Kris and Jo go to Paris

I say tomato, you say tomahto

As a foreigner with a student Visa, I have the right to work 20 hours a week in France.  In reality, I work  about 4 hours a week as an English teacher, at a local technical college. I have close to 40 students, only one of which is a woman (Hi Florence!).

While France is full of philosophers, scientists, and literary types, until recently, she has lacked a solid IT backbone. And so, my students are coming to her high tech rescue. The students at EPITECH log over 60 hours a week of programming time, each week, for five years. They get very little vacation, (none of them are in the streets protesting the CPE) and they all must be highly proficient in English to earn their certificate.

In fact, most of my students speak better English than I do French. Which is why, during one of my first classes last fall, my student gave me a blank stare and refused my instruction to "repeat after me" as I tried to help him with his pronunciation of analogy: his "a"s could have been better, and he was emphasizing the wrong syllable. 

So, like any good teacher, I broke the word down into two parts, each with two syllables, and told him to repeat after me:

Anything to keep from Cooking

Yesterday, I faced one of my worst fears.  I was trying to de-pit an avocado with an Ikea steak knife, (not one of my better ideas) when I practically lost a finger.  Although in the past, I have cut myself deep enough to warrant stitches, my profound fear of them was enough to convince myself that they weren't necessary. 

However, this time, as I held my bleeding hand under the faucet, I knew immediately that I needed to get to the hospital.  But I had no idea where one was.  I don't even have a doctor here in Paris.  I was feeling faint and unsure of what to do next.  So I told Kris to comb his hair (it was a real mess) and get his shoes on--I figured the pharmacist around the corner could help me.

Applying pressure to my hand and encouraging Kris to "hurry up, honey. Seriously", I did my best to ignore the fact that I hadn't showered, I was wearing my frumpy "study pants" and worse yet, as it was laundry day, I was going "commando".  Thank god, I was wearing a bra.  If I hadn't been, I might have bled to death trying to put one on. 

Even the Fat tastes better in Paris

Kris hates the coffee in Paris.  Except for the fact that  it sometimes tastes a bit like an ash tray, I think it is just fine; it is certainly no worse than Starbucks.  Of course, as a strong proponent of the idea that everything tastes better with fat, I always order a cafe creme.  Come to think of it, Kris believes in the power of fat as well.  But, he is also hard-headed.  So, he refuses to order the cafe creme, chosing instead to complain as he chokes down single shots of espresso.

So yesterday, when we stopped to get a coffee at a large, a-typical Parisian cafe, just behind the Louvre, I was surprised when Kris ordered a grand creme. Surprised, but certain, thanks to the addition of our little lipid friend, that he would like this cuppa joe...

A Royal Treat

As best I can tell, the Palais Royal--just across the street from the Louvre, has always been a sort of entertainment complex.  The palais is the location of the  famous Comedie Francaise--one of Paris' oldest theatres.  It was here, where Moliere showed his plays in the late 1600's.  In fact, last fall, I actually attended a Moliere play at the Comedie.  I couldn't understand much, but was quite (and dare I say, pleasantly) surprised when the main character stripped down to his birthday suit, right there on stage! Ooo la la la. It was dark in the theatre, so I can't be sure, but I think I was blushing...