I aim to leave the apartment each morning by 9:30. Which, of course, actually means I leave ten minutes later. Because, really, it wouldn't be the same if I weren't late leaving for anything I ever need to do.
French Grammar, my daily, two- hour-long morning class, is
a ten-minute walk from where I live, a true stroke of luck given the majority
of my friends have about a 30- minute metro commute. It’s a pleasurable walk,
one that passes through the strip of my arrondissement’s
theater district. I love the walk, reveling in the feel of being a part of the
stir of the Parisian morning.
As of now, I’m presently taking French Grammar and Paris
and Civilization. My French Phonetics course begins tomorrow and L’Histoire d’Art
begins either this Tuesday or the following. That I need to double check.
French
Grammar
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| The school's courtyard. |
I placed into elementaire—the second level among the four
levels on offer. I had placed into intermediate when I had taken my placement
exam freshman year of college, but three years without French instruction has
placed me behind.
Madame Morio, my French teacher, is a four- foot something, middle- aged woman, with piercing blue eyes. Her gray roots run a jagged line along the top of the ruffled curls of her short, dyed copper hair. Her baggy clothes swallow her small figure, yet the eccentricity and exaggeration of her movements, the exuberance to her mannerisms and her surprising, yet refreshing level of energy for a 10 am class, makes her anything but little. She’s an adorable woman; whatever the lady is missing in height is certainly made up for in personality. Madame is not a fan of those that are late, and likely not a fan of those in need of a bathroom break halfway through class. The French, apparently, don’t believe in quick restroom breaks in between a two- hour block.
Her lessons are a streamed jumble of ideas. Like how
we can go from “my tart is better than your tart” to “she is my best friend,”
with absolute no explanation behind the verbs used, the tense implied, the
pronouns incorporated, I’m unsure. There’s no structure to her two- hour lesson
plan—her jotted notes on the chalkboard serving as our main form of visual
guidance for the maze of her thoughts. Day one of class (and the week to
follow) covered all I learned in four years of my high school French
education. Covered, that is,
without review. We’re just sort of expected to know it.
The class, instructed completely in French, is one of my
courses taught through the Sorbonne (one of the oldest universities established
in Europe). It's a part of the university’s
international program, evident by the mix of ethnicities in my class; As for
Americans, we’re represented by just five, myself included. There are a few
Swedes, a large number of Asians from China, Korea, Vietnam and Korea, a few
from Spanish- speaking countries, a girl from India and a boy from Turkey. My
classmates are of all ages, several of whom have already completed their
undergraduate studies.
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| I enter the door on the far right to get to the hallway to my class. |
Class is held in a lycée (secondary school)
as the main area of the Sorbonne is presently undergoing renovation. (That
being said, however, the Sorbonne is made up of buildings spread across the
city. So while there is the historic central building, classes are always held
across Paris. Mine just happens to be in rented room as a result of the work on
the international program’s usual building.)
The classroom is spacious; a tinge of peach shades the cream coloring of the walls, likely
a result of the rose translucent colored sheets covering a part of the large windows on the room's right wall. Given the morning’s natural light floods the interior of our class, no artificial lights light the room, a reflection of the French’s constant push
for conservation of energy. Or just that their energy bill are expensive.
Regardless, I like the atmosphere created by the natural lighting—it, somehow,
creates a peaceful, serene mood within the class.
A good balance, I believe, to the chaotic “structure” of
Madame’s lessons.
I like French Grammar, always a fan of classes that don’t
involve a lecture. It’s not a course for my major, yet I take it seriously
given I am here to improve my French. The unorganized manner in which Madame
presents her lessons, however, makes it difficult to pick up on information
in class. I am, as a result, attempting to teach myself with the French grammar book I
had purchased prior to leaving.
Paris:
Civilization and Culture
Paris Civ, held twice weekly (two hours on Mondays and an
hour and a half on Wednesdays) is essentially the history of the city 101 with
the added bonus of onsite trips. We’ll be studying our way through Paris and its
surrounding areas through the semester, continuing with the end of the month’s
visit to Versailles and a weekend excursion to Chartres.
Christina is my professor (way easier than attempting to
pronounce her last name, so she said). She’s a lively, amiable woman: tall and
lean with gray streaks lining her shoulder- length blonde hair. Her eyebrows
arch her wide, round eyes, hidden behind the rectangular frames of glasses.
There’s a smoothness to the steadiness of her voice, a wave in intonation as
her excitement increases throughout our lessons.
We took a trip to the Louvre a few days ago, spending just
under two hours examining the exterior of the building. Minus the freezing
temperatures resulting in a lack of feeling in all parts of my extremities, I particularly
appreciated Christina’s decision to focus on the outside of the historic structure. It was
an opportunity to analyze the significance of the structure itself, rather than
my immediate urge to awe at the beauties within (which of course I did after
class. Because no way was I going on a field trip to the Louvre without
actually peaking into an exhibit). The front façade of the building is composed
of a sturdy, symmetrical design, one in which reflects the Louvre’s physical
representation of power. It amazes me how even a building, its placement, the angle at which it faces holds some level of symbolic meaning. Christina possesses a fascination and passion for her
topic, a subject of no particular connection to her Germanic- American roots.
The amount she knows off hand is fascinating, notably evident during our onsite
visit. That is, in between her cigarette breaks. Because the woman went through
three cigarettes during the time we were outside. And it’s not like she’s
French, so really, there’s no explanation.
French
Phonetics and Art History
French Phonetics, an hour- long class that
meets weekly every other week, begins tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it,
hoping I’ll continue improving my ability to mimic the intonation of
the French. Art History, a conference course taught completely in French and
attended by a few hundred students, begins sometime in the next two weeks. The
two are also taught by the Sorbonne.
____________
With two of my classes presently on hold, I’ve had a significant amount of free time. But my days are busy, the free time I fill with
the lunch visit to the boulangerie and the afternoon trip the city’s buffet
selection of art galleries. I enjoy that class isn’t on a campus, that I’m
required to navigate the city, jump abroad the metro to reach my first lesson
in time for the second. And through it all, I enjoy the sense of structure the
mandated blocks of class add to my routine of weekly life while abroad.
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