Yesterday was my travel day.

The plan was to have a leisurely Sunday morning in Paris and leave for the train station around 1 p.m. to catch a 2:45 train to Aix-en-Provence.  I would then be picked up by the school bus and taken to a wonderful converted monastery near the quaint town of Moustiers Ste. Marie.  That was the plan.

I forgot that I was in France.  It seems that the French had planned “La manifestation” for Sunday at 1 p.m.  This demonstration was to protest the new law that approved gay marriage.  The French believe in their manifestations, so they will often have a manifestation protesting something, then the opposers will have a manifestation, then the first group will stage another manifestation, then the other group will answer, then . . . you get my drift.  So, this was the third demonstration by the anti-gay marriage group.  And they like to get started long before the actual scheduled event.  The entire city shuts down.  Cab drivers, bus drivers, metro.  No transportation to the train station after 10:00 a.m.

Fortunately, the hotel found a taxi for me and I left about 5 hours ahead of time.

I would like to say that the worst part of my day was only getting 3 hours of sleep the night before.  Or, that it was sitting at the train station for over 5 hours.  Or, that it was dragging my enormous, 50 lb. suitcase and 20 lb. carry-on onto the train’s first car that I reached, and up to the second level, only to discover after we left the station that I was sitting in coach with a first class ticket.  I proceeded to lug “mes bagages” through 4 train cars, down miniscule aisles, to the proper car.  I bruised more than a few Frenchmen’s (and women’s) elbows and knees.  I did not improve Franco-American relations.  I would like to say that the worst part was finally reaching the station and having to cram into a small mini-bus with complete strangers and travel over an hour to my new school.  Nope.

The worst part was having to converse in French with the very sweet Canadian man sitting next to me for the entire trip.  I understood him very well. I know all about his work as a professeur de pathologie in Calgary.  He is here with his wife and they have 4 children, 2 boys and 2 girls, who are grown and have professions.  We discussed the Canadian lifestyle and how Canada has two languages, English and French, and how it can be confusing at times.  His name is Hallgrumun and he was born in Iceland.  Very interesting man.  He knows nothing about me.  Well, he knows that I’m a “femme au foyer” (housewife . . . . because I don’t yet know how to say kept woman in French) and I’m married and I have 5 children, 5 grandchildren.  That’s all I memorized before I left town.  I became adept at nodding my head and saying, “Oui” with conviction.

The people who are students here are all engaged in some profession.  I guess the majority are in their mid-thirties to mid-forties.  And then there are a few such as I.  Old.  But proficient in French.  What in the world are these people doing here if they can already speak French?!

I took a French test today.  It was multiple choice which I’m grateful for because that means the law of averages should help.  I am definitely the poorest specimen they have here this week.  You can kind of see it in the teachers’ eyes.  You know, that pained, but sympathetic look.  They will be talking rapidly to another student and when they turn to ask a question of me they kind of drop their eyes and slow their speech.  I’m thinking of having Bill FedEx my diploma so that I can show them that at one time in my past I was educated.

I think I’ll last the week.  If I don’t it will be because of my lodgings.  As I’ve said, the school is located in a converted monastery.  It looked fabulous on the website–and it is in a beautiful location.  But I forgot that the French aren’t as concerned about some of the things that bother we Americans.  Like heat.  Or soap and towels.

My room is at the farthest end of the monastery.  Therefore, it’s the last extremity.  Think of your hands and feet in winter.  I have a bar of soap about the size of a razor blade and I’m trying to make it last the week.  So, last night I washed my arms and hands.  Tonight I’ll get to my legs and feet.  No shampoo is supplied.  Don’t worry. I brought my own.  I have one washcloth and one towel for the week and my children will recognize the description when I say these towels were line-dried.  Their paternal grandmother never owned a dryer, so they know the feel of line-dried towels.  It’s a great exfoliant.

When I awoke this morning, everything in me wanted to send out an SOS in caps, screaming “HELP!  I’M TRAPPED IN A MONASTERY MASQUERADING AS A FRENCH LANGUAGE SCHOOL.  SEND BLANKETS!!”  I do believe that I have new found respect for the monks from long ago.  How they could concentrate on their prayers is beyond me.  The sound of chattering teeth would be distracting.

I’m writing this on my first day of classes, between the morning group class and my afternoon class, L’Intensif.  Yep.  I signed up for intensive classes each afternoon.  What a fool!  But, I’m not backing down . . . yet.

I’ll send another post tomorrow.  I’ve met some really nice people that I can tell  you about. However, it won’t be in-depth, because they’ve only told me in French about themselves.   I hope I’ve translated their professions correctly.  There aren’t any belly dancers as far as I can tell.

A bientôt!