Pablo in Paris

Accepted!

2011-05-30T10:18:00.001-07:00

Today at approximately 3:45PM I received an e-mail from the Japanese Embassy in Trinidad which started off with the words that I have waited for months upon months to hear:

"...it is our great pleasure to announce that you have been accepted as a participant for the 2011 JET Programme."

So there you go folks - I'm in! Which means that just shy of four months from now I will be far away from my sunny Caribbean homeland and would have been transplanted to Japanese soil. Can you believe it? Don't worry, neither can I.

Please stay tuned, there is so much more to come! And a brand new blog to go with it!

http://gaijinpablo.blogspot.com/

Pablo

Parlez-vous francais? (part II)

2010-12-30T07:19:00.000-08:00

Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm.

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Let's take it back. Three years back.

It is my first time in Paris. I am sitting in a chilly classroom in Université Paris IX, a thin black scarf is wrapped around my neck; it is my vain effort to conform to Parisian fashion. I am surrounded by a handful of foreign exchange students from a handful of different countries. We are all here for the same thing, and we are all waiting.

A sharp clicking sound begins to echo down the hallway; louder, and louder, and louder. Our hearts beat just a little bit faster because, as every student knows, the first day of class is always a little trying on the nerves. Suddenly the door swings open and we are greeted with a resounding “Bonjour!” and a theatrical sweep of the arms. A bold, elegant, middle aged woman clad in a typical Parisian black winter coat bursts into the room and does what can only be described as a bow. Her name is Madame Gouverich and she is to be our phonetics professor for the next semester.

"Learning another language," says Madame Gouverich as she begins her opening monologue, “is nothing short of an existential quest; a journey into the very heart of our perception of reality."

I was in love with the class already.

“When you aspire to learn another language, students, you are agreeing to become an actor; a professional actor. In this class, you will not be a foreigner trying to speak French. You will be a French speaker foreigner. You will no longer try to speak French. You will speak French. C'est compris?”

She was a wonderfully eccentric woman, Madame Gouverich, the sort of teacher who never gave out an e-mail, but instead gave us her home address and asked us to contact her by hand written letter. I remember her having wild hair which was unusual for a Parisian woman. She also had a beaming, infectious smile, another Parisian anomaly.

What I really loved about the class though was that every session was dedicated to a sound. Just one sound. Can you imagine that? I loved the attention and care which was given to each delicate part of the language, and we saw that all these details eventually strung together in the end and helped us to imitate the whispery fluency of our Francophone counterparts.

Every sound was important. Each rise and fall in the sentence took on meaning and helped us to break down the immense language barrier that Parisians have constructed against foreigners trying to speak their language. I liked the way that nothing was left to hazard. We would spend whole afternoons discussing the R sound, which tickled the throat ever so slightly and was nothing like the English R which floated strangely in the middle of the mouth, or the aggressive Spanish R that rolled off the tip of the tongue. We would also recite poems to help us master the liaison; that peculiar French oddity where sentences are married together with melding sounds.

In many ways I felt that it was the most helpful French class that I had ever taken, because it treated the language delicately and with respect; it is the way, I came to understand, that French needs to be treated if it is to be spoken correctly.

The other thing that made the class so enjoyable was the contagious passion that emanated from Madame Gouverich. She was on fire with a love of language that was impossible to resist. Passionate people have a way of inspiring others. If the flame burns bright enough the spark is sure to catch others on fire and this was certainly the case with Madame.

Madame Gouverich really opened my eyes and showed me that speaking another language is more than memorizing dry grammar and vocabulary - it is about acting; it is about building a totally different persona; and it is about coming to understand your very own language in the process. I have learnt so much about English by studying French.

So remember that when you are learning another language that it is important to study native speakers. Watch how they act. Enter into their world. Observe their hand gestures, their facial expressions, and their intonations. See the world through a different perspective and don’t worry that you can’t do it, learning a language is as natural as eating and breathing.

Don’t forget that you are not just translating yourself from one language to another, but are in fact creating an entirely new version of yourself. It is a thrilling and immensely revealing process and I highly recommend that you give it a try.

It is also a whole lot of fun, which is always a good reason to do something, right?

- written on November 19, 2009, a Thursday.

Back to the island

2010-05-17T18:14:00.000-07:00

My Parisian journey has come to an end. I am now back on the island of Trinidad and Tobago, and have no idea what my next step will be. Thank you so much for taking the time to follow my journey in France. If you wish, you may check out the new blog that I have created to document my impressions of my homeland.

Here is the link:
Pablo on the Island

Much love and happy reading,

Pablo

A First of Many Goodbyes (Poem)

2010-04-30T08:08:00.000-07:00

We came in late October,

When your sun was beginning to soften her face, and

When your winds were beginning to blow in from the North.

Your arms were not stretched out then,

But neither were they crossed.

We came and we sat for a while,

On wooden chairs, and stony paths,

On bridges that lay beside grumbling waters, and in

The trains that snaked their way through your belly.

You did not try to prove yourself.

We were the ones who had to show that we belonged,

If only for a while.

Then the wheel turned, and tipped, and

Now we stand near the end.

Like lizards now, battered from those frozen months,

We lie in your grass, and make sure that we

Take some of your sun back with us.
To show the folks back home, of course.
All those questions of belonging have died now,
Leaving us at peace with our stories, and our photos.
What we hear now are voices over voices, and

The hushed sound of new trees.

Month after month

Our ears were tickled with accents from distant lands,

Not so distant any more, and
Month after month,
We wanted you to let us dance to your music.

But the old drums are beating louder now, and the waves

Have made their way over the waves
From those places that we left behind.

Au revoir, we must now say, for

It seems to me that one seriously needs

To consider returning home,

When one has acquired the habit

Of drinking coffee from a bowl.

Sex in Schools, Facebook, and a Dose of Good Old Fashioned Caribbean Homophobia.

2010-04-28T03:36:00.000-07:00

Front page of yesterday's Trinidad Guardian: Two fourteen year old students attending an all male school in Trinidad and Tobago made a video of themselves engaging in sexual acts while wearing their uniforms in their school's bathroom. The video was somehow leaked on to the internet, and the boys have subsequently been suspended.

Now, I have a few things to say about this situation.

First of all, why is this in the papers in the first place?

To me, this is a private disciplinary issue and should have been kept between the students, the teachers, and the parents. This has nothing to do with anybody else. Obviously, engaging in sexual activities of any kind (gay or straight) on a school premises is wrong, very wrong, and strict disciplinary action should be taken here, especially when you take their young age into consideration. Furthermore, these kids have clearly not been properly educated on the dangers of posting personal videos on the internet, and it highlights a major problem that will face the up and coming generation. Whatever you post on the internet is free game for the rest of the world and that is something that is going to have to be drilled in to the youth from a very young age.

However, and this is a big however, I believe that the incident itself was just the tip of the iceberg. What lies beneath this proverbial iceberg, in the murky waters of our national subconscious, is something that is much more disturbing.

You see, what truly frightens me about this situation, what is even more telling than what these boys have erroneously done, is the online wave of violent homophobic reactions that this video has spurred. Reactions that are mostly coming from the adolescent members of our society. There is one Facebook group in particular, called 'Na F.A.T.I.M.A. Yuh Cyah Be On Dat' that was created on Sunday night in response to the incident, and which has now ballooned to a frightening three thousand, nine hundred and eighty two members.

Did you get that?

3982 youths who have voluntarily chosen to adhere to a group which is spewing message after message filled with homophobic vile. The group's aim is to ridicule and humiliate the school where the incident took place as well as the students involved. Videos posted on the group's discussion board include such classic anti-gay anthems as Buju Banton's Boom Bye Bye, and Sizzla's Nah Apologize whose lyrics both explicitly promote the murdering of homosexuals.

I can't, however, say that I am surprised by the reaction of these youths. We are, after all, talking about a country whose current immigration laws still lump homosexuals and prostitutes in the same category of persons prohibited from entering the country. I mean, it's not like these archaic laws are ever enforced. I can't recall a single time when the laws were discussed (except for maybe when those dotish Tobago pastors wanted to ban Elton John from coming for the Jazz Festival, oh Lord that was embarrassing), but still, the fact that the laws haven't as yet been officially changed says quite a lot.

Read an extract for yourself if you don't believe me.

Trinidad Laws - Immigration Act

Prohibited Classes
8. (1) Except as provided in subsection (2), entry into
Trinidad and Tobago of the persons described in this subsection,
other than citizens and, subject to section 7(2), residents, is
prohibited, namely-

... (e) prostitutes, homosexuals or persons living on the

earnings of prostitutes or homosexuals, or persons

reasonably suspected as coming to Trinidad and

Tobago for these or any other immoral purposes;

Here every creed and race find a equal place?

No, papa, not with laws like that still in the books.

You see, the problem with Trinidad is that there is just too much that is swept under the carpet. There are too many dialogues that need to take place. An honest discussion about sex and sexuality is one of those things that need to happen if we really want to foster a spirit of tolerance in our island. I don't want to sound like I am condoning these boys' behaviour, because I am not. I just think honestly that the unleashing of strong anti-gay sentiments is a more pressing matter.

Perhaps it is my looming departure from tolerant Paris, back to my less tolerant Caribbean homeland that has me stressing about this.

Come on T & T, we better than this. I really cyah take all this hatred that bubbling beneath the surface.

Time for a little positive vibes from Tanya Stephens. Big up to Tanya for promoting understanding and tolerance in a dancehall music industy flooded with bigotry and hatred. Please take some time to listen to the lyrics.

Read the article HERE

Find the current Immigration Act for Trinidad and Tobago HERE. Read the section on Prohibited Classes for a good laugh.

Lalin Bel Revisited

2010-03-24T12:17:00.000-07:00

Bonjour mes chers lectures et lectrices,

Today I would like to present you with a reading of one of my poems, entitled Lalin Bel, read in Trinidadian French Patois, one of my island's lesser known languages.

All of the photos in the video are original except for the first one which I stole from some unsuspecting soul on the world wide web. Please forgive me.

I also hope that if any native Kweyol speakers stumble across this post that they would forgive my mauvay pronunciation. I still have much to learn.

Thanks go out to Marvel Henry for the translation.

Enjoy

First Sense - Hearing/L'Ouie

2010-03-21T04:39:00.000-07:00

Bonjour a tous.

Merde, I have abandoned this poor blog for way too long.

So here I am, once again, staring at the foreboding blank screen and trying to battle my inner demons of laziness and resistance. It is a difficult battle, but I think that on this fine Sunday morning the inner spark of creativity, that desire to create which pulses inside all of us, is finally going to burn through my feelings of resistance and allow some sort of creative juices to flow once again.

I am still, however, not really in the mood to filter through my thoughts and chip away at my writing in an attempt to make it clearer. So today I present you with something which was scribbled in my notebook sometime in the not too distant past. It is unfiltered and unedited (for the most part :p) and it is my way to ease back into this blog.

Enjoy.

Those early years in France...marked a crucial period of transformation in which I found my true calling...and experienced a profound awakening of the senses...

- Julia Child

An Awakening of the Senses

Sense #1 - Hearing

Peaceful sounds, familiar sounds. The silence of the snow. My ears are fine tuned here. Yuh hadda look fuh de music boy, yuh hadda find ah way tuh catch de words. How do they sound? Is that how it sounds? Always trying to tune in to the subtilities and the nuances. I listen. I eavesdrop. I listen to the world go by. I maco. I have become a macoer. Je maco, tu macoes, il maco...

Slam the apartment door behind me. Walk. Walk and think, and keep on moving forward.

Miniature cars scoot by, children chatter excitedly to their parents, and old people click their canes against the pavement. Grumbling stomach. Sometimes other people can hear that sound. I think. Sometimes it stays trapped inside. Silence gives way to the daily drama at the bakery. Orders are shouted out with precision. No time to linger here. The sound of bread cracking, and fingers tapping on glass displays filled with sugary goodies.

In the train station.

So much time spent on the train. Hours spent zooming underneath the city surrounded by thousands of silent commuters. The endless throng of street musicians. I know them by heart now. Accordionists who all play the same songs. Beggars clothed in dark veils who kneel on the ground with hands outstretched, and eyes turned toward the ground. Their trembling hands speak a language that everyone can understand.

On the train. Loud buzzing means that the doors will close. Pardon. Excusez-moi. Pardon. A voice echoes from the ceiling, announcing the next destination. She says it twice, her voice calm and whispery. It is she who has taught me how to pronounce these names. Chatou-Croissy, Rueil Malmaison, Nanterre Ville, Nanterre Universite, Nanterre Prefecture, La Defense, Charles de Gaulle Etoile, Auber,

Chatlet les Halles. People spill out of the train here. The doors open and spit out a mass of humanity, all clothed in black, who click their way across the platform. It's so noisy here. The biggest and busiest metro station in all of Europe.

New train. Same voice. Saint Michel Notre Dame, Luxembourg, Port Royal, Denfert Rochereau, Cite Universite, Bourg la Reine, La Croix de Berny, Antony, Correspondence pour l'aeroport d'Orly, Correspondencia para ir al aeropuerto de Orly, Change here for Orly Aeroport, Attention, ce train est en direction de Saint Remy les Chevreuse, il desservira toutes les gares, merci, Massy Palaiseau, Palaiseau,

Palaiseau Villebon.

Ah reach. Walk down the street, boots and sneakers banging on the street. They walk heavily. Teenagers. Adolescents. Pass in front of the lycee. The sounds of teenage French. An angry, rebellious sounding French, words twisted and placed upside down so adults, and foreigners, can't understand them. Femme becomes meuf, and musique is zicmu They win. I can't understand most of it.

I am starting to feel a cut above the tourists. I can understand some of the French that these teens are speaking. I belong here more than the tourists, don't I? Integration is a long process. Who am I kidding? I can't understand a word of it.

Memories of the City.

Just walk and think. Walking would be a lot quieter without thinking.

The brown Seine gurgles beneath us. The Notre Dame. Organs, echoes, prayers, familiar and fading childhood beliefs, snapping of cameras, a thousand different languages. Confession. You have the choice between English, Francais, and Italiano with Fr. Cicero, and Francais, and Espanol with Fr. Amblard. They sit in soundproof glass boxes. Only the confessors know what thier voices sound like.

The Train. Always on the train. The train is silent during the morning. Faint sound of rustling papers. So many people read on the train here. Think back to New York where everyone had an ipod, immersed in their own noisy world. Here people are immersed in their own worlds of silence. Time to think. The train, usuallty quiet in the morning, wakes up at night. Tongues loosened by liquour.

Cafes. Watch the world go by. Stare at strangers right in the eye, it's ok. Listen to the world move. Big city. The endless sounds of movement, of talking. Big city. Quiet city.

New York.

Remember that?

There was an endless roar in New York. A roar that wakes you up and makes you feel alive. Actors and musicians flock to New York. They always have. They need this roar to inspire them, to shake them out of the daily humdrum. Why compare Paris to New York? It's more difficult to compare this city to my island, I suppose. We live a more insular existence there. A world apart.

What am I trying to say?

Writers flock to Paris. They always have.

Things are slower here. Thicker.

There is time to think.

Un petit morceau de musique, pourquoi pas?

2010-02-22T12:53:00.000-08:00

Reason to learn French #124

You will be able to understand beautiful French music (The English translation below surely does not do it justice).

No! Nothing at all!
No! I regret nothing!
Neither the good, nor the bad,
It's all the same to me.

No! Nothing at all!
No! I regret nothing!
It's been payed for, swept away, forgotten,
I don't give a damn about the past!

My memories,
I've burnt them all,
My sorrows, my pleasures,
I don't need them anymore.

My love affairs, with the tremblings they caused,
I've swept them away forever,
I'm starting from scratch!

No! Nothing at all!

No! I regret nothing!

Neither the good, nor the bad,

It's all the same to me.

For my life, my joys,

Today, they start with you!

Me.Writing.

2010-02-21T02:37:00.000-08:00

Me. Writing.
Blank page. Pen. Tea with three sugars. Mahogany desk by the window. Faint smell of fresh, cheap varnish, and white tiles mopped with bleach. Chair facing the door, then the window, then the door. Orange sun beaming though the blinds. Room tinted with a pale, yellow glow. Sepia effect. Like an old, dusty photograph. Beautiful. Beautiful but blinding. Blinds pulled. Quiet room. Blank page. Stare at the walls. The bare, white walls. Bare. Boring. Blank. Take some tea. Wait. Look at the tea. Hot tea. Hot, thin smoke slithering out of the cup. Dances for a second, stretches out like a yawning spider web, and then swirls into nothingness. Touch the cup. Hot. Hot, sharp, piercing heat. Brief, needling pain. Heart beat picks up for a moment, starts to rat-tat-tat-tat-tat, and then slows. Falls to a heavy thump, thump, thump, thump. Sip the tea....

Read the rest of the story in the latest issue of Tongues of the Ocean, an online literary journal which is based in the Bahamas and focuses on Caribbean prose and poetry.

Ramblings of a linguistically inclined nerd...

2010-02-11T12:36:00.000-08:00

The Music of Mankind

If you would humour me, dear reader, I would just like to take a moment to let my inner linguistic nerd run free.

You see one of my favorite hobbies is studying foreign languages. Always has been. That's why sometimes I do really geeky things like listen to radio broadcasts in languages that I don't understand just so I can hear what they sound like. Just to get a feel for the music of the language, you know? I do this because while the ideas that each language tries to express are the same, the music and the melody are always different.

A piano and a recorder can both play the same notes but they sure as heck don't sound the same. Get what I'm saying?

First of all I want to share a clip of spoken Cymraeg. I used to think French was the most beautiful language in the world until I stumbled upon this baby. The Welsh language. A language whose existence I was totally ignorant of until not too long ago.

I first heard it spoken while I was on a bus in London, traveling from Gatwick to Heathrow to catch my connection to Paris. Out of sheer boredom, and probably because I don't own an Ipod, I was spending my bus ride macoing ('eavesdropping' for you non-Trinis) the elderly couple in front of me, who were having a heated conversation about what they were going to have for dinner.

I think I had originally tuned in to their conversation because I had thought that they too were from Trinidad, their accent being surprisingly similar to our own. Half way through their discussion, however, they suddenly switched over to a strange and mysterious sounding tongue. Something whimsical and melodic that I had never heard before. I was blown away. It was by far the coolest sounding language that I had ever heard. It sounded like something straight out of a Tolkien novel; something that should be spoken by elves! (Hey, I warned you I was going to let my inner nerd run free)

I now know that what they were speaking is Welsh. An ancient Celtic language and one that was born in a goddess worshipping, matriarchal pagan society. A language that was spoken by an ancient people who lived their lives in tune with the cycles of the world. You can kind of sense that ancient pagan connection when you listen to it, can't you?

If there was ever a language that I would learn for the sole reason that it sounded beautiful, this would definitely be it.

Please take a moment to let the music of it wash over you.

This next video is a clip of a South African tour guide speaking in the Xhosa language. Xhosa is one of South Africa's eleven official languages (Nelson Mandela's native tongue) and is one of the few languages in the world to make use of that strange 'clickng' sound. I just think that it sounds so insanely cool. Hynotising almost.

In the clip, a South African tour guide is giving an example of a tongue-twister that Xhosa children learn to pronounce the clicks properly.

If you think Chinese seems like a hard language to pronounce just wait till you hear this!

Then there's good old Spanish. I sort of have of still have a love/hate relationship with this language. Maybe it's because my first ever Spanish teacher gave me the impressively low score of 23% for my final exam in form 1 (That b**ch). Or maybe it's because Spanish can just so sound so harsh sometimes. Hey, I'm sure you must have heard somebody get cussed out in espanol before. Not a pretty sight. Having a suite mate blasting reggaeton 24/7 in freshman year in college didn't really help my impression of the language either.

But, oh, Spanish can be so magnificent sometimes. When spoken well, Spanish comes very close to being one of the most passionate and charming languages on this planet. The rolling R's and the pulsing rhythm weave together to capture the vibrance and the passion of Spanish speaking people everywhere. There's also the music. Man, I swear, listening to music by Julio Iglesias, Rocio Durcal, or the Gipsy Kings is enough to make anyone want to open up their old 'Viva' textbooks and start brushing up on their espanol.

Ooh yes and there are the poets and the writers too. Reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Pablo Neruda in English was one of the main reasons that I started back studying Spanish (I could only imagine how much better they are in the original language).

This is one of my all time favorite poems (subtitled in English and French). I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Well I think that's enough linguistic geekiness for one day. Catch you guys later.

Reflections on the Program II - Bonjour Laziness

2010-02-02T04:25:00.000-08:00

The Ten Commandments for the Idle

You are a modern day slave. There is no scope for personal fulfillment. You work for your pay-check at the end of the month, full stop.
It's pointless to try to change the system. Opposing it simply makes it stronger.
What you do is pointless. You can be replaced from one day to the next by any cretin sitting next to you. So work as little as possible and spend time (not too much, if you can help it) cultivating your personal network so that you're untouchable when the next restructuring comes around.
You're not judged on merit, but whether you look and sound the part. Speak lots of leaden jargon: people will suspect you have an inside track.
Never accept a position of responsibility for any reason. You'll only work harder for what amounts to peanuts.
Make a beeline for the most useless positions (research, strategy, and business developments), where it is impossible to assess your 'contribution to the wealth of the firm'. Avoid 'on the ground' operational roles like the plague.
Once you've found one of these 'plum jobs', never move. It is only the most exposed who get fired.
Learn to identify kindred spirits who, like you, believe the system is absurd through discreet signs (quirks in clothing, peculiar jokes, warm smiles).
Be nice to people on short-term contracts. They are the only people who do any real work.
Tell yourself that the absurd ideology underpinning this corporate bullshit cannot last forever. It will go the same way as the dialectical materialism of the communist system. The problem is knowing when...

The commandments above are taken from a French bestseller called Bonjour Paresse (Hello Laziness), which caused quite the stir when it was released in 2004. The book, written by Corinne Maier (a young, disillusioned ex-corporate star), is an entertaining critique of the French corporate system and of the absurdity of the corporate world in general.

I stumbled across the commandments yesterday morning on the train while reading one of those free metro papers. The weather was particularly beautiful, the temperature surprisingly warm, and I was in an all round fabulous mood. Remembering the old adage 'be grateful when you're feeling good, and graceful when you're feeling bad', I thought that it was probably a good a time as ever to pull out the old notebook and start scribbling down some of my mid-point reflections on the assistantship program. The article had tweaked my interest and seemed to speak to me on a very personal level. I felt like I should share it on my blog.

Now any one who knows me knows that I have always been slightly weary of the corporate world. Not in an extreme anarchist, death to capitalism, let's all be hippies again kind of way, but just in a, 'umm that's not really what I want to do with my life' kind of way. I don't know, it's just that the idea of spending my life working for a corporation whose sole goal is to convince people to buy crap that they really don't need just never really sat well with me. A couple of 9-5 cubicle jobs only helped to reinforce this feeling of mistrust.

It seemed like most of what I was doing in these big companies was just a big waste of time. True talks.

Anyways, that slight feeling of rebelliousness (if that's what you want to call it) is probably the main reason why I now find myself twenty four years old, university degree in pocket, singing nursery rhymes for twelve hours a week, and feeling much the happier for it. I don't know what system will eventually replace capitalism but I don't see how this sort of heartless system could go on forever.

Listen peeps, I'm not going to beat around the bush, I only officially work for twelve hours a week (not including time spent giving private lessons), and I feel like this is the most productive I have been in my short lived professional life. Surely that says something. Or then again, maybe it's just me...

Anyways I'm not trying to push people's buttons here. All I'm saying, is that for those who are interested, I think I have discovered one way to escape this system, this so called 'real world' (yeah, right) at least for a while. Like me, you can 'escape' through programs such as the French assistantship, and the JET program (the Japanese version of what I am doing). Clearly this sort of program is not for everyone, but for those of you who are now starting off your careers and are looking to travel, I highly, highly recommend that you give them a look.

JET Program - http://www.jetprogramme.org/

French Assistantship - http://www.ciep.fr/en/assistantetr/

Other opportunities to teach English abroad - http://www.transitionsabroad.com/listings/work/esl/index.shtml

A plus!

Pardon my Patois

2010-01-24T13:51:00.000-08:00

Patwa? Sa sa ye?

Patois? What is that?

They say you have to study another language in order to truly understand your native tongue, and that you have to leave your home if you really want to understand the place that you come from. Living in France and learning French is helping me to understand both of these truths. I am slowly coming to realize that the English language is a tricky beast, with many traps and inconsistencies, and that my land of birth is a very complicated island indeed.

On a linguistic level, Trinidad seems to make sense at first glance. Former British colony and member of the commonwealth. Trinidadians, therefore, must speak English, right?

Well, yes and no.

Yes, we can, and do speak standard English, (with our distinct Trinidadian accent of course) but no, the story doesn't end there. A closer look into our history and you would realize that Trinis, and their language(s), are more complicated than they seem.

You see, we may be a small island, but we are populated with the descendants of people originating from many far away lands. First peopled with Arawak and Carib Amerindian tribes, then 'discovered' by the Spanish, populated by the French, and finally controlled by the British. Not to mention the addition of Indians, Chinese, Syrians, Lebanese, and Portuguese later on in the game.

Now, if that's not a recipe for a modern day Tower of Babel then I don't know what is.

Despite the wretched circumstances of Trinidad's second creation, some very special things have happened, and out of this terrible, messy history of colonialism, some truly beautiful things have managed to evolve.

One of which is the language.

You see most Trinis, even if they aren't aware of it, grow up speaking two very distinct forms of English. The first being the standard 'Queen's English', taught in schools and used for all official purposes, and the second being our colorful local dialect, which is how the majority of Trinidadians communicate with one another. The dialect is a fluid, changing thing, which differs from region to region, and is influenced by one's socio-economic status, mood, and level of education. All Trinis, however, use this dialect to various degrees, and I am led to believe that it is this same dialect, and not standard English, that unites us.

Aside from our melodic English dialect, Trinidad is home to another major language that was spoken fluently, right up until the beginning of the 20th century, by almost all of her children. This language is Trinidadian French Creole, or Patois as it is more commonly known. A language that was born in the hot fields of the French colonies through the contact between the slaves, speaking various African languages, and the colonists.

The language flourished for a good hundred years or so in Trinidad until the Brits went on a campaign to erase it, simply dismissing it as broken French. The language, however, was able to hold its ground, and it's remnants can still be seen in the names, and pronunciation, of certain towns: Blanchicheusse, Sans Souci, Champs Fleurs, Petit Valley, and also lives on in our local dialect.

Most Trinis speak a few words of Patois without even realizing it as many Creole words have been absorbed into modern day Trini parlance. Most Trinis probably don't know they are speaking the language when they refer to a gossip as a mauvay langue, or when they call a lizard a zandoli, and an avocado a zaboca. All of our folklore characters have Patois names as well such as Papa Bois (the guardian of the forest), Ladiablesse (A devil woman with a cloven foot who lures men out into the canefields), and Ligahoo ( the werewolf ).

Ou ka pale patwa?

Can you speak Patois?

Oh how I wish I could. Unfortunately, there are very few people nowadays who can still speak the language fluently. Most of these speakers live in a village called Paramin nestled in the lush Northen Range of the island. I have also heard that there are many smaller Patois speaking communities sprinkled throughout various rural fishing villagers in Trinidad. I, however, have never had the pleasure of meeting a native speaker, and thought that there was no possible way to learn the language.

That was, however , until I stumbled across a Facebook group called Annou Pale Patwa. It is a group which is organized by various Patois speakers and enthusiasts from both Trinidad and other Patois speaking countries, and whose goal is to preserve, promote, and teach the Patois language. It is a true wealth of information on the language and on the movement to revive the language. A revival which I back 100% because, when it comes to learning languages, my theory is the more the merrier.

I don't know why, but I have seriously caught the Patois bug. I just love how it sounds, and really want to learn more about it. Think I will ever learn to speak it? Care to join me on my journey?

Ale, annou pale patwa!
Come on, let's speak Patois!
-----

Here is an example of a Calypso which has both English and Patois. It tells an entertaining story about a lady who comes from Dominica to Trinidad to play Carnival but can't find the money to buy a costume. The Calypsonian, Sparrow, agrees to pay for her costume if she agrees to, erm, grant him some, erm, favours in bed. She agrees to the deal but upon seeing his, erm, well upon seeing his ding-a-ling, she proceeds to scream out a litany of patois phrases which all reference the, well, the magnitude of Sparrow's endowment.

"Sa sa yea?" What is that?
"Sa sa yea Bonje? Lord what is that?
"Misye ou ka tjoue mwen" Sir, you going to kill me
"Bagay-sala ka fe mwen mal" That thing hurting me too much,
"Epi ou nomn trouvay yon bagay kom sa" Where did that man find a thing like that?
"Bonje!" Oh Lord!

And here's one more for the road. It's a short documentary about the French Creole spoken in Paramin with interviews of some of the village elders who speak the language fluently. Enjoy.

Trinidad French Creole (link)

Lalin Bel (The Moon is Beautiful)

2010-01-20T14:04:00.000-08:00

Lalin Bel

Watch her.

Watch how she hangs

In the eastern sky.

Watch how she sits coldly,

And quietly,

On the frosted window sill.

Look at her and know

That you are no longer looking out

Toward the cold, grumbling river

Of the so called old world,

But that you are now seeing reflections

From wilder waters.

Lalin Bel

It is she who holds the memories of the

Warm, rough seas that beat against

A rugged island.

Do you remember?

Do you remember when she

First came out of the sea?

Remember how she pushed

Her milky head out of the

Pitch lake ocean,

And how she sat on the water’s edge?

The fiery stars were there too,

Brushed across the inky dome

Like glittering sand.

Now,

Look.

Watch how she covers her face

With wispy, frosted clouds.

Watch how she hides herself in shame.

Lalin Bel

They too bathed in the pitch lake sea,

And they too made fires burn bright

On the cool, starry sand.

Do you remember?

Do you remember the pearls in the sky

And the pearls in their eyes?

Do you remember

The sound of the bats

Flapping in the shady trees

And the squeaking of their feet

On the cool powdery shores?

Lalin Bel

Please,

Zanmi mwen,

Tell me that you remember.

Tell me that you remember the cracking

And the popping of the

dry coconut husks.

Remember,

The thick ashy smoke

That flushed the buzzing mosquitos

Out of the houses.

The driftwood that went up in flames

of deep reds, and yellows,

And blues.

Lalin Bel

Remember how they woke the next morning,

Remember how the sun was harsh and

How it burnt their eyes.

Remember how the fires had burnt down to ash and how

The sea had carried away their castles.

Now,

It is only shadows that dance

On the chip-chipped shore.

Now,

The rough sea

Swallows the stars.

And now,

The wind skims lightly

Over the ocean’s oily face.

----

Their laughter was pure that night,

But it was swept away

By the breeze.

Wi,
Zanmi mwen,

Lalin bel, bel, bel.

Sleepy Sunday Reflections

2010-01-17T13:40:00.000-08:00

Sunday. The red and blue train snakes its way back to the town in the distance, its echoes slowly fading from a booming roar into a far away hum. It was the same train that brought me to this garden. The hill rolls down from the park into a stretch of cozy looking French houses and eventually sweeps under the impressive skyscrapers of La Defense, Paris' financial district. Seemingly planted on the horizon, the spiny Eiffel Tower scratches the bottom of a thick, rippled cloud.

I can hear the joyful sounds of families enjoying a peaceful Sunday afternoon behind me. Footballs are being kicked, picnic baskets are being opening, and children are squealing with laughter. There are so many elderly couples here. Couples that have spent a lifetime together, that have seen each other grow old and ugly, and that still walk hand in hand, happily enjoying the last seasons of their lives. I am leaning on a long stretch of metal railing that borders the park at St. Germain en Laye, a lovely town just a short train ride away from my cottage. I came here to walk, to relax, and to reflect.

The town is bustling with life. It is one of those days when the world seems to open up before you, and everything seems fresh and new again. One of those days when that spiritual feeling of awe begins to stir in your chest.

The world truly is a mysterious place.

The unusually warm weather is a wonderful mood lifter. Looking up, I see that the curved sky is painted with deep blues of many different hues . The colours are more vibrant than usual. Soon the sun will set and the blue sky will melt away and the true magnitude of the cosmos will be revealed. I take a deep breath of cool air, and I am grateful. There is nowhere else I need be. There is nothing more that I need.

I am alive.

-----

They catch you off guard sometimes. Just when you think that you are beginning to dangle dangerously close to having a nervous breakdown. Just when you think that nobody is listening to you, that you have lost all control of the class, and that no one appreciates your presence, one of them goes and does something kind and unexpected.

A new year's gift. I really wasn't expecting this. I am touched by the attention to detail; the Trini flag that was pasted on the envelope, the festive red bow, and by the card written in perfect English. Moments like this give you the strength to continue.

This gift came from one of my eight year old students. By the time that she reaches my present age, I will be forty years old. A dizzying thought. Working in a primary school puts you face to face with the new generation. You get to experience their boundless energy, and their pure, innocent zest for life.

Halfway across the dark Atlantic ocean, however, there are thousands of children who will not be alive to see the dawn of the new decade.

------

Tears in Ayiti.

The Earth shook herself for thirty seconds and now an entire city lies in ruins. More reminders of our fragile we are, of how quickly things can change for the worse. This one really hit close to home. Imagine, a little bit further south and it would have been Port-of-Spain, and not Port-au-Prince, crumbling on every major international news station. Those would have been my family and friends, and perhaps myself, trapped underneath those concrete buildings.

My heart is aching for these people. This is our neighbourhood, and these are our neighbours that are suffering.

How much can one people take? These are the descendants of warriors. Warriors who bravely wrestled their freedom back from their oppressor's hands, and now they have been dealt yet another cruel blow. It is hard to make sense of tragedy. Impossible, perhaps. The 'whys' and the 'what ifs' are endless.

There is nothing we can do but open our hearts; to help however we can, and to give whatever we can, freely, and with hearts full of compassion. This could easily have happened to us.

There is nothing else that I can say.

Parlez-vous français? (Part I)

2010-01-10T04:08:00.000-08:00

So you want to learn French, huh? You have visions of yourself sitting next to the gurgling Seine, with a book of 18th century French poetry nestled on your lap, as you whisper a chain of sweet nothingness-es into the ear of your new French lover. Or maybe you see yourself as your company's official interpreter, sitting in a crowded boardroom in Paris, filled with important looking men and women decked out in expensive business wear, and dazzling your French speaking clients with your linguistic prowess.

Whatever your motivation, you are about to embark on a thrilling adventure of intellectual and personal discovery. One that you may not quite be prepared for.

According to a recent survey by the U.S. State Departmenton foreign language learning, French is the second most studied foreign language in the United States and has been rated as a 'level I' language, meaning that, in theory, it should only take about 600 hours of classwork to achieve minimal proficiency. This can be compared to a 'level III' language like Mandarin Chinese, which is said to need at least 2200 hours of classroom study in order for a learner be considered 'minimally proficient'. French, therefore, should be a breeze, right?

Not so fast, my linguistically adventurous friend. For while this may be true for reading and writing the language, when it comes to parlez-vous-ing with the best of them, I'm afraid that it's just not that simple.

Heed my warning well: If you decide to study French, you're going to have to make up your mind to go all the way, because when it comes to speaking francais, being mediocre just isn't going to cut it.

With some languages these days, notably with English, the current lingua franca of our world, you can get by with being a casual speaker. No matter how bad your accent, or how terrible your grammar, the odds are that if you make the effort to speak in English, you will be responded to in English. When it comes to French, however, the prevalent attitude in these parts seems to be, speak my language well monsieur, or do not speak it at all.

Now, just to give you an idea of what sort of linguistic beast we are dealing with here, the French language is one whose every evolutionary step is monitored by a lofty, hoity-toity organization known as The Academie Francaise. An organization whose sole goal is to preserve the purity of la langue francaise and whose members refer to themselves as, and I kid you not, The Immortals. Dum, Dum Duuuum, (cue dramatic music). These are the guardians of the sophisticated French language who battle for its purity and who have vowed to fight till the bitter end to keep that pesky English language from diluting their beautiful tongue.

Quite frankly, if your French is crap, or to be more specific, if, despite whatever level of grammar you may possess, your French pronunciation and accent are crap, the Frenchies are going to either (a) ignore you completely or (b) speak to you in English, no matter how broken their English may be. It can be quite the disheartening experience when after years and years of study, nobody will grant you the pleasure of conversing with you in francais.

In a way, and maybe it's just the snob in me speaking, I don't really blame them for this attitude, because there is indeed something truly upsetting about hearing badly spoken French. I mean maybe I've just become immune to badly spoken English as it is the global norm nowadays, but hearing someone communicate in approximative English doesn't really bother me that much. Hearing French spoken with a bad accent, on the other hand, is akin to hearing the sound of a set of sharp nails scratching their way across a blackboard. Some languages just aren't meant to be butchered, I suppose.

But take heart! I am not saying that it is impossible to speak French well. Oh, no, no, I am just saying that it's, well, it's just a lot more difficult than it seems. But whoever said that anything worth aspiring to was easy, eh? Like most things in life, the rewards, and the immense feeling of personal satisfaction that come with progressing in the French language far outweigh the difficulties.

So if you've made up your mind that you want to parlez with the best of them, just make sure that you know what you're getting yourself into. Paris wasn't built in a day you know.

(to be continued)
---

Here is one of my favorite clips from the movie 'Paris je t'aime' which depicts, among other things, some of the things that I've been talking about. You get a feel for just how difficult it can be in the beginning when you take those first brave steps to converse with a local in French. Enjoy :)

Back to le grind

2010-01-05T14:39:00.001-08:00

Has it really been twenty-three days since my last entry?

Shame, shame, shame, shame, shame.

Shame.

Where did this sudden bout of laziness come from? After all, I had been doing so well, hadn’t I? Posting at least three times a week, checking in with my blog at least once a day to edit old posts, responding to comments, etc, etc. Ah, yes, but I tell you, the holidays sure have a way of making people lazy. That last day of work, when we step out of the office knowing that we have two glorious weeks of freedom in front of us has a way of making our brains go right into sleep mode, n’est-ce pas?

But nothing wrong with a little laziness every once in a while, right? After all what’s better than a little dose of far niente, a little bit of sweet purposelessness to get the old motor running on all cylinders again.

Yes, boy, vacation sure does wonders for the spirit.

Dear reader, let me tell you, two weeks spent between rainy Dublin and vibrant Madrid had lulled me into a sweet vacation stupor which succeeded in fully recharging my batteries. It was a glorious time in which I found myself hardly capable of much more than sleeping, eating, and relaxing. All with a little liming and sightseeing thrown in for good measure of course.

-----

All you need to do is hop on a plane for an hour, and the dizzying diversity of Europe opens up before you. In the time that it takes to watch two episodes of Friends back to back on a squinty airline television, you find yourself surrounded by a totally different people, culture, and language. It is this sort of thrilling disorienting experience that remind me why I signed up for the assistantship program in the first place.

-----

Dublin was everything that I heard it would be. Rainy, cold, and full of wonderfully warm and welcoming people. There was a real spirit of triumph in the city; a definite sense that these people had been through hell and had survived. There was a feeling of pride and patriotism that could be felt in the folk songs that were belted out by the locals in the pubs after a couple pints of Guinness. There were symbols of national identity and patriotism in the public signs that were all written in both English and Irish Gaelic, despite the fact that very few, if any, Dubliners speak this beautiful language of the old world as their mother tongue.

------

The airport is a confusing transitional stage. This is where one culture starts melting into another. Announcements belt through the PA system in languages which were born in different corners of the Earth. All you have to do is walk for five minutes and listen in on the conversations around you and you will find yourself washed over with accents and tongues from all over the world. Airports are neutral territory. This is where the citizens of the world gather and brush shoulders with one another.

------

Madrid was everything that I had hoped it would be. Beautiful, chaotic, and absolutely pulsing with life. The overcast Dublin skies gave way to a sky of pure blue that hung over the Spanish capital and seemed to reflect the joy and energy of the people buzzing about below in the old cobblestone streets. I wandered aimlessly for days around the markets, and parades, and festivals. I found myself much more daring with my Spanish than I had been with my French when I first came to Paris. I bargained with vendors, and made conversation with bartenders, while all the while stuffing myself into a stupor with Spanish tapas, cervezas, and cafe con leche. It is in this city that I wished goodbye to 2009, and welcomed in the New Year Spanish Style, surrounded by thousands of Madrilenos frantically swallowing grapes in the heart of the city.

------

But, alas, all holidays must come to an end, and I once again find myself confronting the complex labyrinth of cyberspace, battling writer’s block, and trying very hard to sweep the Christmas cobwebs from my brain.

Here’s to a wonderful 2010.

May we all do our best.

Reflections on the program.

2009-12-13T13:31:00.000-08:00

Time passes so strangely.

It is almost evening. The strange black birds with the white striped bellies are nesting quietly in the garden outside. I can hear them cooing softly. The train station in the distance is oddly silent today. The workers are on strike and the train will come only once every hour. The sky is grey and is covered with thick fluffy clouds. If I didn't know better I would think that they were pregnant with snow.

My thoughts, like the sky outside, are a little foggy today.

It's hard to believe that I've been in Paris for eighty three days already. Hard to believe that ninety three days ago I was sitting in a cubicle half way across the world and dreaming that I would soon be here. I had been planning this for so long, and le voila, here I am, one week before the holidays in my little cottage on the outskirts of Paris, and thinking of all that I have seen and experienced since I moved here.

I am feeling very grateful today.

If someone nearing the end of their college career were to ask me if I would recommend the assistantship program I would say, without a moment's hesitation, to go for it! Oui, I would recommend this program in a heartbeat. It really is an ideal opportunity for someone who loves to travel, has some sort of interest in teaching, and who wants to work on their own foreign language skills. Even if at the end you decide that teaching is not for you, I am sure that you will not regret coming. As a wise writer once said:

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

So send in your application, start brushing up on your francais, and come sing English songs to little French kiddies for seven months! Trust me, it sure beats trying to look productive for eight hours at a desk job. Having to minimize facebook compulsively in a cold, cramped cubicle is a lot more exhausting that being an English assistant.

One of the reasons that I think I am enjoying this so much is because I honestly believe that what I am doing is important. I don't know if I am being overly optimistic but I really think that I am helping to make a difference in these kids lives. Giving them a head start with a language which will no doubt be of great use to them when they get older. I can say that for one of the first times in my life, I feel like my talents are being used correctly, and it is a great feeling.

That's what it's all about isn't it? Trying different things, and different jobs until we find our place in this world. Every one of us needs to find what they are meant to be doing. There needs to be a sense that you are using your talents in the best way possible and it sure is nice to be part of something that you believe in.

I would love to see a program like this in my own country. Some sort of exchange program to bring over Spanish speaking students to the island to introduce our Trini children to the language. It might even help our government with their lofty plans to have a bilingual nation by the year 2020.

-----

Night has fallen, and the sky finally has cleared. I can see the sky so clearly tonight. There are no more clouds to hide the moon. The stars join together in our human imagination to form the big and little dippers, those two giant soup spoons that hang silently in the cosmos. Imagine I had to come all the way to France to see the stars. I wish I could see them from my house in Trinidad. But you see, where I come from the neighbour hood lights, blazing bright to catch the criminals, blind us from the beauty that hangs above. Thank God there are still places on the island that are dark, and wild, and beautiful. Places where we can still see the stars, and where we can still dream.

My thoughts are still dancing all over the place, and my bed is beginning to call out to me.

Good night world.

Pic of the day - Stew Chicken!

2009-12-09T12:17:00.000-08:00

Enfin!

It may have taken me twenty four years to finally attempt it. The magic may have happened 4450 miles away from the homeland. But you will be happy to know that I have finally, finally managed to make a decent tasting (Trinidadian) stew chicken! Hooray! Well, to be completely honest it was actually a curry-stew of sorts. But de ting taste damn good so that's all that really matters, right? I ate it with some yummy sauteed potatoes and some French style caramelized carrots. You can check out the recipe that I used by clicking on the link below.

http://caribbeanpot.com/curry-stew-chicken-that-will-leave-your-family-asking-for-seconds/

Obscure French Signs III

2009-12-08T12:05:00.000-08:00

Found this one on the train.

Hmmmm...

A Day in the Life

2009-12-07T04:24:00.001-08:00

7:45AM

Just crawled out of bed. I had very ambitiously set my alarm for the crack of dawn this morning hoping to prepare my lessons and get a head start on the day. Maybe even do some yoga or something. Instead, I pressed the snooze button nine times and got out of bed an hour and a half later than I had originally planned to. Let me tell you, falling in and out of a light sleep that many times will make you have some pretty funky dreams. The last one that I remember having had something to do with a magical guava that whispered the future into my ears if I held it a certain way. Hmmm.

Ok, I should go drink some coffee or something. Will continue this when I get to school.

10:15 AM

I just reached to school. There was, as usual, a slight probleme technique with one of the trains. I had planned to review the day's activities on my way to work but instead spent the whole time jammed up against a rather large French lady whose waves of BO alternately smelt like that of a vaguely familiar cologne, and feet. I am going to run to the staff room now and quickly try to come up with some BS to fill an hour of class time. I also need to drink some more coffee. Will check back later.

1:20 PM

Lunchtime is almost over and I am currently hiding in the computer room, a.k.a. the one room that the kids aren't allowed to be in, a.k.a the temple of peace and tranquility.

My last class made me come to a startling realization - the children are not scared of me. Not one bit.

I try to be intimidating with them, I really, really do. I make them stand up and say good morning when I enter the classroom. I threaten them with mind numbingly boring punishments if they don't do what I say. I've even tried to grow a beard to make myself look older. But no matter how much I scowl, and shout, and scream, I realize that they are as scared of me as they are of Winnie the Pooh.

It has also come to my attention that they are beginning to take great delight in purposely distorting my name. A game which, I must say, I find to be quite annoying.

When I first started working here I had every intention of making them call me 'Mr. Hadden'. However, after giving it some thought I decided that I would stick to 'Mr. Paul'. It was casual, but not too casual, easy to pronounce, and would teach them how to politely address an adult male in English. I am now, however, more commonly referred to as 'Poool' or 'Poooly'. There is also a growing trend amongst the eleven year olds to call me 'Poulet', and even more disturbingly, 'Poulette'. I am trying very hard to nip this in the bud.

I just thank Jah almighty that my mother had enough sense not to name me Peter which in French translates, quite literally, as the verb 'to fart'. Could you imagine? Being named Paul gives them enough ammo as is.

Crap. The bell is ringing. Will continue after class.

3:10PM

Stoopid kids. All they had to do was write Merry Christmas and Happy New Year in their stoopid little English notebooks. Not exactly rocket science. But nooo. They would much rather fight over who gets to sit in the front row, and whose turn it is to erase the backboard, and who hit who with a ruler, and who stole whose favorite pencil case and blah blah blah blah blah whine whine whine whine whine.

The teacher, who has lived in the States for six years, finally lost it when 'Amaury' launched his pencil case into 'Charlottes' back, who in turn threw her pencil case at 'Frederic' thinking that he was the one who started it. I will, for stylistic purposes and dramatic effect, translate what she screamed at them from French into Trinidadian English.

"Hear nah, if allyuh dotish children doh want to learn English dat is allyuh business! I done speak English already so I really doh business for allyuh! When allyuh leave France and cyah find nobody to understand yuh, allyuh go see! Yuh hear meh, allyuh go see!"

8:25 PM

I just got home. I had to give extra lessons to one of the teacher's children after school. I am exhausted. I can not think of anything else to write. Good night world.

Obscure French Signs Part II

2009-12-05T03:28:00.000-08:00

Found this one near to a church.

'Smiting Zone - Sinners Beware' ?

Le 'F' Word

2009-12-03T08:44:00.000-08:00

No, no, I wasn't reading dirty magazines in French . This enlightening article about the correct use of the English 'eff' word was actually in '20 minutes', a free daily paper that's handed out in metro stations. A daily paper read by thousands upon thousands of commuters on their way to work. Now, don't get me wrong, I understand that English is indeed the current lingua franca of the world, and I know that speaking good English is a huge asset when applying for a job in these parts, but surely, surely there must be other words that need to be taught to the general public before this one.

Now, I'm no prude, but I must admit that the unhibited use of English curse words in the French public media kind of makes me cringe. Children could be reading this for Pete's sake! And hear nah, this liberal use of the F bomb is not limited to the press either, no sir, it's also in the uncensored American music played non stop on the radio and even on popular day time television programs.

There is, for example, this game show called "Tout le monde veut prendre sa place" which involves trivia questions, singing, and a whole lot of small talk between the host and the contestants. The host Nagui, normally quite charming when chatting in his native French, just loves to throw random English phrases into his banter, because, you know, speaking English is just sooooo hip. The problem is his English is normally littered with curse words. I actually heard him once say to an elderly contestant on the show (who had just gotten a question wrong) "Aye, what zee f**k is wrong with you man? Are you f**king stoopeed?" Keep in mind this is a so called 'family friendly' program. Oh la la.

Who knows, maybe this whole working at a primary school thing is starting to bring out my protective paternal side. Or maybe it's just taught me how careful you have to be when talking to children. I've seen how these kids like to hold on to random English phrases, and for some reason the ones that normally stick in their heads are those that they shouldn't know how to say in the first place. These petits diables would refuse to answer you when you ask them their name, have no idea how to count to ten, but will take great delight in belting out a nasal hollywood inspired "Oh - my - god" intermittantly throughout the class. Who knows what they would be saying by the time they turn eight.

That's why I couldn't believe it when one of the head instructors suggested in a staff meeting that we teach the kids how to say their names by using Eminem's 'My name is Slim Shady'. Ok, granted, the kids would probably think it's cool, and yes, the absolute only part of the song that they would understand would be the 'my name is slim shady' part. But I would just feel way, way too dirty standing in front of that class of little ones and having to listen to Eminem singing:

Walked into a strip club. Had my jacket zipped up. Flashed the bartender then stuck my d**k in the tip cup.

Call me old fashioned, but I'd just rather we stick to the good old "Hello song". This way my conscience wouldn't have to gnaw at me at night while I try to sleep.

---

Below is a Dutch commercial for English lessons that kind of demonstrates what I've been talking about. Please note that it is both VULGAR and UNCENSORED. You have been warned :)

Obscure French Signs Part I

2009-12-03T01:35:00.000-08:00

And what exactly are we supposed to put in these bins?

Pic of the day - La Foire au Gras

2009-12-01T10:56:00.000-08:00

La gourmandise, ce n'est pas manger trop, c'est prendre du plaisir à manger. Alors qu'il n'y a aucune raison de s'interdire le plaisir de manger, de boire, de converser, d'écouter de la musique, de voyager.

Gourmandise does not mean overindulgence, it means taking pleasure in eating. This way there is no reason to forbid the enjoyment of food, of drink, of conversation, of listening to music, of traveling.

- Michel Onfray

Paul's pay day plat du jour:-

Succulent filet of trout sauteed in butter and topped with tender morcels of lightly fried foie gras. The dish is complemented with a rich, buttery, citrous spiked foie gras reduction and served with a simple salad of julienned spinach and fresh raspberries.

Nothing wrong with a little carnivorous indulgence every once in a while, right?

The Magic Drum - Musical Escapades in Paris

2009-11-30T13:49:00.000-08:00

Ca y est. I finally made it to my first concert in Paris. This Sunday evening gone, I hauled my lazy (and slightly hungover) ass out of my warm cottage and braved the stinging Parisian winter winds to head down to a theatre in a small town called Acheres, just west of Paris proper. Let me tell you, I am so glad that I did, because the performance that I witnessed that evening was nothing short of pure musical magic. From the very first notes that danced sweetly off the stage and echoed thorough the wonderfully intimate Le Sax theatre, I was lulled into a delightful trance that was to carry on throughout the first half of the performance.

I was surely not the only one to experience this magic. One look at the serene faces of the audience would tell you that they too were completely absorbed in the haunting melodies of Schubert and Bach which drifted along gently and sweetly until culminating in a thunderous performace of Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, which jarred the audience out of their sweet reverie just in time for them to prepare themselves for the electric second half of the program.

Now hear this, the group in question was not the local Paris National Orchestra or the New York Philharmonic touring through Europe, but was none other than the Renegades Steel Drum Orchestra fresh off the plane from Trinidad and Tobago. Yes man, let me tell you, they rocked the Frenchness right out of the French that night and infused the theatre with all the warmth and energy of the Caribbean.

It was a demonstration of Trini culture at its finest. From the very first calypso, an infectious joie de vivre swept through the crowd like a dry season bush fire on a windy day. Boy, if you see these French people break away! I telling you it might as well have been Carnival Tuesday because every man jack jumped out of their seats and started to dance. There was something truly special of seeing how much of an impact the pan was having on them, and keep in mind that this was just a sample of the group; a mere shadow of what could be experienced with a full pan side.

The Renegades literally left the crowd begging for more, and in their best English accents at that...whan more pleeze...whan more pleeze...whan more pleeze...they made so much noise that they were successfully able to call the band back out for not one, not two, but three, count em' THREE encore performances, and believe you me they would have continued begging if the organizers didn't turn on the lights in an effort to shoo everybody out.

It was the simplicity of the whole affair that really struck me. That was the beauty of the performance, the essence of what pan is all about - making complex and beautiful music out of the simplest of instruments. It was our unassuming steel pan which lured this crowd forward to the stage during the intermission to inspect these strange instruments with bewildered expressions. It was clear that they were mesmerized by how something so sublime could come out of something so banal as an oil drum.

To me, the sophistication and simplicity of the concert stood in stark contrast to the tawdry, disjointed macafouchette that was the opening ceremony for the meeting of the Commonwealth Heads of Government in Trinidad last week. Who knows, maybe Patos and company would have been better off inviting the heads of state for an intimate pan/tassa session at the good old Queen's Hall instead of subjecting them to that chaos. Might have saved our country an odd five hundred million dollars or so.

Haiku for Homesickness

2009-11-28T09:36:00.000-08:00

Tobago

Break through tranquil sea,

Keep eyes closed and listen well.

The ocean pulses.

Mama said there'd be days like this

2009-11-27T13:40:00.000-08:00

Oy.

What a day.

Yeah I'm not gonna lie, today was tough. And when I say tough I mean like, I'm going to throw one of these kids out the window, I can't bear to sing another effing verse of this effing song, get me a strong drink now or I'm gonna ram my head through a wall kind of tough. I think this may all be partly due to the fact that today I had to teach a class of CE1 (cours elementaire un) which means that I had to teach the youngest of the young and the smallest of the small. The dreaded class of seven year olds.

Yes, let me tell you, today was tough, and I came to realize that the tortures of teaching a class full of hyperactive seven year olds is fourfold.

First of all there is the gross out factor. A classroom full of seven year olds means that there will be lots and lots of sniffling, burping, sneezing, coughing, nosebleeds, snorting, and sporadic cases of baby teeth being spat out (I wish I were kidding). There is also always the very high chance that at any given moment one of your little students will have a little finger or two firmly stuck up their nose hole. Not the most pleasant sight to behold when you are trying to be in 'professional teacher' mode. There was also that one little kid whose only English for the entire day was a perfectly pronounced "excuse me" which preceded one of the most toxic farts I have ever experienced. Torture I tell you. Torture.

Secondly, there is the singing. The endless, repetitive, TORTUOUS singing. You see that song that I posted below this paragraph? Well that was one of two activities that I managed to get through for the whole hour long class. Which means that a full half an hour was spent singing this god forsaken song. Do you have any idea how many verses of 'One, little, two little, three little children' can get sung in half an hour? Do ya'? Do ya' punk?

The third thing that drove me to the verge of insanity today was their teeny weeny little attention spans. All kicks aside, these little kiddies have the attention span of a goldfish suffering from a very advanced stage of Alzheimers disease. I am pretty sure that their brains process information in the following way:

"Ooh look there's Paul, our English teacher. Yay! English is fun. Yay! Oh look he's talking now. Wait a minute. That's not French. My tummy hurts. Hey, I sure do love Dora the Explorer! I love butterflies too! Hmm, I think I should stand up on my chair and start singing now. Ok, I should sit back down, the teacher is screaming at me. Hey, look there's a picture of a dinosaur on the blackboard! Who's that guy talking? Hey that's Paul! I'm in English class. English is fun. I wonder what Mummy's making for dinner..."

Etc., etc., etc.

Fourthly, there's the simple fact that they just have no bloody idea what I'm saying. Imagine yourself standing in front of a concrete wall and talking non-stop for one full hour. And remember that you will be talking very, very slowly. Welcome to my world.

Also, I'm trying really hard not to be immature about this, but I can't help but get the feeling that some of these kiddies are mocking me when I speak. I know that some of them, god bless their little hearts, really do have a lot of trouble repeating simple phrases. But some of them are just effing with me I swear. I hear them say perfectly pronounced sentences in English to their main teacher only to break out into dummy mode when I ask them to do something. There is this one little girl in particular, whom we shall "Lucile" to protect her true identity, who takes great delight in crossing her eyes and sticking her tongue out every time I try to get her to speak in English.

Me: "Good morning. My name is Paul."

Her: "Goo baba...Me nana eeh poopoo."

Me: "My...name...is...Paul..."

Her : "Me...nana...eee...poopoo..."

During the whole thing I just kept thinking of that episode from friends where Pheobe tried to teach Joey French. Remember that one? Argh, I think that's enough complaining for one blog entry. See you guys on the flipside.

Stories by the Fire (Listwa bò difé-a)

2009-11-26T01:25:00.000-08:00

Come child. Come and let me tell you a story. Sit still. Pa bwennen twòp, ok? People starting to forget child, and that is why I must tell you these things. Cause you see, if these things get forgotten, if people let these things go, that is when the real trouble will start, you hear? These kind of things don’t disappear, doux doux. They hide in the shadows and in your nightmares and they wait for that day that someone will start to believe in them again, and trust me child, there will always be someone to believe in them. Es ou konpwann, doux doux?

You have to be careful. Here, take the stick, child. Draw a circle. We have to keep them things out. Keep them far from our souls. Make it wider, child. Wider than that. People can’t take any chances these days. That is good, child. Watch the moon, doux doux. Watch how it getting thin and covering itself up with black sky, and watch up there, child, watch how the stars getting smaller and shrinking back into blackness. Bondjé. That is bad luck child. That is how we know things getting bad.

Come, come child get that fire going stronger. Throw the wood in. We need fire to keep them things away. Yes, like that, child. Throw it in. No, don’t throw in the wet ones, doux doux. You want us to get caught out here in darkness? Sé sa ou vlé, eh?If that fire get out is you, me, and the devil to keep company, eh.

Listen, child, you see back before you and I was born, things were different here. It was not just people and animals walking on this beach. Not just that at all. It had spirits too, child. Jumbie is what we called them. Dark spirits. Jumbie that had so much hate in them that they would burst into fire in the middle of the night sky. You know what is that, child? To be on the beach and then look up and see jumbie burning up like fireworks? Non, ou pa konpwann.

Oh, no, don’t frighten, doux-doux. Look I here with you. I here, and we have a circle, and we have a fire. Jumbie can’t hurt we here, child. But you have to listen. You hear the waves, darling? You hear how the ocean breathing and crashing on the shore? She knows the stories, child. Listen to her.

Pic of the Day - Dîner

2009-11-25T12:30:00.000-08:00

La simplicité est la sophistication suprême

Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication

- Leonardo de Vinci

Living on a language assistant's salary is definitely teaching me a thing or two about how to budget my money. It's also causing me to completely change my cooking style in order to avoid starvation.

You know, I was just too damn spoilt back home. That's the problem. And now, instead of being able to reach in to Mummy's well stocked cupboard and throw toute bagai into my dishes, I have to watch what I use. Talk about pressure! So my new method is to try and pull as much flavour as I can out of as few ingredients as possible. Which, I am told, is actually the entire philosophy behind French cooking. Interesting, non?

Well that fab' dinner you see on top consists of sauteed sweet potatoes, baby lettuce served with mozzarella and a drizzle of truffle oil, and some kind of fish (can't remember what it was) that was cooked in its own juices and flavored with garlic, thyme, and bay leaf. Talk about yummy. And believe it or not this gourmet dish cost me the grand total of da da dum - 1.50 Euros! No joke. Seriously, if you do it right, groceries in France are ridiculously cheap. Not too mention the wonderfully affordable outdoor markets that they have here on the weekends.

So, voila, there's some good news for anyone considering coming to France to do the Assistantship program - you won't starve.

On Wandering

2009-11-24T13:34:00.000-08:00

Wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the Universe.

- Anatole France

I love to wander around aimlessly. It's without a doubt one of the reasons that I love it here so much.

Paris is just such a wonderful city for roaming, you know? It's the sort of city whose streets twist and turn at unexpected corners, and whose narrow paths lead to the most unexpected of discoveries. It's the kind of place where you can roam about, swept up in silent reverie, for hours upon end, and only come to realize that time has passed when your stomach begins to grumble and you know it's time for a warm crèpe and a café crème.

It's strange how new and fresh everything seems to me here. I think that my senses have really been working on overdrive since I stepped foot in Charles de Gaulle airport. It's a strange thing to be in a country that looks, smells, and tastes completely different to your own.

I love to wander about Paris because there is just so much to see, so much to take in. It is a city which was designed to be beautiful, a city brimming over with art, a city that has the power to inspire. It's also a city in which I enjoy a feeling a relative peace and security.

Of course, I know, Paris is not perfect. There is trash on the pavement, and stray dogs on the streets. There are parts of the city which are evidently more dangerous than others. But what do you expect? Paris is not some whimsical dream. It is not Amelie and it is not Paris Je T'aime. It is a real city, full of real people, who have their own stories, and their own problems. Just like you and I.

I know that bad things can happen to me in this city, just like it can happen any where else in the world. But that still does not stop it from being a magical place.

....

This morning I went for a walk in my neighbourhood. I started off from my cottage and walked along the Seine until I came across a wooden bench which overlooked a particularly beautiful part of the river. This is the same river that has inspired the paintings of Renoir and Monet and timeless poetry from Baudelaire, Apollinaire and de Musset.

I sat on there on the bench, rapt in blissful solitude, and my mind began to wander back to that place that I come from. My two islands, nestled warmly at the bottom of the Caribbean chain. Islands blessed with breathtaking natural beauty and year long warmth which should make them ideal for wandering. I thought about Mayaro beach, rugged and wild and spacious, and how much I would love to walk from one end of its coconut tree lined shoreline to the other at the crack of dawn. I thought about the beautiful waterfalls that lie all along the mountains of the North Coast. I thought about all the places that I would love to wander about in the islands whenever I wanted to and without any fear.

And then I thought about the horror stories that flood our nation's papers daily. Stories of innocent citizens being attacked. Stories that cause us to become paralyzed with fear.

I come from a place where I have been robbed of the freedom to roam. Being here is making me realize how much I missed that freedom.

Pic of the Day - Now dat is breakfast!

2009-11-24T02:11:00.000-08:00

I will admit that I felt like I weighed a thousand pounds by the time I had finished this, but man oh man was it worth it. Fresh baguette with apricot almond jam, roulé au chocolat swirled with vanilla creme and walnuts, and two pieces of spongy queso blanco to balance it off. It went down great with a steamy cup of hot chocolate (Le Nesquik, of course). Oh yeah and I threw in an apple for good measure. Ok well I think it's time to go and hibernate for a while. Wake me up when it's time for lunch.

This is How I Walk

2009-11-22T02:48:00.000-08:00

His footsteps. sharp and rhythmic, echoed down the corridor, and echoed throughout all the ages of his life. They were his bell of mindfulness, yanking him away from the whirling mental turbulence, and linking him to memories of days gone by.

There had been so many corridors, so many solitary walks.

The sharp tac-tac-tac being belted out by his shiny dress shoes on the hollow wooden parquet faded slowly into the muted brushing of bare feet on dormitory carpet. The pounding of heavy boots on cold, wet, New York sidewalks played to the same rhythm as brown sandals slapping onto bare soles on hot Caribbean sand and pointed heels clicking on Parisian pavements.

He was moving all right. Walking the same path to nowhere that had been beaten and trodden by all those who had gone before him. The footsteps stretched out like a long chain in his mind, linking him to that dream like moment when he first found himself wandering about in this dream like world.

How the world had changed, and yet how familiar it all seemed. Even his feet had morphed and expanded, and even the shoes were ripping and tearing before his eyes.

His heart beat to the same rhythm as his feet. It moved to the same two step which beat constant and eternal throughout the cosmos, and which made today fade and tomorrow blossom.

He continued slowly and, now, purposefully down the hallway. One, two, one, two, one, two. He was a metronome amongst metronomes and, like all who had gone before him, and all who would come after, he waltzed to the eternal beat of the invisible conductor.

Click, clack, click, clack, click, clack, click, clack, one, two, one, two, one two one two one two one two one two one toe one two

Pic of the Day - Lestrines

2009-11-22T01:36:00.000-08:00

Some words just don't sound very pretty. Not even in French.

One Step Closer to Fluency

2009-11-21T05:13:00.000-08:00

Written on November 21, 2010

Now, for a little update on my linguistic progress.
I was on my way to work, waiting for the train at Chatlet les Halles, which happens to be the biggest and busiest train station in all of Europe, when the PA system started to sound. Now, I have to admit that the last time I was in France I had a lot of trouble understanding announcements on public PA systems. The quality of the PA is normally bad, the sound quality muffled, and you have to compete with the sounds of the station to understand what's being said. So you could imagine my surprise when I was able to understand every last word that crackled out of the tinny speaker.

Votre attention s'il vous plaît, suite a un incident technique dans la voie du train, le trafic du RER B sera fortement perturbé. Merci.

Instant comprehension! "Due to a technical incident with the train tracks, the RER B will be experiencing major delays." Holy crap, I understood everything! My French is on fire!

Wait a minute. The RER B? That's the train that I need to take to get to work. Major delays? Oh shit. That means I'm going to be really late. It also means that the train is going to look something like this when it finally arrives:

As if this wasn't enough linguistic progress for one day, I also had a charming encounter with a local French gentleman on the train. You see, I believe that in the midst of all the commotion to squeeze onto the train my backpack had somehow become entangled with his own.

Now, I must admit that I didn't catch everything he said to me the first time around. They just speak so bloody fast, these Frenchies. It's also a bit intimidating when you are in such close contact with so many native speakers who you know are judging your every grammatical mistake. What I heard first sounded something like this:

He...fi.. depu..leve...ton...ac...de...mer...!

Pardon? Said I, wanting to make sure that I truly caught everything that was being said to me. Thankfully the Monsieur in question was nice enough to repeat his sentence word for word, and very clearly, so that I could understand.

J'ai dit enleve ton sac de merde, fils de pute!

Ah, yes, of course. How could I have missed it the first time?

Take off your f**king backpack you son of a b**ch!

Fluency here I come.

Pic of the Day - Petit Déjeuner

2009-11-17T22:03:00.000-08:00

"...ça se voit, ça se medite, ça se mange"

"...it must be looked at, contemplated, and then eaten."

Anonymous French chef on TV talking about his philosophy on cooking.

I just want to say that this is my new breakfast of choice. Cottage cheese (or fromage blanc when I'm feeling French) with ripe figs and blueberries. Figs are one of these fruits that I've been eyeing up on the Food Network for quite some time because they seemed so exotic and cool looking (can't find these in Trinidad). Anyways, I was super excited when I saw them in the market and have been hooked ever since. Yum.

Pic of the Day - l'Ange

2009-11-15T08:16:00.000-08:00

Si les anges volent, c'est parce qu'ils se prennent eux-mêmes à la légère.

If angels fly, it's because they take themselves lightly.

-Gilbert Keith Chesterton

This picture was taken during an organ recital at the Notre Dame. At the time, the ambience in the cathedral was somewhat chaotic as eerie tocattas and fugues were blasting out of the organ pipes at full volume. The picture, however, seems to invoke a feeling of serenity. Interesting, n'est-ce pas?

Forever cursed by cursive

2009-11-14T07:34:00.000-08:00

I never imagined that failing penmanship in primary school would come back to haunt me.

But alas, life is full of surprises.

Well, it turns out that the French are really big on handwriting and penmanship plays a big part of the primary school curriculum. The kids are banned from writing in script and all of the teachers here have really nice calligraphy-esque handwriting.

My 'crapaud foot' handwriting, on the other hand, leaves a lot to be desired. If my memory serves me right, I got the impressively low grade of 'E-' in penmanship class when I was in primary school and was the only kid to be banned from writing in cursive. I remember my report card said something like, "Paul tries. Poor handwriting may be due to muscular problems in the wrist. Please see a doctor."

Anyways here are some pics from my first day of school:

This is what the teacher wrote on the board while I was introducing myself to the class. There was just one little thing that I had to write myself cause she didn't know how to spell it. Think that you can figure out which one it was?

The weird part is that every single one of the kids copied Diego Martin EXACTLY how I had written it. I couldn't figure out if they were trying to mock me or if they really thought that this is how it was written. Silly kids.

Pic of the Day - Fleur

2009-11-12T22:15:00.000-08:00

Les hommes de chez toi, dit le Petit Prince, cultivent cinq mille roses dans un même jardin...et ils ne trouvent pas ce qu'ils cherchent...et cependant ce qu'ils cherchent pourrait être trouvé dans une seule rose...

On your planet, said the Little Prince, men cultivate five thousand roses in a single garden...and they still don't find what they are looking for...yet what they are looking for can be found in a single rose...

-The Little Prince

Antoine de Saint Exupery

Pic taken at the Musée Rodin

Pic of the Day - Lumière

2009-11-12T11:30:00.000-08:00

Il est impossible d'apprécier correctement la lumière sans connaître les ténèbres.

It is impossible to truly appreciate the light without first knowing the shadows.

Jean-Paul Sartre

This pic was taken at the Notre Dame this afternoon. The rainy weather coupled with the spooky organ music echoing through the cathedral made for a pretty epic photo snapping session.

Let the blogging begin

2009-11-01T10:10:00.000-08:00

Shame on me.

Five weeks in Paris and not a single blog entry. Not even a little sentence to say 'I have arrived'.

Ah, yes, laziness is ah hell of a thing.

In a way I think that it is probably a good thing that I have waited until now to start updating my blog. I say this because I very much wanted my blog to be an online celebration of my new Parisian life. I wanted it to be a positive place where I could share my impressions of, and experiences in this wonderful city. I wanted it to be a Caribbean boy meets Europe-discovers his true calling-writes a blog about it kind of thing. The last thing I wanted was for it to be an online bitch fest .

You see, I believe that I am finally nearing the end of what is commonly known as 'The Adjustment Period'. You know, that grueling but necessary period of transition to another country where one tends to feel constantly disoriented, confused, and helpless. A period when, due to cultural differences and linguistic handicaps, the smallest of tasks such as opening a bank account or applying for social security tends to cause one to become totally overwhelmed and throw a full on hissy fit. And human nature being what it is, I would have probably omitted all the wonderful experiences that I have had thus far in Paree, and focused all my energy on writing blog entries such as:

'Oh please sir, please, please, please let me open an account at your bank." - The joys of French banking.

or,

"Oopsy-Daisy, looks like there has been a little mix up and you won't be getting paid till the end of next month. Have a great vacation!" - Fun e-mails from your new French boss.

or even,

'101 reasons why French bureaucracy will make you want to gouge your eyes out with a stale baguette'.

But now that I am feeling myself finally starting to settle into the Parisian way of life, and now that I am becoming a little more comfortable just shrugging my shoulders and muttering c'est la vie when things don't go how I expect them to, I think that I can afford to update my blog more often.

I have my visa! Joie!

2009-08-24T06:09:00.000-07:00

Anyone, and everyone, who has ever had to apply for a travel visa knows what a total pain in the neh-nen this could be. Having had pretty rough experiences in the past at the American, Canadian, and Italian embassies, I had mentally prepared myself to deal with long lines, hours upon hours of waiting, screaming, condescending visa officials, and security procedures so tight that you are made to feel that your cell phone and iPod have suddenly become potential weapons of mass destruction.

So you can imagine my shock when I breezed in an out of the French embassy in twenty minutes, my stress level not having been raised even once while inside. The visa officer was pleasant, professional, and did not once make me feel like a criminal for wanting to spend time in her country. And while a part of me now feels like breaking in to a ten paragraph rant about all the injustices and humiliations that I, or people I know, have suffered while trying to obtain travel visas in the past, I will try to exercise some restraint, because you know what? I am in a great mood now! I have my visa! Next step, Paris!

Zee countdown has begun

2009-08-13T07:47:00.000-07:00

Time continues to fly and my departure for France looms closer and closer. Six weeks. Well, forty days to be exact, excluding the entire day set aside for traveling from Trinidad to France, and even though I haven’t really had a lot of free time to think about my upcoming adventure, there have been a few minor happenings recently that have made it all seem a little more real. First of all, I finally received my arrêté de nomination, which is basically a job letter from the French administration which would allow me to get my visa – it’s my ‘golden ticket’ if you will and it’s one of the most important documents that I will need to survive in Franceland . Secondly, I reserved my flight. Date of departure - September 22, 2009. Proposed route – A 23 hour haul on British Airways from Port of Spain, Trinidad, to Paris, France, with lengthy layovers in St. Lucia and London. Tentative date of return to the island – Saturday May 15, 2010. Whether I will in fact come back home on this day, or whether I will change my flight and extend my European adventure, I can not say. As we like to say in my country, we go see nah!

So there you have it, I have my flight booked, my arreté in hand, and my visa appointment set up. All that is left to do now is wait, make some money, and enjoy the time I have left in Trini. I could also afford to start working on my tan. Indoor office life ent doing much for my complexion.

You're going to do WHAT?

2009-08-05T08:26:00.000-07:00

A lot of people are pretty confused when I tell them that I’m going to France to be a language assistant, and I suppose that I can’t really blame them. As far as I know, the program isn’t really promoted that much, and the only people who seem to know about it are French majors who find out about it through their university’s language department.

The program is basically an initiative by the French government to expose primary and high school students to foreign languages. The main language that they are trying to promote is English, but I know that the program is also open to native Spanish and German speakers. (You can check this link for a list of eligible countries) The requirements are that you speak your native language well, have some knowledge of French, have a strong desire to promote your own native culture and language, and have a Bachelor’s degree, with preferences given to French majors and minors. You are expected to work for approximately 12 hours a week (Can’t wait to kiss this 9-5 office life goodbye! Adios cubicle!!) as an English conversation teacher, and are paid roughly $780 Euro a month after taxes. Judging from the past assistants that I’ve spoken to, and the many, many, many blogs that I’ve read (yeah I’ve kind of been a little obsessed with the program recently) it seems that nobody has quite the same experience. I guess it all depends on where you are placed in France and the schools that you are assigned to work with.

I am sure that if you are a language nerd who loves to travel like I am that you would understand how incredible this opportunity seems (seven months in Paris, what more can you ask for?) Yes, I know that it will not be easy, and yes, I’m pretty sure that there will be days when I will have the urge to throw some obnoxious French brat out of a window while screaming foul insults in broken Trini English (Yuh know it does come out when we geh vex). And, yes, I have already had a taste of the nightmare that is French administration. But I’m hoping that the fact that I too come from a country where things don’t always run so smoothly, and where everyone has a serious laissez-faire-I-will-help-you-when-I-ready-to-help-you attitude would have prepared me to deal with the very non user friendly French system. So wish me luck on my journey and feel free to take a look at the CIEP’s website for more information on the program.

The Journey Now Start

2009-07-31T03:57:00.000-07:00

Come October, I will be living and working in France as an assistant English teacher in one, or several, primary schools in Versailles. Yep, you heard right, for seven months I will be teaching snotty nosed 8 year old French kiddies how to count to ten, sing nursery rhymes and say "how do you do?" in a language that they have never been exposed to. And no, I have absolutely no teaching experience whatsover, and I think that the last time that I worked with kids is when I myself was one of them. So how did I get myself into this kooky situation you ask?

Well, you see, me and the French language have had a long standing love affair. From the moment that I first learnt how to say "bonjour" and "merci" in high school I knew that I would not rest until I was able to speak this beautiful language fluently. It was one of the few dreams that I never abandoned (being a professional squash player and a concert pianist kind of got left somewhere by the wayside). So to cut a long story short, over the last couple of years I ended up studying French and English in a university in New York during which time I was also fortunate enough to spend a semester abroad in Paris - and what a semester it was!

The following semester, after I had returned to New York, I was lucky enough to find out about something called the English Language Assistantship program where native English speaking students of French can apply to teach English in France for either seven or nine months. "Parfait!" I thought, and immediately began to go about getting my application together. And here I am now, six weeks before my scheduled departure for Paris looking back at the whirlwind events in the past, strung together delicately by my love for all things French, that have led me to where I am now, standing expectantly on the cusp of my European adventure.

So follow me if you will, as I capture my move from sunny Port of Spain to Paris, from roti to crepes, and from being Paul, recent college graduate availible for hire, to being Mister Paul, English teacher in Versailles, if you please!