but we’re moving fast, so all the basics that I’ve forgotten or never really learned or missed completely are getting engrained. Whish is another thing I’m definitely all about. It’s one of those classes that you don’t think anything of because it is what it is and it is what you need, but on those days when you’re tired and frustrated, it’s the perfect class, because it’s always the same, and the homework is standard, and it just makes you feel like you have something to rely on. Does anyone else ever feel that way?

But yes, good teacher, good pace, good material. Five stars.

English Lit
Let’s see. While my teacher is fantastic, and I love writing, and the stuff we’re studying this year kicks all the ass there is to kick, the people I have in this class make me want to bang my head against a wall. I do not exaggerate. They never listen to each other, their opinions are naïve and offensive more often than not, they’re constantly competing for time to speak, they never support each other. It is one of the most frustrating classes I’ve ever been in. And it’s a paradox. I don’t particularly want to fight tooth and nail for the time to get my thoughts heard, but almost just as aggravating are the few kids who sit there and scowl because they think they’re better than everyone. There is no happy medium, and there are only a few people in the class who I respect enough to appreciate, and I’m thinking I’ll just imitate them. Where do these people come from? Today, we were talking about “Lost in Translation” which we just finished watching as a class at the end of last week, and the subject of the stereotyping the Japanese people was brought up, and someone said that they were just like that, short and loud and hysterically eager to please, all of them, all the time. It was depressing, to hear someone think that out loud.

I don’t know, am I being completely petulant and judgmental?

Regardless, I love Ms. Stephens, so that’s what counts as far as English B is concerned.

Advanced Pre-Calculus
First, let’s discuss Algebra II Honors, from last year, with good ol’ Mad Dog Davis. One of the most productive classes of my life. It was torturous and intimidating and I hated it half the time, but the other half I knew that I loved it, learning that way from him, and that it was worth all the blood, sweat, and tears. The man rocked my math world, and I miss it.

This year, math is the bane of my existence. My teacher is a bumbling, awkward old man who is ridiculously similar to Mr. McCrackin, only not in that crazy fun endearing way. It’s in a sad, unintelligent way. We go by the book, he never teaches us anything, and half of the class is taught by the students.

Which is SO AGGRAVATING.

TPL
I don’t actually know what this stands for, but this is the class I have once a week for pronunciation. And it is worth its weight in gold. Although the teacher is tough and crazy, and although she reads our grades out loud to the rest of the class, and although it’s really early Wednesday morning, I have to say that any class that helps me to speak French better is basically the only class I want to take.

So that’s that.

In other news, I’m SICK. Ugh, being sick just makes everything thirty times harder to understand.

On the upside, my wonderful laptop can play older DVDs! I just learned! It can’t handle the new ones with their crazy menus and loaded special features and jazzy moving colors, but my friend Grace lent me First Wives’ Club, which is coming up on its 9th year on disc, and it’s awesome! Now, you can’t watch with more than one person because there is no real sound system, so it’s really just like the moving pictures are whispering at you, but in headphones and snuggled into bed, it keeps me company when I need it.

Plus, the movie is HI-larious. I’ve watched it three times in the past two days.

I needed comfort.

Anyway, that’s a fairly sufficient montage of French life, don’t you think?

I really miss you guys. There's no cure. None whatsoever.

Until Next Time,
“This weather has me wanting love more tangible Something I can hold cause it’s getting cold Let's hold up our fists to the flame in the sky To block out the light that's reaching for our eyes Cause it, cause it would blind us Yeah it will blind us. But, all I have for the moment is a song to pass the time And a melody to keep me from worrying Some simple progression to keep my fingers busyAnd words that are sure to come back to me And they'll be laughing”
- Bright Eyes: “A Song To Pass the Time”

COUNTDOWN to return: 232 days

PS: Today is my ONE MONTH anniversary in France. One month. I can't believe it. I can't.

One down, eight to go.