Summer's gone

Classes start again on monday. I'm feeling very weird about the whole situation. September didn't really feel like it really happened at all. A post-summer, pre-school limbo of hollow days strung out like paper ballons. A waiting room to a three-year waiting room. I'm apprehensive about the year ahead, the work, the stress and the uncertainty of what will happen after. For three years my life has had a compass point and soon enough I will be ungrounded. It's kind of scary...

The Translation Project that Took Over my Life!

At the moment I am eat-sleep-breathing an enormous translation project for a friend of a friend. He's a photographer and he did an enthographic study of different endangered cultures for an exhibition at UNESCO. He asked me to translate the exhibtion guide. All fine and good. 26 pages by such-and-such a date; no problem. But then the pages were single-spaced, 8-point font... And they kept coming and coming and coming. More things to add or update or change everyday. The Never-Ending Story—only much, much longer!

I managed to farm out some of the work to friends, but it's still not enough. I haven't slept more than a few hours a night trying to get everything done. I just need it to be over, but instead I have more things in my inbox this morning

Here are some photos I took in the happy time when I still had a life.

A Quarter of an Effing Point — Update

I finally got a response to the second email I sent to the director of my programme regarding my eighth of a point fail. (My first one having gone unanswered). I tried to appeal to her sense of logic, reason, compassion and pity to let me pass, rather than failing me for a ridiculous 0.125 of a point.

Surprise surprise, that harpy bitch troll said there "was nothing she could do."

...Bah! As if I didn't hate that place enough already. Now I have to resit that awful bloody exam all over again.

On a happier note, my new favourite song:

A Quarter of an Effing Point!

Yesterday end-of-term marks were finally made available. Being France of course the marks were not available on the internet, or put in the mail. No. Don't be silly. That would make sense and be convenient. To get your grades in France, you have to go to the school in person and sign a form in triplicate.

Generally I consider myself smart enough to pass an exam I studied like a maniac for. But I've been here long enough to know not to take anything for granted. Just scraping by seems to be my norm. (Does it have something to do with the suspiciously high rate of failure among the non-francophone student body? Perhaps). I was not the least bit surprised to see a string of 12s and 13s (a 12 -rather than 10- out of 20 being the required mark to pass, since ÉSIT thinks it's so much better than anywhere else). And there it was. Staring at me. A shiny red 11. In 'Introduction to Law' – a course taught by one of the most horrible people I've ever had the misfortune of meeting. A terrible professor and all-around terrible human being. Sample quote: "I know none of you want to be here, but trust me, I want to be here even less."

Thankfully, French universities have a ridiculous system of averaging grades between certain courses, so if you got, say, 8 in Astro-physics and 16 in the History of Comic Books, you still pass because the average of the two classes is still 12. But nothing is never that easy here... Further down my report card it's marked that I have to rewrite the Law exam. (No indication as to why of course). So I went to the registrars office to find the reason I was supposed to rewrite the exam if my 11 in Law was averaged with a 13 in Economic Environment and 12.5 in Economic Theory. She didn't know. I'm then directed to talk to a different woman in a different office. She tells me that the Law mark is not averaged with any other course. "Oh, really?" I reply, "I thought it was." "No. It's not," all snitty, "I think I know my own job better than you. You all did very badly in Law. All the students who should have studied harder have come to me complaining. You have to rewrite the exam, point final."

Charming.

And, as it turns out, I did know her own job better than she did. A look in the course calendar when I got home clearly stated that the two Economics classes are averaged with Law – problem being that they are averaged with each other before being averaged with the Law mark. Meaning I am a quarter of a bloody point away from avoiding the nightmarish hell that is restudying and resitting the exam for that awful class. A quarter of a point!

I was so mad. Furious really. I still am. That school is like a black cloud poisoning my life. I can't believe I still have two more years to go (...assuming I don't fail by 3/16ths of a point the second time too).

I think Alice Coopers said it best: Schoooool's Out For Summer!!

And maybe a boy can dream of the "School's been blown to pieces" line too.

Last week I finished my remaining slew of exams. A few days later I was cycling across the Pont de Sully and started to feel strange. As I kept going along the Quai de la Tournelle I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. Past Notre-Dame Cathedral and its attendant flocks of tourists, and on to the Fontaine St-Michel. Then, it occurred to me. I was happy! I didn't have exams to stress over or university administration to hate or weather to complain about. Paris is great and all is right with the world.

This got me to thinking about what was wrong before. The answer of course is all too clear. School. A dark cloud that hung over me, poisoning everything it touched. No wonder I was going crazy! Now just two more hateful, alienating years to go... Sigh. Best not to think about that and focus on amazing summer funness.

My mum arrives early tomorrow and we are off to explore Normandy, the Loire and other places. It'll be great to see her, get out of Paris and finally see a different side of France.

French humour

Two cats have to swim across the English Channel. One is called "Undeuxtrois", and the other "Onetwothree". Which one wins?



Onetwothree, because the Undeuxtrois cat sank.

Exams

As with everything in France, my exam schedule is illogical and unclear. I have school, then two weeks of Easter holiday at the end of april, then come back for the first week of may, then am done the semester.

As if it wasn't already strange enough having a two week break, then coming back for one week of school (of which a day is already a national holiday), then finishing; no one seems to know when the exams are! Some professors have said exams are in the last week of class, others have said in the week after classes end, and yet others in the week before easter vacation! – Officially, according to the registrar's office, the exam period "hasn't been decided yet." – What! How can they not know? They've had the whole bloody year to figure it out!

I would say the whole thing was completely ridiculous, if I wasn't already so used to such nonsensical French shenanigans.

Just Add It To The List

The other day there was a meeting for the first year students at my school. Among other things, they talked about the exchange programme which the school offers. This programme was definitely one of the features that drew me to ESIT in the first place. I was muy excited by the opportunity to live in Madrid for a semester, see a different part of Europe and improve my Spanish all at the same time. —Did you notice the use of the past tense? I was excited by this exchange programme. It turns out that you can't get any credit for the courses you do while you're away! Um, doesn't that defeat the whole purpose of an exchange programme? And what's more is that you can't come back and finish the rest of the year here; you're just out a whole year with nothing to show for it! Mais c'est completement insensé! Completely ridiculous! What is the point of even having this programme then if you can't get credit and have to miss a year?

Students from other schools, however, who come here on the exchange programme do get credit for their classes. –Why? The read between the line answer is that my school is so full of itself that they think classes we were to do elsewhere couldn't possibly match the outstanding calibre and level of instruction we have here.

Honestly, how pretentious can you actually be? Although, this is France, so I guess the answer is very.

Daddy needs a new pair of taglines!

I need two taglines, and I'm having trouble coming up with something snappy. Now who better to help me than you? Yes, you!

I need a tagline for all of the amazing 80s videos I'm discovering. It was a crazy, interesting time for music videos back then, experimenting and throwing it all together with a shoestring and a dream. Everything was exciting and everything was possible. —Sure, videos nowadays may have syncronised laser pyrotechnics and choreographed booty poppin', but where is the randomness? The fun?

In the interim, I've labeled these posts I Want My MTV, which was their original slogan when it first went to air in 1981. We didn't, however, have MTV in Canada until a few years ago, so I think there must be a better choice.

I've also decided to collect all of my stories about ÉSIT – the bumbling excuse for scholasticism that is my "university." I know there's tonnes of lyrics, movies, Simpsons quotes and Chinese fortune cookie sayings about schools and/or languages, but absolutely nothing is coming to mind right now.

All thoughts, feelings, emotions are warmly welcome!

Merci pour votre aide.

Perfectionnement français : expression écrite & orale

In my exams last semester I got an 18/20 on my exam for Perfecting your Written and Oral French. I'm pretty proud of it because 1) in the derisory French school system, a 15 is considered the best score you can realistically hope for, and 2) the prof is this effusive, extravagant writer and I really value her opinion.

For the benefit of all you French readers, I've reposted part of that exam here. The prof gave us a list of ten words, then we had to incorporate the words into a 10-line story. See if you can pick out what the words were.

Sa fuite n’est pas sans danger

Vietnam, Indochine de mystère. Dans les paddys du Mékong ; étouffant, un été éternel. Une jeune veuve, Minh, s’enferme dans sa maison. Le monde qui l’entoure l’ennuie depuis la mort de son gentil mari, un marchant de cacahuètes. La saleté de la campagne, la pudeur du naturel. Elle veut, elle doit, retourner à Saïgon, le glamour, l’excitation. Mais ses beaux-parents l’enchainent, ils sont zidanes.

La mélancolie est oppressive pour Minh, elle meurt ici. C’est en fumant l’opium qu’elle vit vraiment. Elle rêve de Saïgon ; les bruits de voitures, le clac des tuiles quand elle jouait au mah-jongg avec ses amies. Sa fuite n’est pas sans danger. Les beaux-parents pourraient la découvrir, la dénoncer, la jeter dans la rue. Mais elle n’y pense pas. Toute ce qu’elle veut c’est retourner au Saïgon qu’elle a connue.

Entreprise et son environnement

A funny story from the beginning of the semester that I forgot to relate because I was too busy feeling sorry for myself (and a further example of the farcical school system here):

I have a class called Entreprise et son environnement about commerce and the business world, so you can understand and then translate economicky texts. While quite often French university classes don't use a textbook, this one does. Fine, no problemo.

I didn't have a chance to go to the bookstore, but the next week of class, another student puts up her hand and says "I went to the bookstore, but they told me the textbook is out of print." To which the professor responds "Oh yes, I know. Very unfortunate. But you can't very well expect me to re-write my whole course just because the textbook is out of print. You'll just have to make do somehow."

...Isn't France ridiculous? C'est n'importe quoi ici !

The Unglamorous Life of an Exile

Now I know what you're thinking; What could me more glamorous than cocktail receptions at UNESCO? Or pastries with gold leaf for breakfast? Or an intimate tête-à-tête with Linda Evangelista?

While those things do have all the Max Factor blingyness that I was expecting from Paris, let me start off by saying that the UNESCO headquarters building is such a hideous concrete monstrosity that it makes a Soviet polytechnic university in Albania look like a Loire château! Drop-tile ceilings with panels missing, water-damaged walls, blinding fluorescent lighting like a high-school cafeteria. Ugh! How can people working a building so hideous and banal make any kind of decisions about culture and heritage? At this rate we might as well house the United Nations in an airplane hanger too. UNESCO headquarters building, you are officially: Dead to Me!

Hideous modernist eyesores aside, my problems in Paris have been twofold. First, it's been much harder to make friends than I'd expected. French people generally tend to be reserved, so it's to be expected that it will take time. I was surprised, however, that the school does nothing for new students to meet each other. No frosh week or pub night, nothing. Doubly surprising since they make such a big deal about how 50% of the student body comes from other countries - yet everyone is left to fend for themselves. I'm starting to get to know people now, but for the most part its still just a 'say hi in the hallways' kind of friendship. It's hard being so far from the people you care about.

The second problem is the school itself. Although my school, ESIT, is regarded as one of the best translations schools in Europe (if not in the world), I have been rather shocked by the caliber of things so far. Teachers often cancel class or show up late. When professors do turn up, they often don't teach the subject, go off on tangents, contradict themselves, or each other. Staff are not able or not available to answer student questions, or don't know what's going on. And, most surprisingly, there is no schoolwork - just a final exam worth 100% of your mark! (WTF?) Also, in third year you have to write a thesis, which is something that I wanted to avoid at all costs and immediately discounted any school where this was a requirement (lucky for me ESIT failed to mention this small detail anywhere on their literature!).

I know now most of these things to be typical of French universities. Since it's practically free to go, they don't have any money to do anything properly, nor do they care. A rude awakening to be sure.

A further problem with the school is that I had to have a meeting with the programme director when I enrolled in my classes. She told me there was a concern that English wasn't good enough -this clearly didn't make sense to me, so over the course of several consultations and discussions the problem morphed into my Spanish not being good enough, then my French not being good enough, then back to Spanish, and now to both my Spanish and French not being good enough. (See what I mean about the school being disorganised?). Regardless of what the problem actually is, why wouldn't they have told me before I uprooted my whole life, quit my job and moved to a different continent?! So negligent and irresponsible!

The whole thing has left me very frustrated – and confused since my Spanish is clearly the best in the class. I have always been extremely sensitive about my French though. When I was younger, my French-Canadian mum put so much pressure on me to speak French. This made me intensely self-conscious of the fact that I didn't speak it properly, thus less likely to speak, resulting therefore in more pressure (and ultimately disappointment). –A downward spiral of franco-badness really. While I would say my French is neither the best nor the worst in class, this situation has really played into all my worst fears that my French, in fact, is not good enough after all. Très déprimant.

Wonderland’s latest attraction

I apologise for the dearth of postification on the blog this past while — I’ve been riding the pre-departure emotional rollercoaster through Anxietyville and Frustrationland with stops at Apprehension-Depression-Confusion, Self-Doubt Junction and Avoidance Square.

After all the problems I had being able to get in touch with anyone in France , I was so excited two Wednesdays ago when I got home and the package was finally sitting in my mailbox. That Kodak moment came to a rapid conclusion when I actually opened the envelope and realised that it contained more problems and no answers. My admissions letter said that I was accepted into the prep year programme (not the Masters programme). Was it a mistake? Was it because my score wasn’t high enough? In typical French fashion there was no explanation and no information given. –And off we go on the emotional rollercoaster… This meant more hair-pulling and 4AM wake-ups to call numbers in France that no one would answer.

The prep year programme adds another year to the whole process, and while three years in Paris might not seem like such a bad thing à la vision of Carrie Bradshaw, it means three more years of not making money and three more years of living away from home (added on to my four years in Tokyo making for a big chunk of time far from family and friends).

Then a few days after that mini-calamity I got my notice of assessment from OSAP. I was granted a wonderful 652$. Gee thanks government of Ontario, what the hell am I supposed to do with that — rent out a post office box and live in there?! How am I meant to finance my higher education if I you haven't given me enough money to even get to the same continent as the school, much less pay for tuition, food, books, rent, insurance, etc?

Problems on top of fiascos on top of crises and I kind of reached a freak-out breaking point. If even one thing, just one, could go right with this whole process I would feel much better about leaving. Instead I'm presented with an endless quagmire of problems sucking me down and am constantly forced to reassess my committment to this whole operation.

—Eventually I was able to get in touch with someone in France by email who confirmed that I was not admitted into the Masters programme — almost no one is. Out of a couple hundred applicants, she said that only four people passed directly into the Masters programme (which is a small comfort, but still leaves me with an extra year away). Rather frustrating to be finding this out just now since it is too late to apply to any Canadian university for the fall. It makes me a year behind anyway you slice it.

So I thought about what to do. And thought and thought and thought. As I turned over every facet and option and obcessed over every detail I came to the realisation that I am sort of on a one-way street at this point. I'm not going to stay at my job a minute longer than I have to, it's too late to apply for school here, and what the hell else am I going to do? –So I guess that means I'm still going and I guess I'm pretty okay about it.

Fretful Frenchie Frustration

After being accepted to school in Paris in May, I was told I would be receiving a information package in the mail in June with all the necessary info about the school and moving to France. So I waited and I waited and I waited (because it's only uprooting my whole life and moving to a different continent, so I'm sure the less time I have, the easier it will be to: find an apartment, buy a plane ticket, arrange my student visa, move my stuff, get insurance, etc.).

Why did I keep waiting so long, you might ask? Why not just send them an email or call the school? Great idea — only they don't answer emails and they only take calls between ten and twelve, Monday, Wednesday and Friday (which is three to five a.m. Toronto time). This Wednesday I decided that I had waited patiently long enough and it was time to suck it up and set my alarm for the evil hours of the morning. Three A.M. shrieks from my alarm clock and I grumble out of bed to call the school. And it rings. And it rings. And it rings and rings and rings and no one answers! I set my alarm for 20 minutes later, half-slept and tried to call again – and again there was no answer! Alarm after alarm, more tossing and turning, and more not-answering-of-the-telephone. So frustrating!

And again this morning; alarms, grumbling, ringing & not-answering! AAAaargh! How does anything ever get done in France!? I should be looking at this experience a kind of birth by fire since I'm going to have to get used to these kind of lovely peculiarities of French living – but still, I need to get this package like, yesterday! I'm giving the school one more chance on Monday before calling in the big guns at the Canadian Embassy in Paris and the French Consulate in Toronto to see if they can help me at all.

Let's all keep our doits croisés for me.

Happy Canada Day!