4. Semaine Zwei
Week Two begins on a shameful note: I am late for translation again. Again, however, I enjoy it ~tremendously~ and feel unreasonably sceptical (nay scornful) of some wording that the rest of my class agrees on. This gives me that incredible buzz of self-validation exclusive to pedants such as moi :--) Second, I have a painstaking French lesson where I am picked on to *describe what I can see* in a photo of the man levitating by the Tour Eiffel on 14 juillet. I would find this uninspiring activity excruciating in English too, but as well as that, having to speak French in front of the class leaves me lispy, mumbling, spitty and inaccurate. Franchement I look a total fool. Oh man.
But by 12:30 my school day is over. Je chill avec mes potes for a bit then I am at a loose end. I'm starting not to know what to do with myself now that I no longer really feel like a tourist on holiday. I need to rekindle my term-time hobbies: find a choir, life drawing, yoga or barre class. And I intend to find a petit boulot to help improve my language and confidence, ainsi que mes finances.
A friend wiser than I warned me that it would be irritating to be lectured on feminism by two white men. I brushed this off, saying hey! White men can be oppressed by the patriarchy too! It's arguably more important to inform yourself on a power structure that you don't necessarily feel the brunt of on a daily basis! At least they're choosing to run a module on an issue I am interested in and care about! Give those lil guys a break - the poor lambs!
Turns out she was right, it is really fucking annoying. They claim that the class will be "steered by its participants"; that they don't want to interfere too much as "the clue is in the name", they say, "it's a "club", guys!" (the module is called le Feminist Visual Arts Club). But this doesn't stop them patronisingly rephrasing, oversimplifying or talking over people's contributions. En plus they make throw-away crowd-pleasing one-liners where they come over as ~dudes~ and enforce their personal, un-nuanced approach to feminism; dismissing what it may look like to different people ("ah, the high heel, a modern instrument of torture") (whether I agree with her theories or not, I am not sure, NICOLAS, that you have acknowledged Virginie Despentes' case for exploiting traditionally oppressive feminine accessories such as the humble high heel) and downplay the concerning sexualisation of women in popular culture ("I'll put it bluntly, guys... we're all looking at that ass"). They seem to have a very rigid idea of what feminism is fighting, what this fight looks like and what modern feminists' priorities should be. I am annoyed, but I am also, as they say, on the bloody blob! Which always makes me reluctant to trust my emotions/judgement. Fucking female anatomy!!!!
The next day, a lente matinée means I arrive at uni well in time for my lesson. Feeling: smug. This literature module (exclusively for international students) is quite slow but proving more interesting than I expected... considering the theme is "representations of animals in short stories". Not to be whiny (or speciesist, eek) (sorry vegans x) but I don't really give a shit about representations of animals, or about short stories. However, our teacher seems a bit crazy and calls us her cheris which makes me feel a bit *spéciale*, and (sorry to ~brag~ but this doesn't usually happen to me) she actually read my work out to the class! We'd had to write a wee paragraph titled Les Français, un peuple drôle. I feel a bit lame for being so flattered but it's nice for someone to notice my presence (I have no friends in the class) and, anyway... voilà - if your interest has been piqued, t'inquiète pas, I'm sure the wee paragraph will feature in my future literary anthology as an early composition x
That evening down in the Vieux Port I stumble across the annual Pizza Festival de Marseille. Annoyingly I have made a tasty chickpea curry, so enfin go home to eat that like the health-guru, frugal, eco-warrior angel that I am... but I was very intrigued by the absurdity of this unnecessarily caged-off zone. There were about five little festival-style pizza tents and maybe 40 people were milling around this open-air, (hu)man-sized chicken pen, guzzling their tranches of pizza (sometimes one from each hand) and burning their mouths with hot fromage, as a Beyoncé remixes blasted over them from a 2 meter tall speaker. Yay for experiencing la vraie French culture!
On Thursday il faisait so chaud that I wanted to claw my skin off. It's mid-September for Pierre's sake! I sit in a hormone-induced grump on the bus home. I'm hungry and tired and have just had a lesson of Deutsçais or whatever the hell that evil, mind-bending mélange would call itself. I can't tell when my teacher slips a German word into the middle of a French explanation of grammar. The lesson gave me a grave Kopfschmerz. I am pissed off with not being able to express myself, pissed off that my German has got so much worse in the 4 months that I have completely ignored it (quelle injustice!) and pissed off that I feel so useless and clumsy all the time. Bad times, hein?
Néanmois, Friday rolls around and I am feeling like a right ol' Wisenheimerin (recently acquired word & using it is kinda self-fulfilling, teehee) - I've managed to get the 7:45 bus for my 9AM lesson. The man sitting next to me seems exasperated: he grunts and exhales dramatically as we sit in traffic the entire length of the journey. Guess someone didn't think to build in 45 minutes' emboutaillage time (hey neighbour! ... I write this while sitting next to him). It occurs to me that I should take up knitting or something... maybe doing a full face of make up in the morning... because my phone keeps dying from listening to podcasts / writin' these very notes during my tedious commutes.
This week ~chez nous~ we've fallen into a routine: every evening we sit on my coloc's balcony. I drink Lidl wine (don't know what prompted it but I've graduated to drinking via glasses rather than straight out the bottle - chic, quoi!), she smokes straights, and together we watch a prostitute who's perch is on the pavement opposite our immeuble. We sit on the same side of the table each night: I get the belle vue of a McDonald's Drive Thru; my coloc, the neon floodlights of a football pitch. Having such regular nocturnal activities makes me feel vaguely wholesome. Week two: fini. Bam.
But by 12:30 my school day is over. Je chill avec mes potes for a bit then I am at a loose end. I'm starting not to know what to do with myself now that I no longer really feel like a tourist on holiday. I need to rekindle my term-time hobbies: find a choir, life drawing, yoga or barre class. And I intend to find a petit boulot to help improve my language and confidence, ainsi que mes finances.
A friend wiser than I warned me that it would be irritating to be lectured on feminism by two white men. I brushed this off, saying hey! White men can be oppressed by the patriarchy too! It's arguably more important to inform yourself on a power structure that you don't necessarily feel the brunt of on a daily basis! At least they're choosing to run a module on an issue I am interested in and care about! Give those lil guys a break - the poor lambs!
Turns out she was right, it is really fucking annoying. They claim that the class will be "steered by its participants"; that they don't want to interfere too much as "the clue is in the name", they say, "it's a "club", guys!" (the module is called le Feminist Visual Arts Club). But this doesn't stop them patronisingly rephrasing, oversimplifying or talking over people's contributions. En plus they make throw-away crowd-pleasing one-liners where they come over as ~dudes~ and enforce their personal, un-nuanced approach to feminism; dismissing what it may look like to different people ("ah, the high heel, a modern instrument of torture") (whether I agree with her theories or not, I am not sure, NICOLAS, that you have acknowledged Virginie Despentes' case for exploiting traditionally oppressive feminine accessories such as the humble high heel) and downplay the concerning sexualisation of women in popular culture ("I'll put it bluntly, guys... we're all looking at that ass"). They seem to have a very rigid idea of what feminism is fighting, what this fight looks like and what modern feminists' priorities should be. I am annoyed, but I am also, as they say, on the bloody blob! Which always makes me reluctant to trust my emotions/judgement. Fucking female anatomy!!!!
The next day, a lente matinée means I arrive at uni well in time for my lesson. Feeling: smug. This literature module (exclusively for international students) is quite slow but proving more interesting than I expected... considering the theme is "representations of animals in short stories". Not to be whiny (or speciesist, eek) (sorry vegans x) but I don't really give a shit about representations of animals, or about short stories. However, our teacher seems a bit crazy and calls us her cheris which makes me feel a bit *spéciale*, and (sorry to ~brag~ but this doesn't usually happen to me) she actually read my work out to the class! We'd had to write a wee paragraph titled Les Français, un peuple drôle. I feel a bit lame for being so flattered but it's nice for someone to notice my presence (I have no friends in the class) and, anyway... voilà - if your interest has been piqued, t'inquiète pas, I'm sure the wee paragraph will feature in my future literary anthology as an early composition x
That evening down in the Vieux Port I stumble across the annual Pizza Festival de Marseille. Annoyingly I have made a tasty chickpea curry, so enfin go home to eat that like the health-guru, frugal, eco-warrior angel that I am... but I was very intrigued by the absurdity of this unnecessarily caged-off zone. There were about five little festival-style pizza tents and maybe 40 people were milling around this open-air, (hu)man-sized chicken pen, guzzling their tranches of pizza (sometimes one from each hand) and burning their mouths with hot fromage, as a Beyoncé remixes blasted over them from a 2 meter tall speaker. Yay for experiencing la vraie French culture!
On Thursday il faisait so chaud that I wanted to claw my skin off. It's mid-September for Pierre's sake! I sit in a hormone-induced grump on the bus home. I'm hungry and tired and have just had a lesson of Deutsçais or whatever the hell that evil, mind-bending mélange would call itself. I can't tell when my teacher slips a German word into the middle of a French explanation of grammar. The lesson gave me a grave Kopfschmerz. I am pissed off with not being able to express myself, pissed off that my German has got so much worse in the 4 months that I have completely ignored it (quelle injustice!) and pissed off that I feel so useless and clumsy all the time. Bad times, hein?
Néanmois, Friday rolls around and I am feeling like a right ol' Wisenheimerin (recently acquired word & using it is kinda self-fulfilling, teehee) - I've managed to get the 7:45 bus for my 9AM lesson. The man sitting next to me seems exasperated: he grunts and exhales dramatically as we sit in traffic the entire length of the journey. Guess someone didn't think to build in 45 minutes' emboutaillage time (hey neighbour! ... I write this while sitting next to him). It occurs to me that I should take up knitting or something... maybe doing a full face of make up in the morning... because my phone keeps dying from listening to podcasts / writin' these very notes during my tedious commutes.
This week ~chez nous~ we've fallen into a routine: every evening we sit on my coloc's balcony. I drink Lidl wine (don't know what prompted it but I've graduated to drinking via glasses rather than straight out the bottle - chic, quoi!), she smokes straights, and together we watch a prostitute who's perch is on the pavement opposite our immeuble. We sit on the same side of the table each night: I get the belle vue of a McDonald's Drive Thru; my coloc, the neon floodlights of a football pitch. Having such regular nocturnal activities makes me feel vaguely wholesome. Week two: fini. Bam.
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