It is 6:46 am. The air is crisp and the silence is virgin to the shreading sounds of motor scooters and police sirens. The side walk, dew covered pavement, feeling my gentle steps on its back. The baking bread fills my nostrils, and if the bakery is open, I'll get my self a "pain au chocolat" for my long multiple train ride to work.
I hope trains at Bastille. The stations walls our covered with paintings and moldings of this event. I wait at the far end of the platform. It will be easier to catch the next train that way.
I switch at chatelet, my least favorite station. It's busy, crowded, dirty, hot, and it smells like old rubber. But you can't beat its convienence. I take the RER B Line towards Mitry Claye. I get off at Vert Gallant. My right foot is running towards my bus before my left foot detaches from the train. If I miss this bus, it could be decades of minutes before the next one. I'm in a town called Tremblay. It is cold in Tremblay at 8 in the morning.
Bus. I avoid making eye contact with my students. Especially the girls. Don't want them getting the wrong idea. (How do I hold authority?) I'll say a hello or two to students I see, or a how are ya (They don't quite understand my accent yet). The bus driver has a lead foot. The turns are hard. My hands are heavy.
Work. I heqd strait to the teachers lounge. Never thought I'd be hanging out in one of those. Never thought I'd be back in high school so soon. "Bonjour. Bonjour." The spanish teacher comes in, "Ahola." (OO LA LA) And then all the English teachers who love taking advantage that they finally get to practice their english with someone who speaks the freakin language.
The bell rings. It's less of a bell and more of a sonic tone. A sound that lets me know it is time to down my coffee quick, dive into the sea of moving adolecents, and divide my attention between 15 roudy students who often refuse to speak to me in english despite my end less efforts to be as clear as possible. They have been taking the language for 3 years already.
My day goes as follows. I try to speak with them, sometimes to them, and sometimes, on a good day, with a certain group, I just listen to what they have to say. Those are usually the Terminale, seniors in American stantdards.
Some classes are harder than others, and some of these kids just don't want to learn. And I remember my days at the desk, were we as frustrating? Other classes are small, 3 to 4 students. They tend to converse more without the distraction of their peers, peers being a word often teach. I try to get them to tell me a little about where they are from, who they are, what they like. It is always the same response, Prison Break. "Michael Scoffield, he is a beautiful man", the ladies say. What am I gonna do with these kids.
I eat lunch with theachers. The food is great and the teachers are nice, and we get an hour and one half. Not a bad lunch break at all and I pay less than the teachers, 2.50euro. Lunch includes a salad, an entree, bread, and a desert. I usually talk to a teacher after lunch outside. They like to hear about what Americans are thinking.
When the last sonic tone hits, I hit the Salle de Profs. Say my good byes, and I am out the gate.
Bus, RER B, Metro Line 1 to Line 8.
18:46. I'm on my way home.
I hope trains at Bastille. The stations walls our covered with paintings and moldings of this event. I wait at the far end of the platform. It will be easier to catch the next train that way.
I switch at chatelet, my least favorite station. It's busy, crowded, dirty, hot, and it smells like old rubber. But you can't beat its convienence. I take the RER B Line towards Mitry Claye. I get off at Vert Gallant. My right foot is running towards my bus before my left foot detaches from the train. If I miss this bus, it could be decades of minutes before the next one. I'm in a town called Tremblay. It is cold in Tremblay at 8 in the morning.
Bus. I avoid making eye contact with my students. Especially the girls. Don't want them getting the wrong idea. (How do I hold authority?) I'll say a hello or two to students I see, or a how are ya (They don't quite understand my accent yet). The bus driver has a lead foot. The turns are hard. My hands are heavy.
Work. I heqd strait to the teachers lounge. Never thought I'd be hanging out in one of those. Never thought I'd be back in high school so soon. "Bonjour. Bonjour." The spanish teacher comes in, "Ahola." (OO LA LA) And then all the English teachers who love taking advantage that they finally get to practice their english with someone who speaks the freakin language.
The bell rings. It's less of a bell and more of a sonic tone. A sound that lets me know it is time to down my coffee quick, dive into the sea of moving adolecents, and divide my attention between 15 roudy students who often refuse to speak to me in english despite my end less efforts to be as clear as possible. They have been taking the language for 3 years already.
My day goes as follows. I try to speak with them, sometimes to them, and sometimes, on a good day, with a certain group, I just listen to what they have to say. Those are usually the Terminale, seniors in American stantdards.
Some classes are harder than others, and some of these kids just don't want to learn. And I remember my days at the desk, were we as frustrating? Other classes are small, 3 to 4 students. They tend to converse more without the distraction of their peers, peers being a word often teach. I try to get them to tell me a little about where they are from, who they are, what they like. It is always the same response, Prison Break. "Michael Scoffield, he is a beautiful man", the ladies say. What am I gonna do with these kids.
I eat lunch with theachers. The food is great and the teachers are nice, and we get an hour and one half. Not a bad lunch break at all and I pay less than the teachers, 2.50euro. Lunch includes a salad, an entree, bread, and a desert. I usually talk to a teacher after lunch outside. They like to hear about what Americans are thinking.
When the last sonic tone hits, I hit the Salle de Profs. Say my good byes, and I am out the gate.
Bus, RER B, Metro Line 1 to Line 8.
18:46. I'm on my way home.
posted by Alexander at 12:23 PM
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