Comedy? Tragedy?

About an hour ago I came back from seeing a French translation of Webster's "The Duchess of Malfi" with the school. Though a little nervous at first about whether or not I'd be able to understand what was going on (hence a swift wikipedia search), I was reassured upon being told that it was a tragedy. Because, thankfully (for me, in this case), 17th-century tragedies tend not to be draw on the subtlest of emotions.

Lovers grasp each other!

Enemies wave daggers!

Characters not to be trusted tiptoe!

etc.

And, of course, at the end everyone dies. EVERYONE.

I loved the first two hours. But with about forty-five minutes left in the three-hour production, you could feel the audience stirring a little bit. Attention was not undivided, to say the least. The play was bypassing tragic and entering well into the realm of the ridiculous as only tragedies can. With about an hour to go the body count began to grow exponentially. And, furthermore, the deaths became increasingly as complicated as those planned by James Bond villains...while the period of pre-death staggering time grew longer and longer. Watching with dismay the characters yet to be brutally offed, you couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope that Webster had perhaps written a sudden and tragic collapse of an enormous set piece to speed things along a bit...but no. One by one by one by one by one by one by one each character was poisoned/stabbed/strangled, staggered, and then soliloquized -- and yes, in that order. What was at first sad was swiftly becoming unbearable -- but not, perhaps, in the way Webster intended. More in an eyeing-the-emergency-exit kind of way.

And then something fascinating happened.

What first caught my attention was what I originally thought to be the overzealous use of a blood capsule (as though the death of a half-naked man by multiple stab wounds needed MORE embellishment). But, as the actor staggered and soliloquized, I realized...it was going on too long. The actor's indignant cry (mid-stab) of "OW, that hurts" was the second clue. (NO, this isn't what it sounds like, no one was actually hurt.) And suddenly, the chortles issuing from the students in the back rows (both the result of the extravagant deaths and the absurd amount of nudity in this production) grew louder...but the tables had turned. This was no longer laugh-at. In the final thirty minutes of the play, the actors and the director turned the tragedy on its head -- and they played into the over-the-topness, pushing it at first into comedy, and simultaneously, a breakdown of the very theatrical process it had mostly adhered to up until this point (with a few modern-touch exceptions). Mid-staggering, the new fleet of dying characters pulled out the fake-blood sacks tucked under their costumes and let the contents spout forward with gusto. Some crumpled to the ground -- others simply folded over. Without changing a word, the production had taken the tragedy - which, until those last 30 minutes it had been, more or less -- and had turned it (THE WHOLE THING!) into a play ABOUT tragedies, and the absurdity therein.

People always talk about the fine line between comedy and tragedy. And that's a link that comes through in more ways than one. In Endgame, Beckett wrote that "nothing is funnier than unhappiness." But even given the fact that Beckett wrote in part to undo the very notion of characterhood (and as such the line might be read as some sort of strange manipulation of the "characters," to dehumanize them), there's something universal in this. Take Mel Brooks,, for example: "Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you walk into an open sewer and die."

I haven't thought much about this, but in the brief time I've spent thinking I have thought INTENSELY about this. Not to be a bore -- because, of course, Mel Brooks is being a little facetiously self-indulgent here. But the question of scale that he lays out also holds true. The play started as the cut finger -- small, affecting. Loss, separation. But as soon as that sewer top opened up, the audience was thrown, the gestures too grand to move us and, therefore, managing only to amuse us at their failure to do so -- until, in making the physical staged deaths as grandiose as the very number of deaths (and then breaking down the theatricality altogether by exposing the seams, via the blood capsules) everything changed. As the actors exposed the creaky machinery that tragedies can be, we were with them, NOT raising our eyebrows at them...and instead of being a play about something, the play became a play about plays.

There were ups and downs to the production. There were things I was interested in, things I thought were poorly done, and things that I quite enjoyed. There were times when I had no idea whether I was supposed to be laughing or feeling the characters' pain. But in the end, the play stuck with me, and I think it will for a while -- not because it was "good" or "bad" or anything in particular, but because, at the moment when the audience started to turn its back on it, it circled around to align itself with our new frustration.

But is that too much of a compromise? Is that an easy-out on the creative team's part -- to play into the absurdity of an undeniably over-the-top play, instead of creating a world in which the absurdity reads as logical?

Thoughts here, thoughts there

Sitting in my room now, preparing lessons...just put down a book of poetry I was perusing for potential material, though so far nothing's struck me as quite right for the students. I hear the Yemeni assistant T. cracking an egg in the kitchen, preparing his dinner -- and all of a sudden, this quiet, compact domestic noise sets my mind wandering. Next door I can hear G., from Italy, talking with her boyfriend. Outside there is full-blown wuthering: it is a windy, tempesty sort of day -- the kind of day where no tree seems like it could be deeply rooted enough to be safe. And I am here, at home, in my apartment, listening to it all.

It's funny how walking down a hallway to the sound of T. singing in Arabic, or the jingle of Y's Chinese keychain has so quickly become familiar. I love to think about the noises that have been absorbed under the heading of "domestic sounds." The egg being cracked in the kitchen here is the same as it would be anywhere -- less common (for me, at home) would be regularly hearing the sounds of my housemate's languages. But here, now, it all feels so normal. It's amazing how quickly we adjust to these things, and it's why I try to pay as much attention as I can to the little surprises that pop up here and there. They so quickly lose their edge and blend into the background of what you're used to. And when you're in the midst of a drastic move, in which EVERYTHING is new at once and, in a matter of time, almost EVERYTHING starts to feel normal, it's hard to know how to preserve that feeling -- that moment where you saw x, y, or z for the first time -- and it shocked you.

Of course, some moments of shock are easier to remember than others.

Take, for instance, a recent trip to the butcher's stand at a weekly market. While waiting in line to buy chicken, I became distracted in looking at an unfamiliar hunk of meat, prominently displayed at the front of the glass.

"A," I asked (for I was with the German assistant), "what is that?"

"What?"

"The thing that's all rolled up."

"Cow tongue."

WHAAA?! My jaw dropped (perhaps not unlike the former owner of said tongue) -- but, as my mother later pointed out to me, it's mostly Americans who would be surprised by this. Our squeamishness in regards to the "ugly" parts of meat says a lot about the way we think about food, I think.

With that said, my reaction to the cow BRAIN being sold to the woman in front of us -- a brain sitting in tupperware and SOAKED with blood, Quentin Tarantino-style -- still seems quite reasonable.

~

And one last thought.

I don't think I will ever adjust to how terrible the radio is here. Not that I'm in any way savvy in regards to music, but listening to the radio is actually OPPRESSIVELY awful. It's as though some national French broadcasting company took the cream of the crop, threw it all away, and decided to use nasty sardine water instead. It. Is. Terrible. The songs that they play have rhythms that are so PAINFULLY awkward and slow you feel like you're slogging through mud in boots that are too big for you. You just pray and pray that you'll get through to the end and it'll be clear, but no! On comes a techno song whose chorus features a sullen man repeating the name "Barbara Streisand" and you think to yourself WOW. So THIS is how it's going to be. It's maddening in a teeth-gritting, eye-twitching sort of way. Just plain awful.

But that's okay. There's always CD's of Harry Potter in french, which make for a much better listening experience.

That's all for now!

Hearing, Overhearing

"Why does he keep staring at us like that?" one of the assistants whispered from across the table.

I looked over my shoulder at the waiter. Sure enough, there he was, standing by the restaurant bar and staring, without any effort at concealing it, at our table. True, we were eating early and were so far the only clients in the restaurant, but still -- this went above and beyond basic attentiveness. At first I felt a similar stirring of irritation -- nosy as I am, at least I TRY to hide my eavesdropping -- but looking back to the four others seated at my table I began to understand.

To my right sat Y., the Chinese assistant. Next to here was G. and her boyfriend L., both from Italy -- and to my left was A., the assistant from Germany. And then there was me, the American. (Back at the apartment in Le Havre were T., the assistant from Yemen, and M., the assistant from Mexico.) Thinking back to when we all first met each other, the waiter's stares seemed less and less odd.

*

At first we only knew each other by our nationalities. "When will the Mexican come?" "Have you met the Italian yet?" "Which is the Chinese assistant's room?" We hadn't yet met each other, we didn't yet have names -- just our countries. And, despite its feeling blisteringly un-p.c. to refer to people as their nationality, it was also strangely appropriate. Terrifyingly enough, to the students, we ARE our countries. A. IS Germany, G. is Italy, I am the United States. (The other day, a student asked: "What is living in the U.S. like?") From the perspective of the French administration, we are here to serve as little islands of our nationality, conveniently drifted across oceans (or continents) for the enrichment of their French students.

It's an impossible task, to stand in for an entire culture. To some extent, I think our students would be surprised by this fact. But we assistants know it, and as a result some of the pressure is lifted. The first week we ate dinner together every night -- and every night there were new things to learn about each other's countries and languages. How do you count to 3 in all six languages? What do you say when someone is taking a picture? When you clink glasses during a toast? My favorite was the night where we went around the circle and sang our national anthems for each other, one little voice for each country...how funny to hear an anthem sung by one person alone, in a dining room!

We've learned fun little things like that about our countries and languages -- but there have also been moments where living together has provided more culture shock than the fact of living in France. Living with someone who hopes to have four wives, for instance. Six people is a lot for such a compact little apartment, but throw in the fact that we're all from such DIFFERENT places, such different cultures...six worlds crowded into such a tiny space! But we

respect each other deeply, and find humor in the most insurmountable of differences...otherwise it wouldn't be livable.

But at the end of the day, yes, we sit down to dinner together, and we talk about our day, our childhoods, our families, each other...we're an odd little family coming from such different places, but we're a family nonetheless, and we all do love each other.

*

Back in the restaurant, the waiter has finally averted his eyes, busying himself with the countertop. And our indignation subsides to an amused understanding of the shameless stares. Five different accents, each raking in mistakes from our respective original languages...five different rhythms and cadences...and, of course, conversation that is broken and slow, ideal for eavesdropping -- how irresistible!

I try to imagine myself in the waiter's situation, and I think back to New York -- which feels oddly far away at the moment. I remember that whenever I heard people speaking heavily accented English to each other, I also tried to listen. I couldn't help but try to figure out who they were and where they were from...and how English came to be the bridge between two unknown -- but almost certainly faraway -- places.

Le Havre

It's hard to believe it's been almost a month since the last post...so much has changed! I've gone from touring around France to actually living here in such a short period of time...my head spins just thinking about it. Thinking back to when I first wheeled my suitcase back into the Lycée (after a week of traveling around La Bourgogne) I feel as though I'm thinking back to years and years ago. But I'll try to start at the beginning.

After a teary cab ride from Orly airport in Paris (where I said goodbye to Mom - hélas!) followed by a frantic sprint to make the train headed toward Le Havre at the Gare St. Lazare (I did!), I was finally en route...The train ride back was rather uneventful, though a few rows in front of me I could look over the shoulder of a woman who spent literally the entirely train ride watching videos of herself strutting around in a bikini. When she opened a video that didn't immediately feature her in a bikini, she skipped forward until she found what she was looking for -- or she switched to a different video, in the hopes of finding the same. People are fascinating.

When I got off the train in Le Havre I got into a cab and headed back to the school, where students were milling about, chatting, finishing up their day. And I had a funny reaction. It wasn't what I'd have expected. Instead of feeling charmed ("aww, high schoolers!), and instead of feeling a little nervous ("I hope they like me!") -- either of which would have been entirely normal -- my first thought was terror: "MONSTERS! I'M WORKING WITH MONSTERS!" Not that they were doing ANYTHING that would merit this sort of title. Literally, I don't think they batted an eye as I walked in or even so much as noticed me. But as I walked in and saw them in their natural habitat - I know, I know, but that's honestly the term that comes to mind - I was filled with this terrible dread. This feeling that as long as the job description was working with them, I would never, never belong. "Honestly," I thought to myself, "this feels just like high school."

And that's when I realized -- DING! -- it WAS high school. And even though I wasn't necessarily subject to the same sort of transitions that they're all going through, it was impossible not to feel the weight of all that angst, energy, enthusiasm, confusion -- and, of course, the hormones that you can almost SEE ricocheting between their slouching figures. I felt like I was in high school because I WAS...and now I was the new kid.

But I was a new kid with a slight advantage: despite not being fluent in the language, at least I have a few years on them...and those few years make all the difference in the world. What they see as a glaring display of confidence and individuality I see differently -- a disguise they can hide behind, whether it be an inch of eye shadow or a Little Bo-Peep outfit, complete with perfectly buckled shoes.

Not all of them use these disguises, but for those that do I love them for it. These kids are so, so endearing, and they are WORKING SO HARD. Not just because many of them are marvelously motivated students, but because the shear effort of hashing out one's own identity when you're not even allowed to be alone in a classroom is unbearable. But they do bear it. And they even enjoy it, sometimes.

So despite the initial horror - and to use any other word would be dishonest, I think - my response has since simmered into a respect for the things that they are working through right now. And my first meetings with the students have only augmented my respect for them. They work hard, they try their best to speak well, they say hello to me in the hallway and they are EXCITED to have native speakers among them. Not all, but I think most...and I hope I'm not being idealistic. This isn't to say that they're angels -- they chitter chatter to each other in French during class (including while I'm talking at times) and some are more sullen than others. But there's a basic goodness that makes me happy to see them, and hopeful before each class. (As of now I've had 5 on my own.) I hope that by the end of the year I'll have really gotten to know them.

I think this is all for now - tomorrow's likely to be an early morning since the students are going to blockade the entrance to the school once again. (More on the strikes some other time.) But for now, things are going well. I hope my students will learn over the course of the year even a fraction of the amount I feel I've learned already from them and from the school in general.

No pictures still, but hopefully soon...!

(Let me preface this by saying I wrote this post a few days ago, but waited to post it until I was able to put up pictures as well...sadly, that has not yet happened, BUT here the post is for now, and hopefully pictures will be added soon -- where the X's are!)

Much has happened in the last few days since my first post!

My mom and I have been exploring La Bourgogne, which is absolutely beautiful...fields and fields of vineyards, fruit trees, etc...and because it's time for the harvest, people from the towns poured into the vineyards to pick the grapes. Vincent, the son of the hotel owner, took us on a tour of the region for the day, teaching us about wine (Mom and I knew next to nothing about it) and showing us some beautiful places we'd never have known to look for. I'll try and walk through it.

Our first few stops with Vincent were vineyards, some of which, as I mentioned earlier, were in the midst of being harvested. These vineyards are so amazingly precise -- Vincent told us there's usually a meter between two plants in any given line, and then a meter between any two lines...but, at the same time, there's something incredibly sprawling and free-feeling about them.

And beyond simply admiring the sight of them...we got to eat the fresh grapes as well! Vincent would pick big bunches for us -- the bunches that were left behind by the harvesters, he said, because they were too small. But we had no complaints. They were perfect - juicy and sweet.

X

After we had eaten our fill of the grapes, we went onwards to a beautiful town called Pommard and walked around a little - beautiful, tiny streets, perfectly French.

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We moved on to a town called Meursault where we did a little wine-tasting .

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...And after that, our culinary outing segued into a historical one, as we explored the chateau at Rochepot. You had to cross the drawbridge and knock at the door to be let in for a tour!

X

From here we went on to a tiny town called Orches - so small it wasn't even listed in our guide book. But I'm so happy we went, as it was one of the most beautiful, quaint, lovely places I think I've ever been.

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In Orches we saw a beautiful little church, a magnificent little store (selling one, creme liquers, and mustard - by a woman whose family had been in the town since 1200!) -- and then we moved on to beautiful ruins overlooking the vineyards...but my camera died before I got to cover all that. (Not that you'd know it from this sadly pictureless post...alas...)

~

The next day, after recharging the camera, my mom and I went to a town called Beaune where we saw a hospital known as the "Palace for the Poor." It was started by a monk in the 14th century, and is probably the most lavish and beautiful hospital I have ever seen. And it actually functioned as a hospital until the 1970's!

X

Afterwards, we went to the most picturesque, tiny little town called Chapaize - it takes all of 60 seconds to drive through, but luckily we wandered around on foot for a while to take in the view.

X

When we walked into the church...there was choir practice happening! We got to listen, lucky us.

X

As the day wound down, we went to Brançion, a GORGEOUS medieval town, where we wandered about and took pictures from a church at the top of a cliff whose doors looked out over the Bourgogne's many beautiful vineyards and meadows. Meanwhile, a harpist played within...

All in all, a marvelous few days. There is so much to see here, and so much that is so perfectly beautiful you feel as though you're walking in a fairytale. I suspect that once I start teaching the sensory overload will slow down (and some other sort of overload may set in...!) but for now I'm just trying to take it all in.

...And here I am...

...in France! Incroyable. Just wanted to throw in a quick first post so that the idea of a blog stops feeling intimidating to me. I remember trying to write mass e-mails the first time I went abroad (then it was Paris) and feeling completely at a loss for words...so hopefully this will be an improvement!

I had planned on writing something upon landing, but, as it turns out, my memory from take-off to...let's see...the train en route to Le Havre is an absolute VOID. For those who know what a terrible flyer I am you probably see how this is surprisingly good news...though, with that said, I'm still struggling to accept the fact that there are a few hours that are just completely irrecoverable to my memory. I was completely conked out. I thought I had dreamt about seeing the Eiffel tower from the plane, but apparently I actually did, and I showed it to my mom by grunting the word "tower" and pointing - and it's about the only thing I remember. What a marvelous tourist I am!

Upon arriving in Le Havre we were greeted so, so warmly by the wonderful Nathalie, who has been my contact from the Lycée all summer. A very brief drive to the school proved Le Havre to be far less hideous than I'd been warned -- in fact, the wide streets were quite nice! I'm very, very excited to go back and explore.

That night (yesterday), Nathalie and several other English faculty members took Mom and me out to dinner - it was beyond generous and SO much fun. I feel unbelievably lucky to have such wonderful, charming, funny colleagues.

And this morning we set out for La Bourgogne, taking the train from Le Havre to Paris before renting a car at Orly. Oddly enough, the second I stepped out of the train station in Paris, I felt a surge of stress...being in such a bustling city after the relative calmness of Le Havre was a shock, and as much as I love Paris it made me feel quite relieved to be trying somewhere new.

Also stressful was our quest for the rental car, which took us an hour and several flights up and down stairs in order to find the right garage level. But find it we did - and now we're here in la Bourgogne! As we rolled our suitcases from the car to our hotel (after the three hour drive), the owner tricked us into thinking that the hotel was elsewhere, and we had just wandered into someone's house...clearly he likes to tease. Before we went off to dinner (eggs in red wine sauce and beef bourgignon!) the hotel owner (Jean-Louis) took us to the hotel's wine cellar downstairs...which HAS A JACUZZI. Pictures to follow, bien sûr!

And now we're back in the hotel, and this post is about cooked. Just wanted to get started on this thing after all the inspiration from the many bloggers currently in my life. ; )

Love,

Marina