Friday, 05 September 2008
Rarely have I been in a situation or lived in a place where I can't stop myself from thinking how lucky I am. Certainly I have led a beautiful life, and have had more than my share of undeserved blessings. Life in Birmingham--especially as I completed high school--was a dream, and considerable time must pass before any other place can become my hometown. I have had my share of nostalgia for a number of cities in which I've never lived, Paris and New Orleans among them. But never have I lived somewhere that required confronting disbelief multiple times a day. I feel as though I am an impostor standing in for a more-qualified absent character of a romantic, idealistic novel.
My classroom at the Sorbonne looks out onto clay roof tops. In the distance the spire of the Eiffel Tower stands tall above them. The library at the American University of Paris (AUP) sits practically under one of the tower's legs. Monday I begin studying the history of photography in the country that was its birthplace. Even as I've stood awkwardly in discotheques before the crowd warms up, I've wondered how I landed myself here, how I am now a person who catches taxis late at night to go home to my studio apartment with high ceilings. Though some of it may be the "honeymoon stage" of culture shock, and some of it may originate in the starry eyes of a small-town girl in a big city, I think more than anything I'm just excited to be here. It has been a little while since I've been this excited about something.
My professor at the Sorbonne is perfect. She is the ultimate French professor. I might venture so far as to call her Mme Super. Everything I've ever loved about French professors and their classes is amplified in Mme. Berthier and her classroom. And if you've ever heard me talk about my French professors, you know that I love me some French professors. If any of you have had different experiences or disagree with my assessment of les profs de le français, it is probably because you haven't had the joy of experiencing a true French class. Please don't hesitate to share stories about French profs in the comments. Let's all take a moment to worship the French classroom, shall we? For you non-francophiles out there, French professors go something like this: they are French in appearance, whether by small detail or by mannerism. This means they dress well, have a wide grin, are perfectly accessorized, make French thinking noises (you know, blowing air out of their pouty French-lips, making whistle-y sound effects). They have a sharp wit, which they exercise frequently with students. They are strict, but warm. They adore their students, which for women manifests itself via frequent use of mes chéris. And lastly, but most importantly, they are a little nuts--some more than others--but all of them have a silly or forgetful quality, which makes them all the more endearing.
Last semester I had to drop my French class, both because it conflicted with photography class, and because the graduate level was a little too advanced for me. I spent several weeks mourning the loss of M. Robin, the professor, who was perhaps the loveliest French man I have ever seen. He always wore dress shoes with jeans and a button down shirt, had a sophisticated haircut that also brought to mind Tintin. Because he grew up in Tours, his French sound effects were the best of all my profs, and his mannerisms the most authentic and entertaining. Believe me when I tell you that I've scoured YouTube looking for some video example of the noises and effects I'm talking about. I know there are some via Kevin Kline in French Kiss, but can't find any clips. Anyway, M. Robin's French was immaculate and mesmerizing to hear, since the Loire Valley offers some of the purest spoken French known to man. Parisians, on the other hand, speak a little more sloppily, more quickly, and with more slurs.
Anyway. Mme. Berthier is my prof à la Sorbonne. During class, when she wants to be sure we're listening, she says very French, very funny things. For instance, when she looked out the window this afternoon and saw that it was raining (unusual weather for Paris in September), she said, "Ooh la la. Il pleut!" It's raining! My classmate, Steven, responded, somewhat somberly, "Oui, il pleut sur la ville." Yes, it's raining in the city. Without missing a beat, Mme. said, "Il pleut sur la ville comme il pleut dans mon coeur." It rains in the city like it rains in my heart. A few moments later, when she spilled her cup of water onto a pile of papers, she said very nonchalantly, "Ah, il pleut dans la classe aussi."
The French are charming in a way I have trouble expressing. M. Robin and Mme. Berthier are both the type I'd like to carry around in a little box. I'll do my best to come up with some "French mannerisms" video clips, even if I have to make some myself.
