by Emily Sloan, ‘05
Stepping onto the night train to Vienna, I finally felt like a European traveler. I dozed off and awoke to find myself explaining intricacies of English grammar to a Sardinian college student. Searching for the bathroom at 3 am, I ended up interpreting for a young Canadian woman, in Europe for the first time, who was immensely concerned about an elderly lady from the former Yugoslavia who was standing in the hallway and muttering unintelligibly to herself. Did the lady need a sleeping berth, the kind Canadian wanted to know, because there was an extra one in her compartment. No, the older woman explained to me in heavily accented French, in fact she had a berth of her own, she simply couldn’t sleep. The excitement of travel, the pulse of movement. I felt it, too. (more…)

by Emily Sloan ‘05

My quick guide to France in black and white
(because once in a great while, it’s okay to speak in absolutes)

After three months’ careful observation and reflection, I have decided that I really don’t care for several realities of French life:
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by Emily Sloan, ‘05
Seventh in a series about life in a small French village

The French doctor looks at the figures for my height and weight that the nurse has filled in. “Perfect,” he says, then adds, “especially for an American.”

While most people French people I’ve met are sophisticated enough to distinguish America as a political entity and Americans as unique individuals, stereotypes persist. Like the doctor who examined my medical chart, most French people perceive Americans as unhealthy and overweight. We are seen as gluttonous in other ways, too–we drive oversize cars fueled by dirt-cheap gasoline and live in impossibly large and impeccably manicured houses, which we fill with expensive gadgets and appliances of every sort. We seek homogeneity not only domestically, with our corporate chains of supermarkets, restaurants and hotels, but also internationally, as we impose our language, institutions and ideals on other countries, with little knowledge of or sensitivity towards local histories and traditions.

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by Emily Sloan, ‘05
Sixth in a series about life in a small French village
It is unusually warm here, around sixty degrees and sunny in the early afternoon at the very end of November. My mother said it’s warm in Massachusetts right now, too. Apparently last year at this time, Gérardmer’s ski slopes were already up and running, and as of now there’s not a spot of snow on the mountainside. Climate change in action, or just a natural cycle in the midst of its cycling? Who knows?

I spent Thanksgiving in Remiremont, a nearby town and home to the nearest other American teaching assistants here. In the States, you’d hardly call me patriotic, but traveling is wonderful for making even the most cynical American appreciate certain things about her country. And because I hadn’t spent any time whatsoever among Americans for about six weeks, Thanksgiving was a nice respite. I am trying to be as socially outgoing as I can within my little town, but my lack of fluency is limiting. My American compatriots are experiencing some of the same frustrations; one told me, “I don’t think my French is improving at all, and my English is getting worse.” Nice to commiserate once in a while.

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by Emily Sloan, ‘05
Fifth in a series about daily life in a small French village

I awoke this morning to a mist-laden village laced with frost and the sound of my gas heater humming. It’s back to work today after a ten-day break in honor of All Saint’s Day, and frankly I’m not in the mood for the classroom. But can you blame me? I’ve just returned from an incredible trip to northern Provence in southeastern France. As a brand-spanking-new member of the local branch of the French Alpine Club, I tagged along on a rock climbing trip to the Drome, an area of tiny, picturesque villages dwarfed by massive limestone cliffs.

It was mostly sunny and warm (only 60 miles from the Mediterranean), the air smelled of native lavender, rosemary and thyme, I spent the nights in a tent under the waxing moon and sheltered from the notorious, internmittently fierce Mistral wind, I was closely surrounded for the first time by an intimate group of French people eager to share their food, homemade liqueur, language and rock climbing knowledge, and now I’m back in a chilly, small town with computer screens and a near-empty, lonely apartment. As I say, can you blame me for my reluctance to return?

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By Emily Sloan, ‘05
Fourth in a series about daily life in a small French village

Greetings from the Vosges! As I mentioned, the first few weeks of any new experience always seem to be the hardest for me, as my doubts about the entire situation overwhelm reason, and I wonder if I was too rash in deciding to come, what on earth I am really accomplishing here, and so forth.

I get this way almost every time one of these gigs begins, and experiences about which I was initially very dubious have almost always turned out to be wonderful. Now that I know this, I am working on developing patience. Fortunately for you, I’ve already gone through a lot of this uncertainty here in France and am starting to relax into my current situation.

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By Emily Sloan
Third in a series about daily life in a small French village

As promised, a few observations on the French relationship to the environment (based on a short stay as an ignorant American in one very small and possibly non-representative town in northeastern France). What the French seem to have down:

• Households tote their own garbage and recycling to public drop-off points located around the town.
• Grocery stores don’t give out plastic bags of any sort. They sometimes have heavy-duty plastic or canvas bags for sale, but most people either bring their own bags or transfer their groceries directly from the shopping cart to their cars.

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by Emily Sloan, ‘05
This is the second in a series about daily life in a small French village.

After living in a place for nine months, it’s almost impossible to recollect your initial impressions of it–what disappointed, amused, excited, differed from your expectations. So let me record mine, now that I’ve been in France a whopping 48 hours. Arriving at Charles de Gaulle airport was chaotic. No one stamped my passport, or even looked at it, for that matter. I followed the general flow of passenger traffic and found myself at an information desk asking how to get to the train station on the east side of Paris. I usually pack light, but this time wanted to make myself comfortable in my new home for nine months, plus I brought camping, rock climbing and mountaineering gear. My huge backpacking bag rode on my back, of course. Then I hoisted my hefty duffel onto my knee and wrapped it around the back of my neck. Finally, I perched my little carry-on on top of the duffel. I’d guess the total weight was around 120 pounds (I weigh about 115).

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By Emily Sloan, ‘05
This is the first in a series about daily life in a small French village.

I’m flying to France this evening. Not for a two-week jaunt around the country, but for the entire school year. Not as a tourist, but as a bona-fide worker, complete with a visa stamped by the French embassy in Boston. This is the way I prefer to “travel.” Like most Americans, I sometimes take vacations, but I seem to be more frustrated than most people by the unavoidably superficial nature of tourist experiences. I always find myself wanting to get to know real people who live in an area, what they think, how they live, what they eat, what they value, and have found through a variety of experiences during the past few years that living and working in a place is a pretty good way to gain that insight.

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