3. La Rentrée
The nausea of my hangover kicks in
as we sit in a bloody bouchon for half an hour. It's my first day of school!
I arrive 45 minutes late. Someone up there clearly wanted me to make an entrance; my teacher was not impressed. She's one of those witty people you desperately want to impress but also know would automatically hate anyone trying too hard to please. I slouch sheepishly to the back of the classroom, humbly sweating as she gets back to discussing the difference between the sky reddening, turning reddish or becoming red.
By the end of the lesson my sweat of mortification has developed into a sweat of adrenaline! At uni in England they combine teaching translation with teaching us about French current affairs, which means our ST (Source Texts) are invariably middle-brow, short-form journalism pulled from free online platforms. This mardi matin, however, we were looking at a passage from L'Étranger, one of my fave books (don't start; only once I cave and start wearing a beret will I have achieved the Ultimate French Student Stereotype) and it was just a totally different discipline: one where you can use your wee noggin to be a bit inventive/original, as well as technical/precise.
Translation, I think, is the only ~creative endeavour~ where I feel absolute confidence in my convictions. Yes, every individual builds a completely unique interpretation of every word based on the manifold contexts in which they absorb it being used; yes, we can never know what images or feelings our words stir in another person and YES, language is constantly developing so there is no objective, external judge of correct or incorrect communication. Néanmois, (I get it from my mother) I always think I'm right about language. To qualify: I'm still shaky on apostrophes and guilty of over-employing the mighty semi-colon; but I felt unreasonably adamant that that Algerian sky was reddening rather than turning red. I leave that salle de classe with an internal grin; I have found something that I enjoy!
Ensuite I had a French as a Foreign Language class which was
significantly oversubscribed; some poor étrangers had to leave immediately because they
hadn't managed to nab a place during the scrum of online enrolment. I spent
half the lesson trying to work out the other students' nationalities (oh dear I hope that's not a demo of my apostrophe issue) and the other half
concentrating on not weeing myself. We had to do a comprehension/composition test to check whether we were right for this B2 level class, and I suspect I
would have performed better had my bladder not been at full capacity. Although TBH that may
be a fair evaluation, as the stress brought on by imminent urination may equal the stress of communicating with a Real Life French Person...
The music lesson that I had really been looking forward to turned out to be an hour of infantile call and response with a bouncy teacher who rocked up 15 minutes late to this 1:30pm class, blaming the bouchon that had made me late for my 9am. After listening to his, frankly odd, spiel proclaiming that we could, voire should, all be artistes (I suspect any lesson plan may have been pretty abstract), we Artists did all participate vocally, but only while looking around at each other in total bewilderment, occasionally snorting in disbelief that this facile activity could earn us Official Credit Points for our undergraduate degrees (the exam consists of participation... i.e. there is no exam). Were one to chance upon the scene, I would forgive them assuming we were a bunch of juvenile delinquents serving some sort of lenient community service. A disproportionate number of us were also decked out in Docs and hole-y clothes. Somehow I suspect that Bristol would not be best happy if they find out I spent my Year Abroad learnin' some sweet fireside anthems... even if the lyrics are in French. I have unsubscribed myself from the module.
On Wednesday i was frankly -buzzing- for my Feminist Visual Arts Club module. This is why I chose to study abroad rather than work! I want to pursue my hobbies and interests! I want to combine popular culture with academia! This module is taught in English!
Instead I sat at a desk, notebook and pen out, squirming for 25 minutes in full knowledge that it wasn't the right lesson before being brave enough to leave. When enfin I did, the teacher was mean and patronising and I very nearly cried. I felt victimised and sorry for myself. Still, fear not: I did prevail x
Thursday saw me sit, this time for a full hour and a half, in a lesson I knew I shouldn't be in. My German is pretty schlecht, but in the whole time I was there the only thing we did was an aural exercise along the lines of "Er ist mein Vater... Ja, er ist dein Vater" usw. to wiederholen our possessive pronouns. I left during the pause. A dommage, because the French girl I was sitting next to was really nice, and her German was so bad that my ego was starting to rejuvenate.
I was thoroughly re-humbled on Friday morning in a politics class, where I underwent a epiphany of the extent of my ignorance of European affairs. I am looking forward to being educated; in the meantime, I am expelling a lot of energy on trying to not get picked on to answer questions. When I used to teach gymnastics I pointedly ignored any badly behaved kids wanting to answer my Qs, so my technique is to look vaguely insolent. I do this by turning my diary over to expose the XR sticker on its back cover :D #RebelforLife
I arrive 45 minutes late. Someone up there clearly wanted me to make an entrance; my teacher was not impressed. She's one of those witty people you desperately want to impress but also know would automatically hate anyone trying too hard to please. I slouch sheepishly to the back of the classroom, humbly sweating as she gets back to discussing the difference between the sky reddening, turning reddish or becoming red.
By the end of the lesson my sweat of mortification has developed into a sweat of adrenaline! At uni in England they combine teaching translation with teaching us about French current affairs, which means our ST (Source Texts) are invariably middle-brow, short-form journalism pulled from free online platforms. This mardi matin, however, we were looking at a passage from L'Étranger, one of my fave books (don't start; only once I cave and start wearing a beret will I have achieved the Ultimate French Student Stereotype) and it was just a totally different discipline: one where you can use your wee noggin to be a bit inventive/original, as well as technical/precise.
Translation, I think, is the only ~creative endeavour~ where I feel absolute confidence in my convictions. Yes, every individual builds a completely unique interpretation of every word based on the manifold contexts in which they absorb it being used; yes, we can never know what images or feelings our words stir in another person and YES, language is constantly developing so there is no objective, external judge of correct or incorrect communication. Néanmois, (I get it from my mother) I always think I'm right about language. To qualify: I'm still shaky on apostrophes and guilty of over-employing the mighty semi-colon; but I felt unreasonably adamant that that Algerian sky was reddening rather than turning red. I leave that salle de classe with an internal grin; I have found something that I enjoy!
The music lesson that I had really been looking forward to turned out to be an hour of infantile call and response with a bouncy teacher who rocked up 15 minutes late to this 1:30pm class, blaming the bouchon that had made me late for my 9am. After listening to his, frankly odd, spiel proclaiming that we could, voire should, all be artistes (I suspect any lesson plan may have been pretty abstract), we Artists did all participate vocally, but only while looking around at each other in total bewilderment, occasionally snorting in disbelief that this facile activity could earn us Official Credit Points for our undergraduate degrees (the exam consists of participation... i.e. there is no exam). Were one to chance upon the scene, I would forgive them assuming we were a bunch of juvenile delinquents serving some sort of lenient community service. A disproportionate number of us were also decked out in Docs and hole-y clothes. Somehow I suspect that Bristol would not be best happy if they find out I spent my Year Abroad learnin' some sweet fireside anthems... even if the lyrics are in French. I have unsubscribed myself from the module.
On Wednesday i was frankly -buzzing- for my Feminist Visual Arts Club module. This is why I chose to study abroad rather than work! I want to pursue my hobbies and interests! I want to combine popular culture with academia! This module is taught in English!
Instead I sat at a desk, notebook and pen out, squirming for 25 minutes in full knowledge that it wasn't the right lesson before being brave enough to leave. When enfin I did, the teacher was mean and patronising and I very nearly cried. I felt victimised and sorry for myself. Still, fear not: I did prevail x
Thursday saw me sit, this time for a full hour and a half, in a lesson I knew I shouldn't be in. My German is pretty schlecht, but in the whole time I was there the only thing we did was an aural exercise along the lines of "Er ist mein Vater... Ja, er ist dein Vater" usw. to wiederholen our possessive pronouns. I left during the pause. A dommage, because the French girl I was sitting next to was really nice, and her German was so bad that my ego was starting to rejuvenate.
I was thoroughly re-humbled on Friday morning in a politics class, where I underwent a epiphany of the extent of my ignorance of European affairs. I am looking forward to being educated; in the meantime, I am expelling a lot of energy on trying to not get picked on to answer questions. When I used to teach gymnastics I pointedly ignored any badly behaved kids wanting to answer my Qs, so my technique is to look vaguely insolent. I do this by turning my diary over to expose the XR sticker on its back cover :D #RebelforLife
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