Grève's the Word

grève /gʀɛv/feminine noun(cessation du travail) strike

This morning I got up as usual, got ready for my first full day of classes, and walked down the street to the bus stop. I hadn't been waiting three minutes when a kindly french woman took it upon herself to tell the clueless foreigner that there were no buses this morning. Strikers had blocked the bus depots. Feeling helpless and uninformed, I made my way back home to call the high school to inform them I wouldn't be in this morning.

For the past week, the "grève" has been the only thing on anyone's mind here in France. We hear about those crazy Europeans and their strikes in the US all the time, but I was under the naive impression that they only lasted one or 2 days. When I was studying here in 2008 I had the chance to observe only one small strike-- that of the taxi drivers of Toulouse-- and being a poor student I had no reason to use cabs anyway.

So this week has been a new experience for me. It is certainly different to live in a country whose tradition of strikes and protests bring daily business and the national economy almost to a halt. Seeing police in riot gear and blocked streets has become the norm. Buses are being stopped, students are trying to block entrance to schools (including mine), and apparently car fuel is running out.

The French are striking against the passing of a retirement reform bill, which will push the retirement age back from 60 to 62 and prevent people from touching their pensions until that age. As my contact teacher at my school explained it to me, France is having similar problems as the US regarding social security and baby boomers; thus the reform. The bill will be voted on Wednesday. I have no idea if the strikes will continue afterward if it is passed and people are unhappy. I hope not-- I'm starting to get nervous for my flight Saturday to England to see Ken, Dan and hopefully Richy.

For now, the buses have just been unblocked. I will make a hopefully successful journey to my school this afternoon. I know I haven't fully talked about my life here in France yet-- I'm out of the hotel finally!!-- but more will be coming very soon. For those that read french, here is an article on the grève specifically in Toulouse. A tout suite!

What They Don't Tell You About Being a Starving Artist

Here I am. La France! La vie est belle non?

I may not actually be a starving artist, but one of my major goals while here in France is to take advantage of my laid-back work schedule to write as much as possible. In my head I pictured this: me, in aviators and a really trendy scarf, sitting at a tiny table at Café des Artistes overlooking the Garonne, writing freehand. Maybe there would be an accordion player in the background... I mean it could happen.

What I've been realizing lately is that being a starving, expatriated "assistant de langue," while often charmed, is not quite the life of leisure I'd expected.

Let's start with housing. I've been living for the past week in Hotel F1 Toulouse Ramonville. Wikipedia it. I dare you. The hotel itself is quite good, considering the price is comparable to the hostel in Toulouse (which has bed bugs). However, HF1-- as I shall refer to it-- is at the very end of the metro, and one must walk down a highway, yes highway, and on a dirt path that goes under a bridge by the canal, yes bridge by the canal, to reach HF1. There is a Buffalo Grill next to HF1; even with my basic familiarity with French culture, I knew immediately that this did not speak well of the neighborhood.

I've spent the last 7 days looking for housing in any way imaginable. The upside is that I got over the whole language barrier thing immediately because I had no choice. I have made about 50 phone calls and emails, walked the city until my feet blistered and I had to buy 4 euro "Hello Kitty" bandaids (that's the price of a meal!) and found my way to more than a few addresses not recognized on google maps. It's all been an adventure, but a time- and energy-consuming one!

All in all, I have not had the time to write a postcard much less work on my fiction. I believe I have now found a place to live, the existential equivalent of a crane lifting the anvil off of Wiley E. Coyote, but the red tape still stretches on for miles. Who knew being à l'étranger would require so much danged paperwork!? Okay, I did know, but until now I was in denial.

Must get to sleep. Thursday Toulouse is calling my name and I'll be hanged if I let those Hello Kitty band aids go to waste. Until a more verbose post-housing search time in my life.... Ciao! (French people say it too)