Montessori school shelves with toys. Photo: 3neus

In a three-part blog Camille Bromley describes a day in the life of a teacher at the Montessori International School of Grenoble. Read part I.

7:38 am

Bus stop, Place Verdun.  As the number 31 bus to Meylan: Maupertius approaches I’m hastily devouring the remaining third of my Big Chocolate, freshly purchased for 1 euro from Sandwich House located behind the Maison de Tourisme tram stop, outgoing side. Ordinarily the Big Chocolates from this Sandwich House are not especially good pain au chocolat, but they’re easily the size of two regular pain au chocolat, a good bargain at 1 euro (the American in me is always a sucker for bargains), and in the morning when they’re warm they’re still pretty darn tasty.

The Big Chocolate is the ritual first step in my once-weekly workday as an English teacher at Montessori International Primary School in Meylan, as this is the only day in the week I exit the house early enough to catch one while still warm. The other days of the week I work as an English assistant in public primary schools.

Teaching at Montessori International School is not like teaching in French public school.  It’s vastly different, in fact.  If you’re not familiar with what’s called the Montessori Method, I’ll briefly explain: The Montessori Method of children’s education was originally developed in the early 20th century by an Italian educator named Maria Montessori. It’s an alternative approach to schooling, encouraging a child’s individual self-directed learning using the support of materials and teacher observation. 

From what I understand, while many schools worldwide function under the heading of Montessori School there are no defined guidelines for the specific practical application of this education system. However, the general idea is that children learn best when they follow their natural instincts and interests. In other words, it’s self-study for kids; less academically-put, the kids do what they feel like.

This “do-what-you-feel-like” philosophy is most decidedly not the norm in French public schools, from what I’ve seen in my year’s experience there, the essential part of a teacher’s oral utterances consisting of phrases such as, non, tu n’as pas le droit!; vous levez la doigt pour avoir la parole!; TAISEZ-VOUS! [yelled shockingly loud]; vous êtes insupportables aujourd’hui! [tone of resignation and accompanying sigh]; and finally the much-loved Bravo!, with exaggerated sarcasm. Thus, Montessori International reputedly offers an alternative to parents who prefer their kids to receive more positive encouragement than negative during the first 6–9 years of their educational development.

However, I haven’t given an entirely clear picture of the Montessori International School in Meylan. This school is foremost an international school, with instruction provided in French and English. I am the English-instruction teacher (on Mondays anyways), and a woman with a confounding last name, Martine Grzelak, functions as school director and French-instruction teacher. 

We take care of the primary-age children, age 6–12. The children in this group, about 25 of them, are mostly Francophone, with a solid group of Anglophones and couple French-English bilingual kids. There is another, separate class of students at the school, the pre-school age group (ages 3–6), also Francophone or Anglophone or both, headed by Emilie Ballivy. The pre-schoolers are called Les petits castors, which gives an accurate impression of their work ethic and focused accomplishment under the guidance of Ms. Ballivy.

The school makes use of an impressive collection of Montessori materials and supplies, and the curriculum is organized around the French National Education program, so that children are expected to cover a similar material to public school students. More on the Montessori Method as the day progresses.

Part II

Part III

Part III

12:00 pm

Lunchtime. The microwave cart is wheeled in, desks are cleared, chairs fetched. The students eat in the classroom. The children are expected to be settled quietly in their chairs, ask to go wash their hands, and then ask to get their lunchboxes before they are allowed to eat. Meanwhile, the child in charge of setting the table this week goes to get the silverware and dishes.   

12:30 pm

Everyone is finally sitting and has more or less the complete tableware set in front of them: plate, fork, knife, little yogurt spoon, and plastic cup (Martine’s cabinet has slowly but surely been rid of all the glassware glasses, not intentionally).

The table setting procedure always takes much longer than is logically necessary, probably because the child assigned to set the table is for some reason 90% of the time the same small boy, who due to his diminutive size and severely ADD nature seems the absolute worst person in the room to give the task of distributing various separate pieces of cutlery to students sitting in disorganized clumps around the big room, not to mention that when you see him trying to lug the heavy glass water pitchers around to each table you get the sinking sense of futility of watching someone trying very hard to complete a Sisyphean task. Half the pitcher will have been emptied on the floor by the time he gets to the table, and he’ll be sent to get more in five minutes.

I send the children in groups of two or three to the cloakroom to get their lunchboxes. I imagine that you can tell a lot about the home life of individual children from their lunchboxes. A lot of the older children seem to have the freedom to creatively fashion their own concept of a meal; there’s a group of three girls (who aggressively defy the assertion that social cliques don’t exist in small schools) that bring their lunches in family-style portions to share with each other: a bag of Lay’s potato chips, a Tupperware box of pasta and sauce, an entire sleeve of Speculoos cookies.

The Anglophone children belong to a different breed of household, one that clearly holds in contempt the irresponsible consumption of low nutrient-to-calorie ratio foods and environmentally unfriendly packaging. S—, a six-year-old with extraordinary feminine style (how a child of that age is able to exude such class is beyond me), declares matter-of-factly that she hates ice cream and cake. Her treat of choice is the green pressed seaweed paper that sushi rolls come wrapped in — in French it’s translated as algae, which expresses better, I think, the total bizarreness of a six-year-old reveling in the taste of a seaweed wrap (imagine an apple cheeked little girl saying with a charming missing-front-tooth smile, “My favorite food is algae”).  

1:15 pm

The kids are fairly hopping to get outside after a full morning of being together in one room. They go into the cloakroom to remove their slippers and put on their outside shoes, most of which resemble work boots or what English people call “wellies” rather than the slick bright white Pumas or the metallically shiny girl-sized heels (!) public school children wear. This is because the playground provided for amusement and the venting of various child frustrations during the lunch recess is not actually a playground, it’s an empty field behind the Montessori school building accessible only by a quick jump across a ditch (a wide step for you or me, a brief air-bound thrill for the 11-year-olds, and an unbreachable chasm for the 3-year-olds, who nevertheless enjoy the jump immensely so long as you’re holding their hand.

Supervising, I can’t help thinking that innovative playground developers, with their tangle of curved colored bars and knotted rope systems, are entirely missing the point — the kids have more fun rolling around in the grass and throwing rocks at trees than with any preconstructed equipment education authorities can buy. I’m reminded how innocent and sweet children are at heart when I hear G— and S— playing a sort of tag-zombie game which seems to consist of yelling “I’m going to suck your brain!” and attempting to grab the skull of another player.

2:00 pm

Emilie and I file the children back into school, past the company workers in button up shirts and pencil skirts taking their smoke break. Monday afternoon is devoted to art class and Spanish class, and the children are sent in small groups to participate in those activities. Otherwise, the students can continue the projects of the morning. The students complete impressive individual projects throughout the year that don’t sacrifice depth or quality for the lack of collaborators.

S— is working on a postcard project; she’s contacting friends and acquaintances across the U.S., asking them to send her postcards at the Montessori school address, teaching her about their town or state. She’s gathered a large number of postcards and will organize them into a visual presentation. O— has completed a project about the state of Israel, its history, people, and culture, and the poster is hanging on the classroom wall.

One of the goals of the Montessori school is to effectively link all subjects together in the child’s mind; to create a truly interdisciplinary understanding of the world. This objective makes for very creative project ideas, and the results are evident in the variety of student-made artwork and presentations on display around the school.

3:30 pm

The school day is over, but many students will stay for the next one to two hours, playing the gymnasium or participating in an activity Martine or Emilie has organized. I, however, say my rounds of “See you next week” and am out the door.

The next day I’ll be at one of the public primary schools in Grenoble. Not being an education expert, I’m not going to offer my judgment of the effectiveness of the education system in public schools compared to the Montessori approach. The purposes and needs of the two school systems are vastly different and require different methods of teaching and classroom management. Montessori schools may give more individual attention, but they also provide a lot less guidance and structure. This may or may not work well, depending on the character of each individual child. One thing I do know, however, is that I’ll be doing a lot more yelling in my public school.

Part I

Part II

For more information:
http://www.montessori-grenoble.com/UK/school-montessori-grenoble.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montessori

Part II

8:12 am

Terminus on the number 31 bus line. The bus halts in front of a grouping of new, enterprise-y looking buildings with big reflective glass windows framed in a shade of blue that suggests innovation and forward-thinking. The school is rather unexpectedly housed in one of these buildings, towards the back of the complex, sharing quarters with some kind of company that requires men and women in business attire to enter and exit through the same doors as the free-spirited, frequently-in-high-speed-motion Montessori kids.

The school is essentially three large rooms, the primary schoolroom, the pre-school room, and the gym, which is carpeted and doubles as an art studio and Spanish nook. There is also Martine’s office, a nap room for the preschoolers, a storage room, and a cloakroom where the children hang their coats, bags, and change their shoes into indoor shoes. They are only allowed to wear slippers inside the school, as it is carpeted. This reminds me of Japanese schools, except that here the children are allowed to bring their own slippers. In Japan the slippers are part of the uniforms and must be regulation color and design.

8:45 am

The kids wander in the room one by one and are by this time more or less all present. After some general comments and reminders, Martine starts the weekly routine of designating “responsibilities” onto each child. This is performed by use of a chart listing cleaning tasks to be completed each day and a small canvas sack containing the names of each child on Velcro tabs.

It took me a few months to figure out that the responsibility entitled Muffin referred to the class hamster. Insisting that the responsibilities be assigned by a random pull from the bag, Martine cheats openly on her own rule by fishing for names that she believes merit a particular nasty chore this week. The kids either suffer tremendously from the injustice of this favoritism or get a kick out of it, depending on how you choose to interpret the situation.

The responsibilities I find to be an ingenious system for ensuring an attitude of collective care and respect from all the students towards the cleaning and upkeep of the school room and materials. By being allowed to choose, in a fashion, what chore they do each week the child is given some autonomy and feels like she’s making a voluntary decision to contribute. This is probably a distinctive Montessori touch. Japanese schoolchildren also clean the school as part of their daily duties, although there they are responsible for the bathrooms as well, which I remain convinced is a mistake (imagine how what kind of clean job a second-grader might do on a bathroom — then repeat that every day for the whole year).

8:52 am

Work time. The children are either broken up into groups or sent to a desk to work individually. All the primary school kids, from 6 to 12, work in the same room, some in groups and some independently, and they pursue different activities. Martine keeps an eye on all of them and remains aware of how they’re doing and what progress they’re making, a remarkable feat for about 15 different students and different levels.

There are no set subject periods or age groups. The children have more or less the choice to work on one activity the entire morning or change subjects freely. There’s no morning recess, although there is a snack, which the children are expected to provide, following a rotation schedule. If the children tire of one activity and want to do some less-strenuous but still constructive activity such as reading, it is permitted within reason.

I take the group of English speakers. There are two first grade girls, a third grader, a fifth grader, and sometimes a first grade boy. We either do a language-arts activity all together, harder versions adapted for the third and fifth graders, or I split them up to work in pairs or alone. It’s my choice based on what we’re doing that day and how well the children are working together. When the English speakers take breaks to work on another subject, I choose a group of French children to do an English language lesson.

11:00 am

With Martine in the room, the classroom functions smoothly. With some notable exceptions, the children work quietly, although their rate of productivity is subject to debate. Clearly, some children are more ideal Montessori students than others. A group of three boys writes a bilingual dialogue together concerning an inept motorist and a driving instructor for their upcoming play. Another boy does French grammar exercises on the computer. A girl visualizes multiplication with wooden beads and a counting board.

Meanwhile, little G— sulks at his desk, complaining that his work is “too hard” and he doesn’t “understand nuffing,” and I— doodles on the margins of his essay and gazes out the window. I remind I— to get back to his work and Martine appears over G—‘s shoulder to investigate the veracity of his claim.

Part I

Part III

Grenoble Life editor James Dalrymple shares a few photos and reflections on the Grenoble’s defaced shop fronts and the transformation of the city on a Sunday.

Sunday in Grenoble. All the shops are closed, their shutters displaying garish graffiti. Quite depressing, no? Well, not for me really. I have a curious proclivity for decay and dereliction – as an amateur photographer, anyway – and hate shopping, so Sundays in Grenoble provide an irresistible opportunity for me.

To be fair, though, any casual visitor to Grenoble – particularly on a Sunday – might be tempted to see a city blighted by vandalism: tagging, bill stickers and a recent proliferation of anti-capitalist street art. Or else they might be lead to conclude that the Grenoblois store owners are lacking in civic pride or are overly laissez-faire when it comes to the wanton degradation of their shop fronts.

For me Grenoble’s Saturday to Sunday transformation is a welcome one. Gone are the herds of gabbing shoppers and down come the shutters, with their daubed slogans and spray-painted murals, simultaneously lending the city an air of decadence and “down at heel charm,” as a guidebook might optimistically put it. Sometimes vibrantly coloured, sometimes dingy, the character of the city on a Sunday is undeniably different. Love it or hate it, it invites you to look; inseparable as it is from the visual language of the city.

Here are some of my photos of Grenoble’s shut up shops, and of other defaced or stencilled doors, graffiti and bill sticking around the city. Let me know what you think about the photos and of Grenoble’s “down at heel charm.” 

Prakhar Amba, Grenoble Life’s very own photographer-flâneur, strolls the stalls of the Brocante des quais du Vieux Grenoble, June 13. Here are his photos and impressions.

Last Sunday (June 13th) I was walking along the pedestrian bridge on Isère which gives a wonderful viewpoint of the cable car (Les Bulles), crossing the river to the Bastille. I saw an unusual number of cycles chained to the bridge. I followed them to discover a flea market on the Quai de la Perrière, Grenoble, leading up to the rue Saint Laurent.

I started with a shop selling plastic dolls. One look at the price tag (150 euro) and the silent horror on my face must have convinced the shopkeeper to nod sharply to me, “yes,” and silently mumble, “get away,” or something of that sorts. I walked away wondering, is this really a flea market? Thankfully, as I walked deeper into the market prices fell to earthly levels and whole loads of antiques and curiosities were on display.

Lots of toys, train sets, gramophones, rotary telephones, big-box AM/PM radios, video games, hats and all sorts of knick knacks were present at bargain prices. It was like a walk into the past. Remember the good old days when the world was analogue, things were made in wood and real brass knobs and lasted generations? I tried to fathom the age of the Remington typewriter, alive enough to type out another letter –wondering if today somebody would bother to keep their keyboard for even 20 years.

Somehow the planned obsolescence of today’s products (three years lifecycle max.) has taken away the memories we used to have with our possessions. What would the flea market of future look like? I wondered as I photographed the flea market of today.

My wife bought two porcelains dolls (10 euro a piece) dressed in 19th century clothes, from an old grandmother who had a hard time parting with them. She had had them since her childhood and gave one last brush to their hair, passing on her memories.

URSSAF - another elegant French acronym

Patrick Owen shares his experience starting an English teaching business, becoming an Auto-entrepreneur and dealing with France’s particular administrative complexity and love of acronyms.  

So as I come to the end of my ACCRE, I’ve contacted the URSSAF who told me to contact the APCE.  I also contacted the RSI and the CIPAV but had no response.  Therefore I sent an email to the CNAVPL.  I must, also, remember to send my annual report to the DRTEPF.  If all of this sounds like double Dutch, welcome to my world, since I started my own business.  I knew the French administration loved acronyms having lived in France for eight years, dealing with the CAF, EDF, GDF, etc.  However, when I set up my own company I entered a whole new ball game. 

After working in various language schools I decided to work for myself.  Everyone warned me against it; “It’s really complicated,” and, “The charges are really high,” were just two of the comments I heard.  It is amazing that France has so many small businesses, when you hear all the negative reactions.  In the beginning, I wasn’t sure what type of business to create with various projects in mind.  However, I soon discovered that in France, once you have trained to do one thing changing direction is not easy. Changing careers involves financial and time investments that I did not have.  I therefore decided to set up a language teaching business, since this was what I knew best. 

Now, it might be useful to explain why I had decided to set up my own business.  Many language schools will employ teachers on freelance contracts, as I had discovered during my first year in France.  The problem is that to work for a business school or university, where the better pay rates are, you need a principal employer.  In addition, for a reason that I can only speculate at, few employers are willing to sign the paper agreeing to be your principal employer.  There are two solutions: one is to use a société de portage, the other is to be your own employer.  The société de portage acts as your employer, in the sense that they take care of all the administrative paperwork, of course for this service they take a fee.  My feeling was that the fee charged didn’t really justify the work involved,  I therefore decided to set up for myself. 

I attended an event held by my local Chamber of Commerce, which didn’t turn out to be much help.  I was unable to get answers to my questions and, as I was not setting up a commercial activity, they were not the right people to ask.  In the end, it was internet forums that proved to be the most help.  I typed my questions into Google and sifted through the responses.  It was here that I learnt I would have to see the URSSAF.  They seem to be the organisation that catches the companies who are not commercial or tradesmen.  I also discovered that provided I didn’t earn too much and didn’t employ anyone else, the process was fairly simple. 

I printed a form on the internet and headed for the URSSAF.  I had been told I didn’t need an appointment.  This worried me slightly, as I had experienced the queues at the Social Security and the Prefecture.  I was pleasantly surprised to be received within ten minutes of my arrival by a pleasant and helpful adviser.  She rapidly entered my details and answered my questions, in less than an hour I was in business, literally.  She offered me a free appointment with an accountant and, best of all, showed me I was eligible for a dispensation of social taxes for one year.  I left the URSSAF with a whole different image of the French administration. 

The dispensation for one year is important and a big helping hand.  Normally a company’s charges are fixed for the first and second years.  Then the third year’s charges are calculated on the real income of the second year.  The problem is that, although, the first year’s charges are relatively light, in the second they double and this kills a lot of small businesses.  Now, certain categories of business creators, the unemployed for example, can ask for a first year free of charges.  I qualified because, although I resigned, I had been looking after my kids one day a week and received income support.  This taught me that you have to read everything because there is often an advantageous exception which you may not always be told about. 

While surfing the internet, I also discovered that if I wanted to teach in companies I would need to make a déclaration d’activité with the DRTEFP (Direction Régionale du Travail, de l’Emploi et de la Formation Professionnelle).  In France, companies are obliged to pay a tax towards the training of their employees.  This tax is often collected by organisations which manage the training funds.  These organisations will only accept training courses run by companies who have made the declaration.  Many people wrongly refer to it as an agreement, however the DRTEFP are very strict in their literature that it is not an agreement from the state, merely a declaration.  

I discovered that with the right documentation, a curriculum vitae, a casier judiciaire vierge (a document you can order online showing you have never committed a crime), and your first training contract the procedure was straightforward.  It is the contract which can be a little complicated, if you haven’t got a declaration number how can you sign a contract?  I got around this problem by noting that my declaration was being processed, and offering my first client a clause whereby if I didn’t get the number the contract was null and void. 

I treated starting my business rather as a challenge and as time went on it became a puzzle, for which I was never sure I had all the pieces.  To be honest I enjoyed pitting myself against the French administration and proving those who said it would be hard to do wrong.  It must be said that I chose the simplest possible structure and being a teacher, who teaches in companies, I have very few overheads. 

It is worth mentioning in conclusion that a law was passed in 2008 making it even easier for freelance teachers.  The status of Auto-entrepreneur is designed for people who may have multiple employers as well as working for themselves.  The process of setting up is very simple and can even be done online.  The real boost however comes in terms of charges and tax.  The Auto-entrepreneur can choose to declare his turnover each month or trimester.  The social charges and tax are calculated based on what he declares and paid immediately.  This avoids the nasty bills arriving one year after a good year.  It also means that if you have a month with no income you pay nothing.  This regime is much more sensible for someone like me. 

Unfortunately, and here is the downside of my experience, getting information about this new status has been hard.  I have read the law and the Auto-entrepreneur’s handbook.  As a sole trader I can ask to benefit from the same regime, and I have done so which brings us back to the beginning of the article.  The acronyms are all the people I have contacted to ask for help changing my status.  

On the whole my experience has been positive; the principal problem has been people.  Everything one needs to know is on the internet.  When dealing with employees of the various administrations it is a case of pot luck.  The first person I saw was excellent, others have been less so.  I once made the mistake of phoning on the day of a strike, my call was answered after prolonged ringing by a harassed and unhelpful lady.  I blame myself for this one, though, after three years in France I should have known you don’t phone the public service on strike days, I was lucky someone answered.  My advice is to be determined, do your research and treat the experience as fun, and you will be fine. 

Patrick Owen
www.englishcoach38.com
letter-from-france.blogspot.com

A filled blackboard. Photo: Rainer Ebert

In response to criticism of the education system on Grenoble Life and from the Anglophone community in France, Iain Smears mounts a passionate defence of French schooling.

Many people in the Anglophone community in Grenoble will come into contact with the French education system either through their studies or those of their family members. There are aspects about it which seem to draw criticism from a considerable proportion of the English-speaking community.

In this article, I would like to depict how my own experience of doing maternelle, primaire, collège and lycée in Grenoble, then of going to university in the UK, has shown me the many benefits of the education on offer here. In fact, it is precisely some of those aspects of the system which are often criticised which I would argue have been of value to me in my university studies. I will focus on secondary education, or more specifically the Bac Général, as I have only glimpses and second hand experience of French higher education and cannot claim to know much about the other paths in secondary education.

A major concern for some is the long hours of schooling throughout collège and lycée. I did the Bac Scientifique with the OIB (L’option internationale du baccalauréat), and I’m the first to admit that it was demanding. On a few occasions, I’ve been asked by parents with children about to embark on this path if it’s true that I did 50 hours of work a week. Their frowns of anguish are of little surprise to me when I place a finger on my lip, recollect, then declare that it was probably a dozen or so hours more than that.

I do see the sense in many of the objections to long school days and I will readily concede that perhaps the content of lessons from 5-6 pm isn’t what I remember the best – however, little is said of the end result of French schooling: how does it influence one’s experiences in higher education and after that?

I chose to study mathematics in the UK. Bit by bit, I noticed how my fellow students were finding the course more trying than I was – some would find it hard to do their work on time, others found it hard to get out of bed, some needed vast amounts of caffeine or chocolate to feel ready to take on their work. Someone put my thoughts into words by calling it a “great big hangover for having partied for the previous 18 years.”

For my part, I continued at my usual rhythm inherited from Terminale by learning my lectures as well as I could and doing my homework sooner rather than later. I think that strong discipline not only leads to successfully acquiring the material, but also helps to explore the subject to its fullest, satisfy one’s curiosity and therefore enjoy one’s studies.

The extensive testing and harsh grading schemes in French education also attract criticism. Yet I believe that it is instead very beneficial to get substantial practice of long examinations. Being able to focus and to stay sharp under pressure is an important part of exam technique and I am glad I was able to get practice in this before end-of-year exams at university.

As for the unforgiving grading, it made those good grades well deserved – something in which I found satisfaction. I found that for me and other pupils at school, it encouraged a determined attitude towards trying one’s upmost. Compare this to the comments I have heard of several students in the UK about how they were “spoon-fed just to pass exams” and “weren’t proving [their] own ability, but that of [their] teacher”, which has not helped them find self-confidence and belief in their ability. I think that learning that someone can indeed rise up to a challenge is important for him to value and appreciate his work and also helps in face of future challenges.

It is true that some people can find the difficult grading scheme discouraging. But even though grades matter for later progression, it should be remembered that what is learnt matters most. Whether someone gets a B or C on an A-level or roughly equivalently [i] a 10 on the Bac, what they have gained from school will likely be the same. When that person goes onto university, it is what that person has acquired that will be key. I know of some who struggled in a subject throughout lycée, then needed that knowledge to some extent in their later studies, and have told me since that they felt they were at an advantage against others in their group.

However if there is a clear-cut problem with the grading system, it is that it puts at a disadvantage French students who wish to study abroad, e.g. the UK. This is because admissions tutors might not be aware of the discrepancies between the systems and take estimated grades for the Baccalaureate at face value – i.e. they would assume, say, that an A is worth 16 on the Bac. Things are made worse by the fact that high numbers of UK students get the top mark: according to wikipedia [ii], 43.7% of students taking an A-level in Mathematics got an A in 2007. And unlike A-levels, Baccalaureate students cannot retake exams to improve their grades. This can result in disproportionately demanding offers for Baccalaureate pupils.

A final advantage of the French education system, which is not immediately apparent to those still undertaking it, is that it offers flexibility in later choices. Of those who did the Bac Scientifique in my class, some have gone into media relations, politics, languages, nursing… Some feel that the schooling did not suit them, but what they have done enables them to embark on a wide range of paths afterwards.

In conclusion, even though the French secondary education system has its faults, I hope it will not be forgotten that the overall result of the extensive schooling is threefold. First, it is an opening to numerous topics – it showcases vast bodies of knowledge and works to stimulate the pupil’s mind in all forms. Second, it helps to equip its pupils with the attitude, determination, self-confidence and ethos which are important in all walks of life. Third, it aims to keep as many doors open as possible all the way until the end of the Baccalaureate. Combined, I think these three aspects allow the education system to offer what one generally wants: the freedom to choose one’s way through an opening to the world.

The crèche: in safe hands

Grenoble Life editor James Dalrymple blogs on his experience with French childcare in Grenoble and the difficulties getting that all-important place at a crèche.

Handing over your baby to complete strangers is not first on our list of desirable experiences but it is an everyday reality for working parents. France has a relatively high proportion of working mothers and an enviably fertile population, but a surprisingly short basic maternity leave. These are just some of the contributing factors that necessitate widely available and affordable childcare, which in turn do their bit to help get the balance right between being a parent and having a career.

The scolaire system

Getting a place at a municipal crèche, however, is notoriously difficult in Grenoble (and probably elsewhere in France). The largest intake of babies is in September when toddlers doff their mortar boards and graduate to Ecole Maternelle (nursery school), freeing up space for the newbies. Thus, unless you are confident of conceiving in accordance with the demands of l’année scolaire, you may find yourself out of luck when your congé de maternité or parental comes to an end. (For your info, nine months of pregnancy added to around three months of post-natal maternity leave - give or take – would make this September a good time to conceive in order for your baby to get into the crèche in September 2011 – you know what to do!).

Such crèches are subsidised by the Mairie, but parents still pay the bill depending on their means: making them affordable to all. The charges are subject deductions from the CAF before you see them, so that there is none of the time-consuming reimbursement admin which affects visits to many doctors. For my wife and I, it amounts to about two euro an hour. What’s more, thereafter, you can declare this expense against your annual income tax obligations (impôts) which sees this figure drop by a further 50%. In short, the piggy bank can be left intact for the time being.

In my experience the crèches are clean, well-equipped and staffed, with fresh meals prepared on the premises and bubbly personnel. At the end of each day I am given a detailed report on my daughter’s food intake, sleep time and number of nappies (couches) filled with unnerving precision. I am always reassured she is in safe hands, free to explore a terrain filled with ludic objects to peruse, which makes a change from her reordering my CD collection or trying to rewire a wall socket chez moi. 

The nanny state

The alternative is a crèche familiale: effectively smaller groups of children cared for at somebody’s home. This is billed as a municipal service and thus subsidised but is closer in spirit to having a private nanny. In our case, we were desperate for the lively atmosphere of the crèche for our daughter, with the different carers and larger number of children. Whereas many people appreciate the crèche familiale, we didn’t feel comfortable leaving our daughter with only one person: a person who wields such an enormous influence in a child’s life yet does so largely away from the scrutiny from her peers.

Although I’m sure the majority of women who work at crèches familiales are professional, I have heard of instances in which they were not. And if you refuse the woman the Mairie offers you, they immediately blacklist you and you have no chance of getting subsidised municipal childcare. It seemed that if we accepted this process, it was a big step into the unknown. Private nannies were also scarce at the time, and among those we met who weren’t fully booked there were some who didn’t seem to even particularly like children. These individuals were also unwilling to accept temporary terms with us while we waited for a place at the crèche to become available, as they wanted a longer commitment.

In my local quartier, the municipal crèche is situated ideally at two minutes walk from our flat, and would have stood as a mocking reminder of what we had missed if we hadn’t got a place there. Finally we resolved to make an arrangement whereby our daughter attended the halte garderie, which is effectively the same as the crèche but only for up to two days maximum. Normally this is organised on an ad hoc basis or, as in our case, with temporary rolling contracts. Luckily we were able to make other arrangements for the remaining hours that we needed but it allowed us to ingratiate ourselves a little with the staff there and secure our position on the waiting list until a place made itself available. This happened in three months.

Baby betrayal

At first our daughter was crestfallen upon being left at the crèche, acting as if having befallen an enormous betrayal. Traitor! she seemed to cry upon being passed to the crèche staff. There is an integration system by which you can leave your child at the crèche for a couple of hours at a time, gradually building up to full days, but babies are an unpredictable bunch. One day you feel a guilty tingle of satisfaction when your baby cries on being handed over to a carer: yes, my baby still loves me best! The next day your child will cry when you come to pick her up. Traitor! you seethe in silence. In the parental logic, the latter is just the baby ‘releasing tension’ at the end of the day.

The inevitable inconvenience to all this contact with other children is what has seemed like an endless loop of spectacular illnesses. The first time you see a baby projectile-vomit (à la L’exorciste), it is terrifying, but it is impressive what one can become inured to. The winter just past has been a hard one: with the somewhat false alarm of swine flu providing unwelcome distraction from the lurid retinue of tummy bugs and gastros doing the rounds. At the crèche, there is no escape from the steep curve towards stronger immune systems, but this has to happen at some point.

The three days a week my daughter spends at the crèche currently provide most of her contact with French, despite the efforts of certain staff members to speak English to me. As my wife and I speak English at home we hope this will be an effective path towards her obtaining bilingualism; but it is interesting to see the different phonemes she manages in her babillage. Among the distinctly Anglophone syllables we have started to identify some impressively rolled Rs. Once she yelled what was clearly a resounding Merde!, but I’m sure she didn’t learn that down at the crèche.

If you want my advice, persistence is key. Where there is will there is a way.

Still searching for the right path in Grenoble?

Grenoble Life’s Shonah Kennedy shares her experience of coming to the city on the “coat-tails” of her husband and discovering she was not the only woman in Grenoble who had temporarily placed their life on hold to be with the man of their dreams.

Heading back to Grenoble after a mini-break in Switzerland I wondered why I felt a little apprehensive. Then it hit me. I was going back to Grenoble AND going back to work! That is right – after what seemed like a formidably long time – I have a job! So, on the return journey to Grenoble, and inevitably to work, my thoughts were consumed by the metaphorical journey I took to get to where I was … it felt like a round-the-world trip, with multiple stopovers!

Until I had coffee with a lovely American girl, I felt that I was on the aforementioned sojourn alone – I imagined I had been the only one ever to have temporarily placed my life on hold to be with the man of my dreams, to live his dreams for a while, as mine simmered on some distant stove-top. However, as we chatted it emerged that she had decided to take a slight detour from the road she was traveling on when her husband received a job offer here. I felt relieved – even though she had been through many of the bureaucratic and emotional ups and downs that I had had to endure – as I was not alone anymore. Actually I would come to learn that the round-the-world was almost over-booked!

Even though my dear husband was very supportive and really encouraged me to get “out there” and look for the job I now have, and be able to write about it here, I really felt as if I had started this metaphorical travel with no preparation – I hadn’t purchased the latest guide book, I didn’t know the sites to see and I didn’t even think to take a language course … so when I ended up on the road, I felt as nervous as if I was going to hitchhike solo the whole way, and just hope that I arrived at the destination I was intended for.

After the coffee with my, now, dear American friend I started thinking there must be others out there like me, wandering around in the wilderness of a round-the-world which wasn’t entirely self motivated. In fact, I found a conglomerate of women living lives they would otherwise not have expected.

Now I have a job, in a profession I adore, and feel a somewhat useful part of society my lost days are few and far between. However, I have spoken to some women who still feel lost, after many years of being here. The decision was not entirely theirs in the first instance, to move to Grenoble, they “followed” – for want of a better word – their husbands here and have never really found their Grenoble feet. These women left good jobs, independence and a place where they felt at home to be with the one they love, but sadly the love of the town has never found them.

Then there are the women who have had a wonderful transition (are these the ones who acquired an upgrade to first class on their round-the-world, I wonder?!) and have not felt as if they have given up their path in lieu of their partner’s, but more taken a segue for a limited period and see many positives in the entirety of the adventure – new place, new language, new friends and an experience they would not otherwise have had.

After speaking to many women (and I know I keep mentioning women, it is not that I assume this situation only happens to women, but during my discussions on the topic of partners following partners, I only heard two separate rumours about men who came to Grenoble because their wives had jobs here) being in Grenoble for many different reasons – marriage, husband’s job, husband’s contract, boyfriend’s research etc. – I came to the conclusion that even though we are all on the same metaphorical journey we will all come home with different travel stories. Some may suffer from travel sickness, while others don’t. Some are in first class, while there are many of us in an overcrowded economy. Some get the interactive TV screens, while for some it is offline for a while, and they must wait for it to be reset. Whatever the situation the journey itself is seemingly memorable.

I would like to thank all the women who shared their stories with me, and I would like to make you aware that each of you has enhanced my round-the-world more than you will know!

Gratin dauphinois. Photo: Marylise Doctrinal

It’s a no-brainer really. Grenoble Life wants your comments about favourite things to see, do, eat and drink in Grenoble and its surroundings.

I have been asked by French Entrée to write a post on what to do and see in Grenoble. Upon tackling this in earnest I found myself baulking at the task. An increasingly poorly written list began with a walk to the Bastille, continuing through the various museums to barely legible mentions of the more attractive squares in the old town. Then, I thought, rather than regurgitating the generic Grenoble itinerary, I thought I would solicit a more idiosyncratic list of Grenoblois pleasures, open to suggestions from YOU. What and where do you like to eat, where do you drink and people-watch? Tell me about your favourite local walks, markets, parks, neighbourhoods.

Here is my idiosyncratic inventory of Grenoble favourites, a by-no-means-comprehensive list of reasons to be cheerful. I’m sorry if this heralds few surprises and all seems a bit generic … please use the comments box for your personal lists below.

• ‘Glacier Gonzales’ (Rue Servan). As good as ice cream gets, in my view.
• Driving along the Voie Sur Berge, with its colourful diaporama of the Quai opposite, reminds me of the climax of The Italian Job, even if my Citroën Saxo is not a Mini Cooper and I’m in the wrong country.
• Cycling the banks of the Isère, with its generous network of lanes.
• The crazy geometric paving stones on the University campus. Far out!
• The crumbling beauty of the St Laurent district.
• Drinking kirs and people watching on Place St André (aka Place du Trib) in the summer.
• Sitting on the sofas at the musée de Grenoble when it’s quiet, which it usually is.
• Tartes and hot chocolate at ‘Tarteline’ (Grande Rue).
• Fromage blanc at the dairy farm at Charmant Som, with bilberry coulis.
• Fondue at ‘A Confesse’ in St Laurent
• Parmigiana at ‘Ciao a Te’ (Rue de la Paix)
• Pizza in general. But if I am to be perfectly honest, my favourite pizzas come from a camionette in Montbonnot rather than one of the many along the Quai or elsewhere in Grenoble itself. However, it is my contention that you can find a good pizza more easily in Grenoble than in the tourist hot-spots in Italy itself.
• The tram. Being on the tram makes me happy, even it doesn’t go anywhere near my home. Watching it glide onto campus or snake through the old town makes me misty-eyed with pride and affection for my adopted home town.
• Bastille Day fireworks at Parc Paul Mistral.
• Being able to watch a football match at the Stade des Alpes and then stroll back into town for a beer. Even if the standard of football from the home side has been appalling this season.
• La Nef and Le Club. Old school cinemas with dependable art house programmes.
• Gratin dauphinois when it is freshly made (i.e., not resurrected after deep-freeze hibernation). To my memory, the best I’ve had in a restaurant was at the ‘Café des Alpes’ on the way up to Le Sappey ski resort.
• La Fête de la Musique. A nationwide event, admittedly, but one that impressed upon me something about the French. In England such an event could not happen without copious amounts of drink and drugs, and thus a heavy police presence – a sentiment echoed in Lucy Wadham’s The Secret Life of France (a book well worth reading by the way).
• The old town. I was surprised when I came to Grenoble how many French people – Grenoblois or not – were dismissive about the city, saying it wasn’t beautiful. It may not have great monuments of individual interest but I like the character of the old town and its attractive squares. You can give me this over the British high street, with its identikit shopping precincts, any day.
• The white-capped Belledonne massif, providing its luminous theatre scenery to the city.

Ok, your turn …

Classroom. Photo: sfar

Gregg West is an American history and geography teacher at Cité Scolaire Internationale. He also handles the school pantomime, organic gardening club, interpersonal communication classes and music club.  In this explosive article for Grenoble Life, he describes his career-long efforts to change the education system in France.

It would be preposterous to assume that any education system in the world does its job correctly, when one observes the amount of poverty, crime, violence, drug addiction, alienation, loneliness, pollution, general unhappiness, and other symptoms of human foolishness, frailty, or limitations.  But one could just say, “Oh well, people do their best and one can’t ask more of them than that.” Nevertheless, when one is a teacher and has to face an educational system day in and day out with its many constraints, it can be very trying, for even if he or she sees many kids succeed and go on to brilliant careers and happy, if not totally unperturbed, lives, there are a lot of others who will live troubled existences.

Over the last 37 years, I have tried to learn to teach and have perpetrated my teaching upon unsuspecting people, both children and adults, in North America, Scotland and France, but I have also had these teaching systems (pardon my syntax) perpetrated upon me. The following observations about the French system are not at all intended to exonerate other systems from similar criticism.

More is better

Since settling permanently in France in 1983 I have witnessed a system which believes that more is better despite the famous saying of Montaigne (loosely translated) that a “well-made head is better than a full head.” Indeed, in the Connexion of February 2010, the minister of Higher Education, Ms. Valerie Pécresse went so far as to say to a journalist “you seem to be contradicting yourself when you cast doubt on the level of lycée students passing the Bac but then suggest reducing the number of hours.”  Really, Ms. Pécresse, this is a national disease, thinking that more is always better. So why not give children 16-hour school days? Children need time for other things than school work to become thinking, feeling, well-balanced individuals. I thought everyone knew that … hmmm.

A second aspect of the French system that is curious for those of us from English-speaking cultures is the belief held by many that school is only for instruction of specific subject matters, does not require a global education of children in terms of understanding their social and psychological context, learning to motivate them, inciting them to improving their citizenship, social relations, and so forth and that, therefore, teachers do not need to learn anything but their own subject matter at university. No interpersonal communication, no group dynamics, no pedagogical methods, no interdisciplinary knowledge to coordinate interdisciplinary projects … It apparently threatens many whose work status and contract only commits them to knowing their subject … even if inspectors put pressure on them to teach better … and the French government has just decided to shut down IUFM (teacher training institutes), something highly consistent with this view.

In this extremely cerebral environment, a third characteristic of the French system, at least insofar as it concerns university-bound students, is that they needn’t develop artistic, manual or day-to-day skills like typing, driving a car, first aid, or cooking at school. (Well, they DO learn road security, but only the theory … ) In short, learning does NOT involve doing things, except writing essays, carrying out a few carefully limited classroom experiments, doing research and other relatively abstract tasks. So these other skills surprisingly only get developed among a minority of people who have the money to do them outside of school or have families patient and qualified enough to help them learn these things. When I see high school kids pecking away with their fingers on a keyboard, when I have to fork out over 1000€ for driving classes, or when I see the beginnings of obesity among French young people like in my native America, I do wonder about these priorities.

Lip service

Finally, as with many other school systems, the French speak of democracy, but practice dictatorship, pay lip service to cooperation and solidarity but practice competition, praise acceptance of differences, but punish those who do not “fit in” with ridicule, humiliating grades, and other forms of social exclusion, lecture people about human rights while submitting high school students to 50 hour weeks (35 hours of class plus 15 hours of homework a week), claim to be ecological while using throw-away pens, producing millions of tons of new, bleached, non-recycled fibre paper waste that are not even recycled, and brag about their great cuisine while abandoning their children to canteens that serve poor quality, poorly balanced meals that contain pesticides, instead of making quality and organic food priorities.  What is the saying, “Do as I say, not as I do?” Problem is, it doesn’t work that way and, as Leonard Cohen said, “Everybody knows…” Kids’ strongest learning experiences stem from doing and from example.

In such an unnatural neurotic environment, is it any wonder then that many French kids suffer from depression, insomnia, smoke a lot of cigarettes, become fashion victims or anorexics, drop out due to a lack of motivation (around 10%), or decide not to care about politics or association activity, plunging into a life of semi-blind consumption as adults, with no personal artistic side that they can cultivate to express themselves healthily? Is it any wonder that they become recalcitrant at suggestions that they drive less (so little physical exercise during their childhood), watch less TV (when did they learn how to entertain themselves?), vote more (when did anyone ask their opinion anyway?), or think about important issues (weren’t they only supposed to give teachers the answers required?), or question notions the media and political elite expound as evident (nuclear energy and genetically modified organisms aren’t dangerous, are they, or THEY would tell us … like our teachers … wouldn’t they?) Once you’ve got people conditioned, it is very hard to change them. Some would even suggest that this conditioning has been done CONSCIOUSLY to preserve the privileges of elite, but I’m not much of a conspiracy theory advocate, so I’ll leave this idea aside. I think it’s just force of habit and past conditioning … an unwillingness to question what came before.

Unfamiliar future

At any rate, all that I have described is what one would call a SCHEMATIC, OVERDRAWN picture of the French Educational system. Of course, there are positive sides, but you all know those; France is one of the world’s leading countries in social programs, economic productivity, democratic freedoms, and so forth … well, for the moment at least … But is this preparing us for an oil-poor, resource-poor future in a world where company relocation to Newly Industrialized Countries may force us to reorganize a great deal of our economy and learn to share, be happy with less, and use our imagination to find new, workable ways of life?

But of course changing things is never easy. People are afraid of unfamiliar ways, they think that what they know is the only way, there are vested interests, it involves calling habits and training into question, it doesn’t suffice to throw money at problems, and even good ideas, if poorly or insufficiently applied will lead to failure. In short, it isn’t a technical impossibility, but it remains a political improbability.

Political debate

I decided in 1987 to try to do something about all this. I spent five years in a minor political party which seemed highly motivated to lead change in society as the chairman of their education commission, consulting hundreds of students, parents, teachers, and others involved in education, as well as union representatives and school directors. We worked out propositions to change school radically (more on what these were later) … something in line with the party’s desire to “create a cultural majority for change.”

I sent the propositions to the hundred or so representatives of various regions in the party’s governing committee a few months before it was scheduled for debate on the agenda. But the day of the debate, there were “more urgent matters” so debate was pushed back till the very end of a Sunday afternoon when one third had already left to take their trains, leaving only 10 minutes to debate a topic that concerns every single citizen of a democratic country. Of those remaining, fully half were teachers … and a plurality of these opposed all the measures which might require them to retrain to handle new functions. So without any guidelines on HOW to change our propositions, we were sent back to the commission to “work on the propositions some more…” Thoroughly disgusted, I resigned as commission chairman.

An alternative school

In the U.S., as a young teacher, I had already experienced the difficulties of even modifying one local system of education, so I reasoned that if what I considered the most progressive political party in France and its host of teachers were unable to be open towards real change, then there was little hope of changing such a huge system from within. I worked for the next seven years on the idea of creating an alternative school, parallel to the system, in hopes that an example outside the system might show people what is possible. But here too I was to be foiled. Among the enthusiastic parents supporting this idea, most were penniless; among the enthusiastic teachers supporting this idea, most, not surprisingly, wanted to be paid! Real estate was too expensive to rent in large towns, and small towns placed obstacles in our path, fearing we might lower already precarious enrolment figures, provoking the closing of their public schools. There were also dreamers who talked about “borrowing seven million francs” from a bank as if any bank would ever entertain such an idea. A subscription among political activists raised some 135,000 francs, but we were never able to establish a three year budget that promised any hope of surviving, even on minimum incomes, so we were obliged to abandon the plan and send people’s money back.

At this point I decided to give up. I had a good job in a public school and began trying to develop extracurricular activities to compensate for the unidimensional aspects of school. I created a music club and later a theater program where kids could learn self-management, cooperation, create, express themselves, develop their confidence, teamwork and self-esteem, associate with older students and adults as role models instead of submitting to age segregation, and receive recognition without grades from those around them.  I found no need to involve parents for the music club, but broke an additional taboo when I got parents involved heavily in the theater program … something few French school teachers like to see … parents in the school working with kids … perhaps because it threatens their own prerogatives to teach as they see fit … but this was only outside of class …

In my own classes, I developed a method of teaching involving considerable debate and discussion, with occasional projects and games, but the program was often so immense that time was always pressing us to return to a teacher-centered curriculum.

Moving the mammoth

I suppose this is why when I was approached by a sympathetic political activist, I accepted getting involved in an association whose goal, like mine, was to move the mammoth (change the educational system) even though I remained very sceptical about the possible success of such an effort.

Over a period of about three years, we developed a support group of some 300 people, including thirty to forty teachers and three school headmasters, and we elaborated propositions very similar to those the education commission I’d managed had put forth only to be rejected. We outlined a plan for creating special schools, particularly in the junior high years (collège), and hopefully one or two in each department, which would function differently and thus serve as an illustration of alternative approaches to education. The basic ideas behind these schools included:

• Only four hours of academic solids per day, so less Math, less French, less language, less science, less history and geography (oh dear!!!). Interdisciplinary projects as a way of exploring basic subjects.
• Groups for enrichment, remedial work and orientation for one hour a day.
• Workshops to learn practical subjects, develop artistic abilities, and physical education 1 hour a day.
• Collective expression and action a few hours a week to put democracy into practice.
• A severe limit on homework and no grading, but still evaluating and testing.

One can like or dislike these propositions, but the fact remains that they allow schools to handle a number of the objections mentioned above and the existence of a certain number of schools of this type in the Northern part of Europe tends to confirm that they can be a positive experience, developing well-rounded, independent, thinking students … if properly applied.

We sent a 10-page summary and a longer 40-page detailed version of the project to various people in positions to make decisions. We met with those in charge of education at City Hall and the Conseil Général, as well as the man in charge of innovation at the Rectorate and the Academic Inspector of Isère. All reacted favorably, saying the idea looked great. When we said we also had a list of teachers and an administrator to run the school though, the Rectorate and Academic Inspection suddenly began hemming and hawing about the fact that they would need to talk to unions about it, that they couldn’t name people on the basis of aptitude or motivation, but only on the basis of seniority points (meaning the death of the project) and that they would have to check with their hierarchy on whether this was all possible (i.e., if it wasn’t pursued, it wouldn’t be THEIR fault …) Despite attempts to get them to put this on paper, they refused and they began doing what bureaucrats do when they don’t want something to happen. They sat on it, refusing further meetings, correspondence or any other indication of their position, killing the project.

Things I can do

So, at age 57, tired of spending so much energy for nothing, I chose to devote myself instead to things I CAN do without political games and support from people higher up. I continued with my teaching job, interpersonal communication classes, the music club with its concerts and CDs, the theater program with up to five shows and 750 spectators per year (our headmaster even had a stage built for us … and other groups in the school to use.) And I created an organic gardening club in our school.

None of this however will make the changes I believe that France (and other countries) desperately need in their education systems if they want to create a vast majority of real human beings capable of adult behaviour, wisdom, commitment, values, and coherent behaviour emancipated from the manipulative, narrow channels that current systems carve for them.

Quatre cafés. Photo: designwallah

Gill Baconnier has lived in France for over twenty years – seven of them in Grenoble. A former feature writer for an English regional magazine, her articles about life in France can now be found at her blog French Windows. She has kindly agreed to share this article about French cafés and bars with Grenoble Life.

There is a wonderful cartoon by the French cartoonist, Sempé, which depicts a man standing at one end of a café-lined boulevard with an anxious expression on his face. In the next frame, he has emerged at the far end of the boulevard, having slipped around the backstreets and avoided having to walk past all those people-watchers. Believe me, I know how he feels – it takes great courage. In fact, I recently tripped and fell headlong on the pavement in front of a dozen or so cappuccino-sipping café customers. I do believe they were mildly amused – after all, it’s not every day you see a plump middle-aged English woman perform a perfect flying tackle on a lamppost.

Taverns have been around forever but cafés were opened specifically to sell coffee. The first coffee house was opened in Constantinople in the fifteenth century. When the new drink arrived in France in the seventeenth century it quickly became fashionable and in 1686, the first French coffee house – or café – was opened in Paris. It was called the Procope after its Sicilian owner and soon became a meeting-place for writers, artists and philosophers such as Voltaire, Balzac and Victor Hugo. A second café – La Table Ronde – was opened in Grenoble in 1739. Situated opposite the law courts and the theatre, it has had its fair share of famous clientele: Jean-Jacques Rousseau came here, perhaps after one of his Solitary Walks and so did Choderlos de Laclos, possibly in search of a Liaison Dangereuse. Sarah Bernardt and Fernandel drank here as did Jacques Brel, Georges Brassens and a host of other actors and singers.

There is a café for everyone in France. If you are of a philosophical bent – like Sartre, for example, who spent most of his life in the Café de Flore in Paris – then the café-philo is for you. You don’t have to drink much but you do have to be able to spout a load of old rot about the meaning – or not – of life. My daughter went once and came back either drunk or extremely bewildered, I’m not sure – in any case, she was completely incoherent. She thought so…therefore, she was…or something like that.

Then there is the café littéraire where completely sober people stand up and recite poetry or prose and then talk about it over a drink or two. To be honest, I’ve never been to one of these – they remind me too much of Eng Lit lectures at University and when I go to a café, I want a drink and a good laugh – not an in-depth discussion of limping iambics.

The Irish pub has become very fashionable recently. Every French town has a Shannon Pub or a Shamrock Bar. These places are usually furnished with wooden benches and trestle tables while the walls are hung with anything remotely Celtic: Guinness adverts, pictures of Donegal, leprechauns, Aran jumpers etc. For some reason, Saint Patrick’s night is very popular in France and most Irish pubs will be holding events such as céilidhs to the accompaniment of fiddles, flutes and bearded bard. Sometimes they get it wrong, of course, and I personally know of two ‘Irish’ pubs called The Loch Ness and The Queen’s Head. Kilts, Celts – it’s all the same to them…

Another recent phenomenon was the chicha-café. They didn’t last long because of the anti-smoking law which defeated the object somewhat. They had names like ‘Oasis’ and ‘Le bar à Chicha’ and had exotic Arabian nights-type décor. Apparently (the information comes from my daughter, who is – as you may have guessed – a regular café-goer) one would lounge around on silken cushions, drinking mint tea and taking regular puffs of fruit- flavoured tobacco from a hookah pipe. In fact, my daughter’s birthday present to me a few years ago was an evening out in a chicha bar but I was afraid I would cramp her style somewhat – and I wasn’t completely sure I would be able to heave myself up off those cushions at the end of the evening, my knees being what they are. I settled for bath salts instead.

Then of course, there is the café de la gare: the station café. Seedy, moody, depressing plastic-table-topped-Gauloises-smoke-filled meeting places…the stuff obscure French films are made of, quoi … unfortunately, they are rapidly being replaced by cheap and cheerful American fast-food outlets – not half as romantic, I’m afraid, but just as seedy. And of course if you lit up a Gauloise you’d be thrown out.

The French bistrot is just a café with a name of obscure origin. A popular explanation is that it comes from the Russian word for ‘quick’ and originates from the period of the Russian occupation of Paris. However, this is much disputed and the true meaning remains a mystery. Who cares anyway? It’s just a café with a fancy name…

Bars – as far as I can gather – differ from cafés in that they cater for locals who just want a shot of pastis and a read of the newspaper – and perhaps a bet on the horses. The bar-PMU doubles as a betting shop and if you accidentally wander into one of these establishments you will be met with cold stares and frosty silence. There will always be a television in the corner broadcasting a horse race and a burly barman who will pointedly ignore you.

In all these places, you can sit at a table – either inside or out – and expect a waiter to come and serve you. This is the theory. In practice, you sometimes have to do a lot of coughing and finger-raising before you manage to catch his eye. And don’t be fooled: French waiters have phenomenal memories. You can give the most complicated order and they will have no trouble at all remembering it along with three or four other orders from other tables. They will also have no trouble at all remembering whether or not you gave a tip the first time – and treat you accordingly on your next visit. You have been warned…

Some Grenoble cafés you might like to visit:

Cafés-philo :

La Table Ronde (café philo-littéraire), 7 place St André

Le Tonneau de Diogène (café-philo), 6 place Notre Dame

Irish pubs:

The Druid’s Pub, 3 Rue Diodore Rahoult,

O’Callaghan Pub: 2 Place de Bérulle      

And if these are not to your taste, there are plenty more to choose from here.

Villeneuve d’Uriage

Rebecca Skillman talks to residents of the hamlet Villeneuve d’Uriage, near Grenoble. She shares with us her discoveries about issues of sustainability and community in Alpine village life.

Perched above the thermal spa town of Uriage, the idyllically located hamlet of Villeneuve d’Uriage is home to around 150 people. I was curious about what attracts people to live here; how people relate to each other in the village; and whether there is more to the hamlet than simply “Grenoble satellite”? 

I talked to three couples who have made the village their home. The interviews reveal the similarities and differences in how we view “nature”, our overall need to connect with each other and our search for sustainability in the 21^st century. 

Kelli (Project Manager, HP) and Olivier (Sales Manager, HP)  

Kelli: I was born and raised in Boise in the US. The decision to move to France wasn’t difficult – this was the right place to be at this time in our lives. What was hard was leaving family and friends. I told myself: part of my cost of living is getting back to the US as often as possible. That’s how I talked myself into making it work, and it has. 

People here have been very kind. At the same time I miss the feeling of community I had back home. In Boise, when you do something like running errands, you have a list of people you’re gonna do things for. You walk in and out your neighbours’ homes – you don’t knock – and it’s very informal. You garden together and you build your houses together. One time my mother’s basement was flooded and suddenly there’s a whole crowd of people fixing the problem and drinking beer, making a party out of it. If there’s an issue, you sort it but have a good time doing it. But here in the village it’s just the two of us. 

I’m very happy here but if I could change anything it would be the distance between Boise and France!  And, day to day, I wouldn’t choose again to work from home. Much as I love our place it’s one of the things that’s slowed me becoming part of the community. 

Olivier: I was looking for a balance between proximity to Grenoble, for my job, and a village that is really alive – people working here, farmers, tractors passing the house. Other mountain villages may be pretty but at 9am they are empty. When I see a tractor here, I’m happy. And it’s the first time in my life I feel content coming back home after work. 

Living in this area, I’m ideally placed for my outdoor passions. I love wild places and I like to spend my weekends rock climbing and skiing. What drives me is being challenged by nature, having the feeling that it’s stronger than me. The down side is that it means I’m rarely home at weekends, and that doesn’t help for integrating with the community. 

Pierre Yves (Research Scientist, CNRS) and Françoise (Research Engineer, CNRS) 

Françoise: My husband, Pierre Yves, discovered the village 15 years ago – and I wasn’t sure, because the road gets very iced up in winter. But the spirit of the village worked its charm on me – even though I didn’t know the place at that time – and I was captivated. 

What appeals to me is that the people who live here are very close to the natural elements, flora and fauna and this closeness expresses itself in the way they rear their animals, and gives the village a special kind of energy. I love being able to walk in the streets in the evening and having nothing but pleasant surprises, and smiles, in my encounters with the neighbours. 

With regard to village life, when we first lived here I was involved with a village association. We organised several events to help people meet each other. As time went by that stopped because we ran out of energy. But now something similar is happening around Alain and Yvette’s farm. 

The people who work on the farm have an attitude and philosophy that’s a little different from mainstream agriculture. For several years they have produced organic wheat using an ancient stone mill to create flour. From this they make bread, the main source of income. Around the farm, there is a small kernel of people who have created an association, Grains de beauté, whose main aim is to promote contact, and a meeting place in the widest sense of the word. This word “meeting” is a common theme in everything organised. For example, it could be a willow basket or bread-making workshop, or the regular choral events.

Pierre Yves: This hamlet is probably unique in the Grenoble area: it is small, isolated and surrounded by nature. The thing that struck me when I first arrived, well before I knew people here, was the timelessness of the place. When you go to Alain and Yvette’s farm, you enter another age; the place feels unchanged in centuries.

Referring to what Françoise said about how people relate to each other …  she mentioned that everyone is friendly. This didn’t happen as easily as that. What’s interesting to me is that on the one hand – of course – there are different factions. The other side of this coin is that there is no such thing as anonymity in the village. 

In Villeneuve there are three broad groups of people: those who have always been here (mostly former farmers), new arrivals such as us (one is a “new arrival” for a long time!), and farmers actively farming. The fact that most of the farming around the village is organic, and connected with nature, contributes to the atmosphere of the hamlet and the area around it. 

The smallness of the hamlet, surrounded by nature, resonates very strongly with me. We aren’t going to be able to forever extend the metropolitan areas; towns, in general, are located in the middle of the richest agricultural land. So at some point this urban expansion will have to stop. Villeneuve feels like a potential model of how we will need to live our lives in the future. 

The development of non-agricultural activities around the farm is, for me, very much linked with the question of how we make the transition to sustainable development. The farm, and the activities linked with it, represents a local approach that restores a sense of collaboration, whether material or artistic, on a human scale and in sync with the rhythms of nature. What happens around the farm seems to me to answer a need that isn’t met in the way we currently organise society in terms of how we connect with each other. It is one way in which people are trying to satisfy this need. 

Yvette (agricultrice) and Alain (agriculteur)

Yvette: I’ve always worked on the land and my life in Villeneuve began when I found a small farm to rent, way back when was 17. I arrived on my own and, at that time, there weren’t many women farming in that way. Suddenly everyone was giving me a helping hand. 

I started farming with some goats and, at the same time, Alain started the vegetable garden. From that, he developed into market gardening. Little by little, I wound down the goats and both of us worked in market gardening. We began to integrate ideas from bio-dynamic agriculture – an organic approach using an awareness of the energies that govern the land, the animals and nature in general. 

We lived through a period that was challenging, economically. At that time the local farmers were amused by our way of doing things. But, when we bought the house, that changed our relationship. They saw that we were managing to make a go of farming and we became the enemy by virtue of the fact that, as people working in agriculture, we blocked land that they wanted to develop. Overall, we had 10 years of good relations, 10 of bad and now we have had 10 years of neutrality – but at least no tension. Our closest links are with people who have moved here from elsewhere. 

In terms of the farm itself, there’s potentail for our level of activity to develop. My personal project is to develop animal rearing: in addition to the cows that we already have, introduce a few goats again, some hens and turkeys. 

Alain: This work may evolve through the support of the association ; it isn’t necessarily a profit-making activity. But you or I, or any of the people at Villeneuve realise that it’s important to have animals in a village and it’s also important to have people to look after them. That’s where I see the link between the farm association and the people of Villeneuve and around. People need to realise that animals bring a particular type of energy which helps us to live. It’s not just the responsibility of farm workers, it’s for all of us, for the future, to realise that we have a role and that it’s important to maintain farm animals. 

In today’s society 9 out of 10 people are doing a job that has nothing to do with our physical world. They live in a virtual world in terms of computers and IT, producing things that we don’t need. This may create employment but it isn’t real in the sense that if this work were to suddenly stop … where would we be? We’d still need to feed ourselves, somehow. This way of living and working leads us to completely disconnected lifestyles where we travel and lead our lives in a complex way when there is a far simpler way of nourishing ourselves. This “virtual world”, on the other hand, generates ridiculous ideas … like that it’s ok to take a plane to the other end of the world for 20 euros. For me that is completely unreal! People want to live in a “green” way but they think it’s ok to buy a plane ticket at such a low price?! There’s hard thinking is needed there.  

I believe people have a fundamental need to regenerate, to get together and do things with others. I see an alternative way forward that contacts what’s deeply important for all of us. I mean, what’s fundamental in order for society to develop. For this we need to make contact with each other, starting with those of us who are able to meet around a place and try to move towards something better, socially. 

I think that a farm is the ideal place to start rethinking how society can work. There’s already a structure, and a sense of birth and creativity – animals, the food we produce. From here we can begin, gradually, a project to develop our society.

For further information about the farm association, Grains de Beauté, and its activities, contact the association: beaute.des.graines (at) gmail.com

Radio. photo: morberg

English Talk Radio is a talk show in English on 90.8 Radio Campus Grenoble. We talk about film, theatre, finance, restaurants, travel, and have a variety of topical guests. We are four presenters: Kristine Minski talks about finance, Christina Menez talks about China, Mary Zaccai talks about student issues, and Vivian Draper – animatrice/rédactrice – hosts the show. Every Sunday at 12.30pm, and every Wednesday at 7pm on 90.8, Radio Campus Grenoble and live on www.campusgrenoble.org – and also here on Grenoble Life.

The February 7 English Talk Radio show took place at The Bookworm Café in St Laurent, Grenoble. Listen to the full show here:

p'tit vélo dans la tete on campus - photo: www.ptitvelo.net

Are you a student or a new arrival and want to know how to live in Grenoble on a budget? Expatriated Brit John Lubbock has learnt the hard way, and has kindly agreed to share his tips and experience with Grenoble Life readers.  

Grenoble is not a bad place to be poor. But, like a tramp with a favourite patch, you have to know your environment; or like a foraging bear, where the best pickings are to be had. You may need to change some of your bad, foreign influenced habits to make the most of your insertion into French culture (beer is expensive apart from Stella, which isn’t one of the best things about French gastronomy, is it?). 

Tourists, as we all know, are naive sponges who deserve to be squeezed dry, so try not to seem like one. People will often poorly attempt to converse with you in English when they realise you are not a native, but insist, “Je suis en France, il faut que je parle en français“, and they won’t despise you as much for usurping their language as the world’s Lingua Franca. It is mostly from lack of better information that tourists agree to pay higher prices, so I intend to give you some information to help you make better spending choices.

Accommodation

If you do not want to spend your first month in France on a sofa or in a hostel, it pays to research accommodation before you arrive. There is an association called OSE Club which you can join for €30 which will find apartments for you in a designated area of the city, if you want to be near to a university. Then there are websites such as www.appartager.com and www.vivastreet.com, which have petites annonces for flats, but these are generally only useful if you pay the €10 fee to see the telephone numbers of the advertisers and call them up directly as they don’t answer messages on the site.

Watch the French film L’Auberge Espagnole before you go to get an exaggerated idea of being interviewed by your future flatmates and the kinds of hilarious European stereotypes you are likely to be cohabiting with. If you are not a student, it is even more important to find a flat quickly, because without a rental agreement, you will not be able to get a French bank account or contract telephone, and will thus be considered a SDF (Sans Domicile Fixe) by the French. This will mean that you are forced to become a baba cool (hippy) and sit in the street with your dogs holding out a frying pan to ask for spare change.  

N.B. If you are staying for less than a year, it is worthwhile getting a contract phone, which will be cheaper than pay as you go, the phone will be nicer, and there’s little they can do about it when you tell them that you’re leaving the country before the contract finishes and close your bank account. But don’t tell anyone I told you.  

If you have never lived in the socialist paradise that is France, you may not be aware of the kinds of social benefits available to people living there. The CAF’s housing benefit system could pay for some of your rent if you are a student or living on a low wage, although like most bureaucratic systems in France it takes about six weeks to get anywhere with it, and since these forms are all in French, it is more like a test of your reading comprehension which you need to pass to gain entry to French society.  

Learning French

If you are (un)lucky enough to be a political refugee, asking at the Préfecture (a big administrative building which makes you feel like Josef K from Kafka’s The Trial, wondering if you’ll ever be told what you’ve done wrong in order to end up there) or at the Conseil Général can get you free French lessons, which can otherwise be obtained by calling the ADATE organisation. I am not sure if you can get lessons with them without being a refugee, but I am considering telling them that I have been forced to flee from the UK as a result of the impending government takeover by a bunch of Tories with accents so posh and annoying that they constitute a form of social oppression. If you have to go to the Préfecture for any annoying bureaucratic reason, like to obtain a carte de séjour, don’t ask anyone which ‘queue’ you should stand in. The French for queue is pronounced like ‘que’, while saying ‘queue’ sounds like the French word for something rude.  

Transport  

When it comes to transport, if you are poor, the bicycle/vélo will become like your husband or wife, or perhaps the god to whom you pray for benevolence. If it works well, you love it and praise it, and if not you curse it. There are three main places I know of to obtain bikes cheaply. Firstly: on the street. I found three bikes lying in crumpled heaps on pavements in the first month I was here. The problem then is to take them to somewhere you can repair them. So either have a bike repair kit (Decathlon, around €15), or go to the second place to get cheap bikes – Un P’tit Vélo Dans La Tete meaning something like ‘A little bit biked in the head’.

This atelier (workshop) sells bikes that have been repaired for between €15-60, or you can go there to fix your own by paying a €15 abonnement (subscription). It is a good place to practice your French, as there are lots of guys who can help you to fix your bike, and they have a handy board on the wall with a picture of a bike and the French names for every part of it indicated. However, fixing bikes takes time, and if you have a second hand bike, or one you bought at P’tit Velo, it will break down roughly every two weeks. On the plus side, you will get very good at repairing bikes. The third option is Métrovélo, who will give you a generic yellow bike for €75 for six months (plus €50 deposit) and repair it for you if it breaks down.  

Of course, you can always chance a free ride on the tram, but getting caught by the officials will land you with a €65 fine, unless you can pretend to be a totally clueless foreigner. The tram tariff is €24 a month for students, but Grenoble is the flattest city centre in France, and waiting for a tram and slumming it with Joe Public are hidden costs not worth paying in my opinion. That’s why liberté comes before egalité and fraternité: because it’s more important.  

If you want to go further that the city limits, go to www.covoiturage.fr and find someone who is making the same journey as you to go with. It will be far cheaper than any other method of transport, and the people I’ve met doing it have all been nice.  

Food  

Although many people come to France for the food, as an impoverished young person, this will likely be one of the areas in which you sacrifice quality in order to live within your means. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, a man who lives within his means has no imagination; but you will likely be finding your culinary options limited by the exigencies of having little money to spend. Ed is a cheap supermarket, and it happens to bear the name of some of my friends, although since the name Edward doesn’t exist in French, they call it “Ee-de”, which sounds much more corporate and less friendly. It is worth taking a notebook around to the supermarkets to write down prices of items you buy regularly, because while vegetables may be cheaper in Ed, Géant may have cheaper milk, for example. Unfortunately, I have just been informed by my collocataire that Ed is closing down – evidently the world of modern commerce is too cruel for such friendly-named businesses – but Lidl is almost identical in that it has hardly any choice of products and brands you have never heard of, but they are all usually cheaper than the Géant/Casino equivalent.  

Yet if one just bought the budget Casino brand pasta/rice/couscous to eat with with vegetables every day, you might end up wanting to kill yourself. So for the minimum luxury of not cooking the food yourself, you can go to a CROUS canteen, near the gare, or in Domaine Universitaire. These are supposed to be for students, but you can just pay the €2.90 it costs for a meal there in cash without showing any student card as well. You get bread, salad or cheese, a main meal of canteen standard chips/pasta/vegetables/etc. and some meat served with customary indifference and a bad attitude by people who look deeply unhappy about serving ungrateful students who could pay their wages with their tuition fees (those who go to an École supérieure anyway).  

Working  

Of course, if you really want to make things easier on yourself financially, you could get a job. “A job? What’s that?” I hear you cry. “I am a student – they don’t work. Then I wouldn’t have time for all the drinking and Facebook which the energy I consume from crisps and Red Bulls goes into”. Well, you could work part time. If you are a native English speaker, you could get employed by a soutien scolaire company, telling kids what they did wrong with their homework. Believe me, it’s satisfying to be on the other end of this after receiving homework corrected in red-teacher-ballpoint ink for 10 or more years. Don’t be put off if you don’t have a TEFL or CELTA qualification, I didn’t find this a hindrance, though it may help to say you have experience of private teaching even if you haven’t.

If there’s one thing I learned looking for jobs here it’s that it doesn’t pay to be honest: always tell them you are available to work, always tell them you have the experience. It took me a while of offering my services to language companies (Grenoble Life already has a useful list here), universities and other places like the Chamber of Commerce and Rectorat before I was employed, but once you have your foot in the door, you will hear about other teaching  jobs that are advertised within teaching circles.  

The Pôle jeunesse on Avenue Agutte Sembat has a useful wall full of job and accommodation offers. But if you have a degree, they will tell you that they can’t help hoity-toity types like you and that you should go instead to AFIJ who have an office at 29 Avenue Felix Viallet near Cour Jean Jaurès. These guys mostly have offers for internships or well paid jobs, so if you are just looking for a petit boulot, the Pôle jeunesse might be more useful.

You could try working in a bar, but the French can be quite snooty if your linguistic skills aren’t up to scratch. This matters less when applying to one of the studenty bars like London Pub or Sun Valley, but you will invariably have to call a Frenchman ‘boss’ (and thereby lose all the nationalistic self-respect you have built up living in your own great land), and traipse around the campus putting up flyers just for the pleasure of sacrificing most of your evenings for €9 an hour. There are also lots of agencies you can work for who hire waiters and other restauration workers for company or other private functions, but I personally found them somewhat useless, though Adecco is worth a try. Then you can try the listings in Pôle Emploi, which is like the JobCentre in the UK, but with more paperwork.  

Of course one of the reasons why you came to Grenoble is to ski, so if you are a student, join the École de Glisse, and try to obtain some cheap equipment from one of the second hand ski places like Boite aux Skis. There is no way of getting around that skiing is expensive however you do it, but hopefully you will have saved enough money in other areas to afford the silly ski-pass prices. And if you injure yourself, just remember to have your European Health Card handy. Good luck, mes amis.

Dials. Photo: ericcomando89

English Talk Radio is a talk show in English on 90.8 Radio Campus Grenoble. We talk about film, theatre, finance, restaurants, travel, and have a variety of topical guests. We are four presenters: Kristine Minski talks about finance, Christina Menez talks about China, Mary Zaccai talks about student issues, and Vivian Draper – animatrice/rédactrice – hosts the show. Every Sunday at 12.30pm, and every Wednesday at 7pm on 90.8, Radio Campus Grenoble and live on www.campusgrenoble.org – and also here on Grenoble Life.

The January 22 English Talk Radio show features Trudi Penkler, psychologist and inter-cultural coach and trainer, talking about teenagers and moving. Listen to the full show here.

Les Nouvelles de Grenoble

In the latest post in his blog The Franco-American Daily Deconstructionist; History and Culture in Everyday Life,  John Hess leafs through the City of Grenoble Magazine Les Nouvelles de Grenoble. Here’s what he has to say about it.

Many of you who have the good fortune to live in Grenoble, wait breathlessly for the end of each month, because that means a small portion of your tax payments will be returned to you a hundred-fold, in the form of Les Nouvelles de Grenoble, “the city informational magazine.”

For those of you who do not have this good fortune : the magazine is a glossy, super-sized A4 format affair, arriving free in residents’ mailboxes each month. It is published by the municipal government, at taxpayer expense, and purports to provide helpful information about happenings in Grenoble, especially of a political, social, or cultural nature.

Perhaps you enjoy reading Les Nouvelles: it’s professionally produced, there are lots of color pictures, the articles are short and easy to digest, and it’s all so refreshingly upbeat. When I read Les Nouvelles de Grenoble, I realize that I am living in the world’s most wonderful city. Perhaps I have even died and gone to the urbanists’ paradise. Well, then I go out my door, and harsh reality sets in; but o the illusion, however fleeting, is delightful!

But have you ever wondered about the content of the magazine? For it clearly is not just the neutral statement of city-related current facts and goings-on that you would expect from a publicly-funded publication. There is, of course, the natural phenomenon of editorial selection: the magazine is strangely silent about the crimes, mishaps, and dysfunctionalities that weigh on city life; we hear only about the good stuff. The temptation to intellectual dishonesty seems to be too great, however, for the editors to stop there. What they do report on has to be qualified with glowingly positive adjectives.

So does issue n° 131, October 2009, tell us on the front page that in matters of sustainable development, “Grenoble is keeping its promises”, even though this is a self-evidently worthless statement. If one wants to know if promises are being kept, one generally has the sense not to ask the promise-maker, which is sort of like asking the accused if he’s guilty or not–and basing the verdict on the answer.

On page six of the same issue, we find out that the city-engineered renovation of St Bruno Square has “restored its soul as the lively and convivial heart of the neighborhood.” Well, I hadn’t noticed, but if the city engineers say so, then that’s good enough for me!

On page seven, we find out that there is not just a new crèche in that same neighborhood, but a “spanking brand-new” crèche, which is somehow different from a new crèche, though I suppose appropriate for child-rearing disciplinary purposes.

On page eight, we find out that the Philippeville Square crèche is “new, beautiful and environmentally-friendly”, which will certainly be a relief to parents concerned that their children’s day care was aggravating global climate change, though they may regret that the newness is not spanking in this case; and while some local residents find the crèche “butt-ugly”, they were apparently not interviewed for this article.

On page fourteen, we have another “spanking brand new” building, this time a library in the Teisseire quarter, also qualified as “magnificent.” (If the Teisseire library is already “magnificent”, then what adjective remains to us to describe, say, The New York Public Library, or the Great Library of Alexandria ?) It goes on and on, upbeat snippets about all the wonderful and progressive developments in Grenoble, directly or indirectly thanks to the actions of the city government, culminating in the municipal self-love-fest about sustainable development from page 18 onwards.

How can this sort of thing be possible ? Well, in a country where the press is expected to be partisan and indeed captive of a particular interest group or ideology, and where the state likes to pose as the benefactor to all (and never mind where the money comes from), it is not just possible, but considered quite normal. And this is the problem !

But why do I complain ? You know, in fact, the business model of Les Nouvelles de Grenoble magazine has inspired me. Watch this space, as Grenoble Life becomes John Hess Life, full of interesting articles about how wonderful, nay, ineffably divine, John Hess is, all written in breathless prose by John Hess. You will, of course, pay a monthly subscription fee for the privilege.

Freebox: Photo Martin Menu

Grenoble Life editor James Dalrymple has one piece of advice for readers hoping to set up an internet connection in France: don’t use Free. Here’s why.

One of the first considerations when setting up home in a new country is getting an internet connection, nowadays almost as essential a utility as gas, electricity and water. When I arrived, one company dominated combined phone and internet packages: Free - seemingly the only good value alternative to France Telecom at the time. Now there are better value options on the market, but extricating yourself from your contract with Free is not as simple as it should be, to say the least.

Customer service in France often leaves a lot to be desired, but Free goes beyond the normal depersonalised call centre experience to seemingly deliberate efforts to overcharge and stonewall customers that have spawned large internet communities of unhappy punters and consumer associations, but has not apparently done enough to make Free contemplate their reputation.

A Free account is relatively easy to set up, but when you want to cancel your contract, they require you to return the Freebox router by post. All very well, except for the fact that – in our case, and that of many others – receipt of the box is not acknowledged, even if you have paid for a registered delivery service which enables you to track the package by internet to its destination. Free don’t receive the boxes themselves, but subcontract this task to a logistics company.

When Free disputed receipt of the box, our enquiries at the Post office were met with the response (or something to this effect) “Free do this all the time.” Angry consumers in numerous web forums support this, as does the existence of an association named Freeks, dedicated to helping customers untangle themselves from unpleasant disputes with Free, among other internet companies, and who list ‘mediation’ with Free as one of their services. This leads one to suspect Free are quite aware of the situation many of its customers find themselves in, and it is not just a case of logistical inefficiency.

Having claimed that they never received the box, Free then demand that you send them proof of dispatch (i.e., the receipt for registered post) by fax. That’s right, an internet service provider who communicate by fax - everybody’s favourite  21st century means of contact. It gets worse. There is evidently only one fax machine, apparently located at a call centre in Eastern Europe, which is engaged for large periods of the day. As if people don’t have better things to do than spend entire working days trying to send the equivalent of cyber bog roll to the other side of the continent.

Further still, the company insist that you call them within two hours of having sent the fax (assuming you have been able to get through), on a premium rate number. Finally, when we reached the call centre by phone, the operator was both vague and reluctant as to whether they had received the fax – maybe try again tomorrow? (another day loitering by the fax machine, more premium rate numbers). Only on being pressed did the unhelpful operator admit to receiving all the pages of the fax, but claimed it was illegible. Of course it’s illegible, it’s a fax! … we wanted to scream.

It’s a Catch-22, for if we hadn’t rung the bank to halt the direct debit we would probably still be in some daily fax-rage limbo while we almost certainly continued to pay for a service that we are not receiving, and have no wish to receive. We have written to complain to Free’s Customer Services, a postal-only service in France, and they have accepted the end of the contract, but not receipt of the box. They are demanding payment for a additional month’s subscription, and are still asking for the box back, which apparently costs around 400 euro.

Unfortunately you can fight with your principles but short of getting the consumer associations interested, you run the risk that Free will sell the debt on to debt-collection agencies, which really isn’t funny. It’s all over the web, from customers in the same situation as me, to those who never received the box in the first place, and have been paying for a product that was never delivered.

Thus, if you are a new arrival to the country hoping to choose an internet supplier, I strongly recommend that you opt for one of the alternatives. For example Numéricable, the optic fibre cable company, offer a faster connection and a basic telephone and internet package which costs around 20 euro a month, at the time of writing 10 euro less than Free. Numéricable at least have offices in Grenoble with human beings to whom you can speak face to face – which is reassuring – and send a technician to install and remove the router. I haven’t had the pleasure of having to close a Numéricable account, but it can’t be worse than my experience with Free.

Please use the comments box below to share your experiences, good and bad, with internet and phone providers. I hope that this word of warning might help other customers avoid falling into the same trap.

Mixer. Photo: Andrea 'Bau' Pinti

English Talk Radio is a talk show in English on 90.8 Radio Campus Grenoble. We talk about film, theatre, finance, restaurants, travel, and have a variety of topical guests. We are four presenters: Kristine Minski talks about finance, Christina Menez talks about China, Mary Zaccai talks about student issues, and Vivian Draper – animatrice/rédactrice – hosts the show. Every Sunday at 12.30pm, and every Wednesday at 7pm on 90.8, Radio Campus Grenoble and live on www.campusgrenoble.org – and also here on Grenoble Life. 

The 18 December 2009 English Talk Radio show took place at the Grenoble Graduate School of Business and featured GGSB’s Judith Bouvard, Dean and Director, and Mary Zaccai, International Press Officer. Listen to the show here

'Crise immobilière'. Photo: _02_

 Grenoble Life editor James Dalrymple shares his personal experience as a first-time home buyer in the Captial of the Alps – and is happy to report that it’s not all bad news!

Now that I am starting to see a flicker of light at the end of the rather dank and cavernous tunnel called home-buying, I feel compelled to share some of my observations. Whereas I can confirm its status as one of life’s more arduous experiences, it has not been worse than I had anticipated, for no-one ever said it would be a breezy walk in the park with a big piece of cake.

Before deciding to buy a flat I’d had several friends trying to re-educate me on the value of renting for life; unconvinced by the merits of life-long debt and the likelihood of paying the price of one’s property several times over in interest. “Be cash rich and asset poor,” these savvy characters insisted, pointing to the lower home maintenance costs and fewer taxes for locataires (for example the annual taxe foncière is only levied upon owners, not tenants).

One fact of life as propriétaire in a co-property is that one can face hefty fees if the exterior of the entire building has to be repainted, or if there is a shared heating system to be replaced: neither a tenant’s problem. Owning one’s own home, though, is pretty much brainwashed into Brits as a rite of passage, even if we have to accept that we can’t necessarily afford what our incredibly lucky baby-boomer parents had. When my career is over, however, I would like to have paid for my home, and be able to subsist rent-free on whatever meagre pension I have accrued.

To quote a Grenoble Life contributor, Felicity Lodge – whose article Arranging your finances in France is well worth a read - ”buying a property in France is highly regulated”.  I concur, and there are some major pros and cons to the regulation. She goes on to say, “the amount you can borrow is controlled so loan payments and any other regular obligations cannot be more than 33% of your monthly income (net of social charges)”. This may seem strict but the French are a prudent people, and the banking culture befits a country less footloose with borrowing. The kinds of problems that led to the sub-prime crisis in the US couldn’t have originated in France. Likewise, credit is not as easily available as in the UK, and I have the impression that people are more sensible with their disposables.

The upside of a regulated home buying process is that there is less risk. Once you have agreed a price with a seller, you can engage the process via a specialised lawyer (a notaire) who manages the sale from then on. Once you have signed the pre-contract compromis de vente, there is little chance of being gazumped given that the seller would subject themselves to a significant fine if they chose to break it.

In Britain you stand the risk of having incurred legal and surveying costs only for the seller to pull out in the 11th hour to accept a better offer from a rival buyer. That this gazumping is allowed to stand in the UK is obscene, one feature of the county’s rather lunatic housing market. In France, however, the absence of risk comes at a cost: namely 6-8% of the sale price. This covers all legal, tax and surveying concerns, but certainly amounts to much more than the sum of those individual costs in Britain: and most of it goes directly to the government. This fact lends credence to the idea that renting is better value than buying – it is an enormous financial consideration to face on top of one’s downpayment, and a serious obstacle to owning a number of different properties in one’s life.

In the event our notaire was good value for money, something of a showman in fact. Having let his juniors take care of the preliminaries we were marched into his office for the final exchange of contracts. With well-honed comic timing and vigorous gesticulating, his beautifully flowing oration was magnificent to behold: condensing a summary of France’s unsurprisingly substantatial housing law into an hour-long address. Furthermore there were some last minute complications with the bank but he - a force of nature not to be meddled with - was by then sufficiently committed to our purchase to bang some heads together at the bank to keep the ball rolling.

Personally I could see no advantage in approaching an agence immobilière (estate agency). Assuming that you have an idea in which quartier you would like to buy, and the appropriate value for a property in that area, you can search for private sellers online on sites such as Paruvendu and Leboncoin. We negotiated directly with the seller, bypassing the middle man. Given that the notaire conducts a thorough survey of the property and that you can withdraw without charge at the signing of the compromis de vente, then the need to work with an agent did not make itself apparent to me.

If, like me, you are a first time buyer in France, you could be entitled to a zero per cent loan of up to around 30,000 euro. Such loans, and their duration, are defined by your means. We qualified for approximately half of the thirty, and it has to be repaid within the first six years of our mortgage.  However, we found ourselves in the slightly sticky position of having (for reasons too boring to explain here) to apply for this from a different bank to that from which we had agreed our principal mortgage. Of course, the bank from which we were requesting the zero per cent loan held us captive while they tried in vain to beat the mortgage we had secured from our other bank, and upon realising they couldn’t do it, saddled us with a rather inept trainee to administrate the loan.

Trying to get a bank to hurry up (necessary when deadlines have been imposed by the notaire) when there is essentially no profit in it for them is quite futile – more so when you’re main contact hasn’t a clue what he is doing. Amusingly, said bank tried to fob us off by saying something along the lines of “there’s so much admin involved in this loan that it’s hardly worth it”. That’s right, admin not worth potentially thousands of euros – I don’t think so! However, they almost had a point, the sheer quantity of justificatifs required would have impressed even the most hardened of fonctionnaires. Just the photocopying and stapling drew a Herculean effort from our trainee bank manager, who made a clerical task seem like Fort Boyard.

Anyway, now that the boxes that once dominated the flat start to empty and disappear, and life seems worth living again, we can look forward to the much fabled tax credit for first time buyers: apparently the interest we pay on our mortgage is deductible from our annual income tax bill for the first five years of repayment. Rumour has it that if the interest is greater than your obligations, the French government start mailing you cheques. I’ll let you know next September. These advantages put a little shine to the lie that renting is throwing you’re hard-earneds away to a landlord whereas paying a mortgage is like putting money in your own piggy bank. A mortgage is still (in my case) a 25-year burden, but on balance I think it’s worth it.

Photo: meddygarnet

 Want to improve your French while in Grenoble but don’t know where to go? Grenoble Life’s Camille Bromley has done the research so that you don’t have to.

Need to work on your French? A look at French classes in Grenoble

by Camille Bromley

For those in Grenoble who need a little push – or a big kick – to get their French up to par: let’s get to it! After arriving in France to live last summer, I discovered that my confidence in my US-learned French was largely unfounded. Pressing ahead with self-motivation and grammar books, I found myself in foreign language quicksand – the more French I gained control of, the more I realized how far I had to go. I promptly researched language schools in Grenoble, settling on a CUEF (Centre Universitaire d’Études Françaises) course at the Université Stendhal, and received the kick start that I needed.

Although your French level will undoubtedly progress in the course of daily life, a language class will accelerate the process and draw your attention to vocabulary or grammar you may be still missing. A language class also introduces you to other foreigners in the community, many non-English speaking, many new to the area, with a similar level of communication to yours, a valuable resource to make friends and practice your French outside of class. Class teachers provide insights into French culture and local goings-on, and many courses organize activities outside of class.

Grenoble offers quite a few community French language classes and several official schools.

Language Schools

The language schools are run professionally and so offer a rigorous schedule, a higher quality of instruction, and more sophisticated materials. The downside is that tuition fees swallow a significant chunk of the wallet.

1. Centre Universitaire d’Études Françaises (CUEF)

I took CUEF’s intensive French language course this summer. It was 20 hours per week, duration four weeks. It cost 640 euros, which works out to eight euros per hour. A variety of courses are offered, general French language courses as well as courses targeted towards specific needs. For those of us with a day job, there is an evening course, eight hours per week.

The teaching materials used in my course were excellent. Audio equipment was available for intensive listening comprehension exercises, and visual materials such as video clips were used regularly. CUEF does not follow a textbook; the class curriculum is created according to teacher preference. Because CUEF is affiliated with University Stendhal, students of CUEF are eligible to perks such as free use of the language laboratory equipment and participation in weekend excursions.

I was satisfied with the course and I definitely saw improvement by the end. For more information see the website. 

2. Alliance Française

The Alliance Française, conveniently located in the center of town, offers intensive, semi-intensive, and specific-needs French courses. The fees work out to nine euros per hour. The organization of classes is similar to CUEF, but the facilities lack a language laboratory with audio equipment.

For more information see the website.

3. Association Babel

Babel, a language association and home to an English library, offers courses in several languages. The class size is smaller and the ambiance more intimate.  There is a French language course as well as a French/English conversation exchange group. At the moment, the course is not available but may resume in January 2010, upon request. The fee for the course is 265 euros per year. The fee for the exchange group is 50 euros per year.

2 rue Sainte Ursule, 38000 Grenoble
04 76 42 43 91
association.babel (at) laposte.net

Community Classes

Community classes are taught by French volunteers, at very low cost. They are more flexible and less demanding than the language schools, and may offer more opportunity for conversation practice and personal interaction. However, almost all the community classes are targeted for beginner to lower-intermediate level learners.

1. MJC Abbaye, Ateliers du Français

Held Mon, Tues, Thurs 2:00-4:00, Fri 9:00-11:00, 2:00-4:00
Fee: 25 euros/year
Level: beginner to low intermediate

2. ODTI

Held Mon and Tues 9:00-11:00
Fee: eight euros/year
Level: beginner to intermediate
Focus: vocabulary, cultural knowledge of France and Grenoble, grammar

3. Association AMAL

Held Tues, Fri 2:00-4:00
Fee: 10 euros/year
Level: intermediate
Focus: grammar, reading, listening
57 Avenue du Maréchal Randon, 38000 Grenoble
04 76 44 71 14

4. Association LEFOP

Fee: two euros/year
06 81 38 97 92

5. Association Préludes

Thurs, Fri 9:00-11:00
No fee
04 76 54 33 14
associationpreludes (at) hotmail.fr

6. MJC Villeneuve

Fee: five euros/year
04 76 09 18 29

7. Centre Social Teisseire, Association FACILE

Tues, Fri 9:00-11:00
Fee: three euros/trimester
04 76 25 49 63

8. Centre Social Vieux Temple

Tues, Thurs 8:45-11:45
Fee: three euros/year
04 76 54 67 53

9. Centre Social Vieux Temple, Communic’Action

Fee: three euros/year
04 76 54 67 53

10. Centre Social Prémol, Atelier Communication

Tues 2:00-4:00, 6:00-8:00; Thurs 9:00-11:00, 6:00-8:00
No fee
04 76 09 00 28

11. Centre Social Arlequin, Atelier de français

Tues, Wed, Thurs, Fri 9:00-11:00, Tues 2:00-4:00
No fee
04 76 22 42 20

Language Partner (Tandem)

If conversational or oral expression is what you need work on, it may be more useful to find a language partner. The idea is that two people meet regularly to practice each other’s native tongues, dividing time equally between the two languages. No fee is involved. This is a great way to make a new friend and learn about French culture and local events.

You can find demands for a language exchange on announcement boards in buildings at the Université Stendhal campus, especially at CUEF and the Maison de Langues. You can also post an announcement yourself.

Alternately, the student organization Integre Grenoble posts demands for Tandem on its website.

Café linguistique

Café linguistiques are open to foreigners looking to practice French and French people looking to practice a foreign language. They are typically held in the evenings in various pubs around the city. The location and date change each time, so you will have to follow the postings. Check Intregre, an organization for international students in Grenoble, and Happy People, an organization for introducing foreigners to locals and arranging language exchanges. Intregre is almost exclusively a young student crowd, while Happy People includes members of more diverse backgrounds.

Musée de Grenoble

The colors of Gaston Chaissac are brightening up the winter season here in Grenoble with the current exhibition at the Musée de Grenoble, Gaston Chaissac: poète rustique et peintre moderne. Camille Bromley of Grenoble Life explains.

by Camille Bromley

Chaissac was a self-taught French painter from the first half of the 20th century, a working class man who was eventually ‘discovered’ by a couple of established artists and introduced to the society of artists in Paris. Chaissac separated himself and his work from the intellectual elite, however, referring to his style as “modern rustic.” The description seems apt; his work is modern in form, in color, and rustic in its simple, even childlike crudeness. In addition to the drawings, paintings, and collages on display at the Musée de Grenoble are sculptures made out of common objects: a bucket, a basket, stones, a personified broom, endowed with Chaissac’s signature awkward smile.

Sans titre, 1957-59, huile

This is a perfect exhibition for children; certainly much of Chaissac’s work actually resembles children’s drawings, and the bright colors and unsteady shapes are immediately appealing. Chaissac’s world is highly personal and isolated as well; despite the rainbow of colors these figures aren’t openly joyous, their uneven eyes and crooked mouths seem to be hiding an inner something. You can imagine an emotional complexity being expressed with unsteady hands. The museum has set aside a room at the end of the exhibition for the Chaissac-inspired artworks done by local children. It is now quite full with colorful figures and bent smiles. There are collages on the wall, faces made with buckets, flower pots, colanders. One of my elementary school classes painted their own Chaissac portraits — what a wonderful way to introduce children to art!

The exhibition will run until January 31^st, 2010.

There’s much more to see than the Chaissac exhibition, however. The Musée de Grenoble is renowned across Europe for its permanent collection, especially that of the 20th century. The museum is over 200 years old (founded in 1798), making it the oldest museum of modern art in France. It houses Egyptian, Greek, and Etruscan antiquities, and a history of Western painting is organized chronologically from the Middle Ages to current day, including significant works by Matisse and Picasso. One of the most pleasantly surprising rooms features former artists from Grenoble and their breathtaking landscapes of the surrounding mountains.

For a small city of about 150,000 residents, Grenoble is home to a rather impressive art museum, and the entrance fee is next to nothing: 5 euro, or 3 euro reduced rate, and only 2 euro for students. Free for children under 18. In addition, every first Sunday of the month is free entry.  

The museum is open every day except Tuesday between 10.00 am and 6.30 pm. Closed January 1^st, May 1^st, and December 25^th. Audioguides are available in French, English, and Italian for 3 euro. Guided visits are also conducted at 3 PM Saturday and Sunday, 3 euro.

On the premises are a library of art history, coffee bar, bookshop, and Sculptures Park. Concerts are held regularly; consult www.musee-en-musique.com

Musée de Grenoble
5, place de Lavalette
38010 Grenoble
Tél : 04 76 63 44 44

Loving life with the kids

Felicity Lodge is a financial planner with The Spectrum IFA Group, offering independent financial planning advice for expatriates in France. Felicity is based in Grenoble and works with English speaking expats the Alps region.  Here is her guide to some of the personal finance considerations for those making the move to France.

Moving to a new country can be a stressful time – changing jobs, finding somewhere to live, moving schools – and all this in a foreign language. In the midst of all this, financial issues get overlooked. People often assume that because their savings and pensions are well arranged in their home country, they can leave things as they are when they are living in France. In fact, all countries have different tax systems and what is tax efficient in one country may not necessarily be as suitable when you become French resident.

A common way of saving in the UK is with an ISA. Whilst you can continue to hold (but not contribute to) existing ISAs if you are non-resident in the UK, many people do not realize that an ISA is not tax exempt in France and any interest, dividends and capital gains must be declared on your annual tax return. If you will be moving back to the UK it may be worth holding onto your ISAs anyway – this will depend on your personal circumstances. Another popular way of saving in the UK is with the Post Office through National Savings and Premium Bonds. These are also not tax exempt in France and any interest or winnings will be taxable (since you can get your money back, Premium Bonds, wins are considered as interest not as lottery winnings). Some people place their money in offshore banks thinking they will not have to pay tax, however, a French tax return requires you to declare all worldwide income, including interest, and all accounts. Paying withholding tax does not remove the obligation of disclosure.

Bank Savings Accounts

Luckily, as a French resident you have other options available – different but equally valuable. Your first stop will be your bank for savings accounts (compte epargne), specifically a Livret A and a Livret Development Durable (LDD). These should both be offered by your bank and allow you to save a significant amount without tax. However, the interest rates at the moment are not very enticing, so while these accounts are good for holding emergency funds or money you will need in the immediate future, in the long-term your savings run the risk of being depreciated by inflation.

People today are aware of the risk of loosing some of their savings if a bank collapses. France has a compensation scheme that covers up to 70,000 € of a depositor’s net deposits per banking group. The UK scheme covers £50,000 per banking group. People are less aware that the biggest threat to your savings is that the return may not keep pace with inflation, eroding purchasing power in real terms.

Long-Term Savings

For money that you have no plans for in the near-future you might want to have some exposure to bonds or shares, to try to improve long-term returns. The safest way to do this is by investing through funds, since this way you have the expertise of a fund manager and his team and also, since your money is pooled with that of many other investors, your money will be invested in a wider range of shares, which reduces risk compared to holding shares in a few individual companies.

There are two main ways to do this tax efficiently in France. The first is through a Plan Epargne Actions (PEA) which is an account in which you can hold shares and funds. There are tax advantages, but these are combined with restrictions. You can only hold funds or shares that are based in and invested in companies in the European Economic Area (EEA). This is quite a severe restriction and means that you cannot fully diversify and take advantages of growth in other parts of the world. In addition, you cannot continue to hold a PEA if you cease to be French resident.

An alternative and less restrictive option is to hold funds in a life insurance bond. A French approved life insurance bond (Assurance Vie) is similar to a PEA in that it is an account with tax advantages in which you can hold funds. Funds held in an Assurance Vie must be based in the EEA but can invest anywhere in the world. Assurance Vie policies are widely held by French people for long-term savings and to supplement retirement income, since personal pensions in France are not as developed as in the UK and have quite strict requirements on when and how you can take your money. An Assurance Vie is much more flexible: for full tax advantages you must hold the policy for eight years although you can continue to hold it for as long as you wish and you have access to your money at all times.

Holding your savings in an Assurance Vie offers a number of advantages, particularly in France where the tax treatment of an Assurance Vie is very favourable. No tax is due on any asset held within the Assurance Vie whilst it remains in the policy and funds can be bought and sold within the policy with no tax payable, which means that the policy grows tax free. Tax is only payable when money is withdrawn from the Assurance Vie, and this is at extremely beneficial rates after the policy has been held for eight years.

In addition, there are benefits with regard to succession. The policy can be left to whomever the holder wishes, currently with a considerable tax free allowance and a comparatively low rate on any excess. Holding assets together in an Assurance Vie also simplifies your paperwork, tax treatment and asset management. The policy can be kept if you leave France, in which case the tax regulations of your new country of residence will apply.

Assurance Vie policies are not all made equal. Those offered by your bank are often expensive and have little choice of what to invest in. Some are available online with very low charges and a wide range of funds (supports) offered, but for this route you must be comfortable with a DIY approach. If you consult a financial planner, they will be able to find the best policy to match your needs and help you tailor the investment to your risk profile and to changing personal circumstances as your life changes. An Assurance Vie can be a lifetime investment that evolves with you.

Mortgages

Buying a property in France is highly regulated.  The amount you can borrow is controlled so loan payments and any other regular obligations cannot be more than 33% of your monthly income (net of social charges). This amount must be sufficient to cover any existing financial commitments, your new mortgage payments and the associated life insurance cover (which French banks insist on). The same rule applies if you are renting accommodation. French people tend to use fixed rate mortgages, but other options are available and are becoming more common. Re-mortgaging is more difficult in France, so choosing the most suitable mortgage in the first place is essential.

Succession

Inheritance law in France is very different to in the UK and other countries. French succession law applies to properties in France, even if the owners are not French resident, and to worldwide assets if you are. Under French succession law you are not able to leave your assets to anyone you please. Protected heirs (usually your children) are entitled to a portion of your estate and you are not able to leave the total of your assets to anyone you please. Inheritance tax, especially for non-related beneficiaries, is severe.

If you have a complicated family situation or have a will that does not agree with French law, it is vital that you consult with a notaire and a financial planner.

If you have not yet moved to France, professional guidance is essential since there are tax advantages to making some arrangements before you are French resident. If you are already resident in France, trying to understand the details of your different options can be a nightmare, especially when everything is written in a language you do not fully understand. A financial planner can help you to work out the best route to achieving your personal and financial goals within the French system.

Felicity Lodge, based in Grenoble, is a financial planner with The Spectrum IFA Group. For a free, no-obligation consultation please contact felicity.lodge (at) spectrum-ifa.com

Radio On. Photo: Flavijus

English Talk Radio is a talk show in English on 90.8 Radio Campus Grenoble. We talk about film, theatre, finance, restaurants, travel, and have a variety of topical guests. We are four presenters: Kristine Minski talks about finance, Christina Menez talks about China, Mary Zaccai talks about student issues, and Vivian Draper – animatrice/rédactrice – hosts the show. Every Sunday at 12.30pm, and every Wednesday at 7pm on 90.8, Radio Campus Grenoble and also live on www.campusgrenoble.org – and streaming here on Grenoble Life.

English Talk Radio November 27 podcast

Guests on 27 November 2009 English Talk Radio:
Mandy Besson talks about “Peter Pan – a pantomime”, January 20–23 2010 at Cité Scolaire Internationale (information & ticket purchase : gregg.west@ac-grenoble.fr )
James Dalrymple talks about the English language web site Grenoble Life
ETR Presenters Kristine Minski, Mary Zaccai and Vivian Draper, sound engineer Bertrand Tappaz

'my guitar'. Photo: Chewy Chua

Gregg West is an American history and geography teacher at Cité Scolaire Internationale. He also handles the school pantomime, organic gardening club, interpersonal communication classes, and music club, which he has written about here for Grenoble Life.

by Gregg West

About ten years ago, I had a student in ninth grade (3ème) who had stopped working at school. As I listened to her, I discovered a deeper cause.

“My parents have a wonderful house and a swimming pool, but they work 60 hours a week and I never see them. And school is beginning to resemble that for me. I can’t be bothered. I don’t care about these things.  I don’t want to grow up and be like that!”

“Well you don’t have to if you make different choices. You know, one can live with a lot less.  Happiness isn’t about wealth though many confuse them.  But I can see you feel discouraged.  What really interests you in life?”

“I’d love to learn to play the guitar,” she replied “’cause I love music. But the school day’s so long and I live so far away that there’s no possibility. And anyway, everybody says you can’t make a living at that.”

“Well, life isn’t just about money, is it?  You can do music on the side and still learn a profession.  What if I taught you a bit here at school when you have an hour between classes, would that interest you?”

Her face was transformed, “Oh, Mr. West! I’d love that!” So we organized a little guitar class. And this girl began studying again, her motivation back, started a rock group, and finally got her Bac and went on to university.

Soon, the rumour got around and the demand for guitar lessons became a problem because there was no place in the school where we could do this without bothering classes.

But creative, manual and self-run, co-operative enterprises are a sorely missing aspect of education in France. Children need these to round out their personalities, to develop a sense of self-esteem and responsibility, a sense of meaningful activity that they choose for a change that is not imposed, and, of course, to have fun!

So when the new International High School was created in 2001, I immediately identified a place where we could set up a club. At first I lent my own equipment and we built a drum set out of wood and plastic paint cans until concerts brought in enough money to purchase equipment: guitars, a bass, a synthesizer, amplifiers, drums, microphones, cables, and a digital studio. I encouraged all those who knew how to play to teach others and little by little the club grew. The Foyer Socio-Educatif in the Collège and the Maison des Lycéens in the High School also gave us some help buying equipment.

The club now has about 100 members, and 10 supervisors chosen from among the students involved run the club, keeping a check on how members put things away, notifying me of problems, and organizing three or four concerts a year, including one with pay entry to help finance equipment repair and purchase. There are groups that rehearse there an average of about 12 hours each week, free tutorials by experienced members to teach others to sing or play an instrument, and we have even put out two multilingual albums, one in 2006 about AIDS (Sept langues contre le SIDA) with 17 songs which sold about 160 copies and led to a 1000€ contribution by the club to an anti-AIDS association and a more recent album Etat Planète (Et Ta Planète/Et Tape-là-nette) which has sold about 70 copies so far, allowing us to finance an organic gardening club.

The club is only open to our own students for obvious reasons of security and competition for the time slots, but if others want to know how we did it, they can contact me at: gregg.west (at) ac-grenoble.fr

Parents and their Toddler Talkers enjoying a story. Helen McEwan is second from left

abc anglais is a brand new English speaking playgroup in Grenoble for the youngest of children and their parents no matter where you are from. Mums, dads, toddlers and babies are totally immersed in an English-speaking environment during the session, joining in the nursery rhymes and songs, listening to favourite stories, playing age-appropriate games as well as taking part in art and craft activities all conducted in English. It’s run by me, Helen McEwan, a UK qualified Speech and Language Therapist and experienced English language teacher.

Every session is structured around a subject, which forms part of a five week theme, for example, ‘On the Farm’. We always have at least one story, one song, one nursery rhyme per subject, e.g., ‘cows’, and plenty of games and craft activities to keep the children actively interested. There is also a story and a couple of songs on the general theme which we come back to every time to reinforce the learning of the theme and to allow the children (and parents) to familiarise themselves with the English songs and stories.

There are currently three levels – “Baby Babblers” for babies up to 12 months old, “Toddler Talkers” for one to two year olds, and “Chatterbox Children” for two to three year olds.

My idea of exposing very young children to a language they do not normally speak at home is based on the theories of language development in general. There are still many mysteries surrounding language acquisition (and even more so around the thorny issue of bilingualism), but it is believed that a child learns the fundamentals of his/her own language by age three. So, in order to maximise the chances of a child learning an additional language as naturally and easily as possible, it is best to start early.

In addition, there is clear evidence that learning the sounds of language is done in the first year of life, much research quoting just the first six months as the time limit on acquiring the speech sounds specific to your language. So, if you noticed your baby being able to trill or click and make sounds more akin to more ‘exotic’ languages in its early months, this is because your baby was born with the ability to make all speech sounds, but quickly hones into the sounds s/he hears in her environment and continues to practise only those in the babble phase, around six–nine months. Therefore, if you want to pronounce another language well – especially if it sounds very different to your own, (French vs. English!), ideally you need to be exposed to the sounds of that language in the first six months of life, or certainly no later than the first year in order to reproduce them accurately later on!

Making spider bracelets with Chatterbox Children at Halloween

For this reason, I choose stories which use repetition, rhyme, have a strong rhythm, are not very ‘wordy’, but have captivating story lines as well as bold, striking artwork to capture the child’s imagination, even if s/he doesn’t know any English yet. For any form of learning, familiarisation of the subject matter is essential. Repetition is therefore a valuable learning tool, and so we come back to the stories and songs and rhymes during one session, during a theme, and also during the course of the year, but from different angles. ‘Noah’s Ark’ can be used in a session on rain, as well as animals, boats, or counting for example.  In any case, children love returning to their favourite books, toys, programmes over and over again.

The same principle applies to the songs we sing. They are carefully chosen for their ease of learning, and because they are fun, and tuneful and worth singing. Learning through song is almost primeval. Often it is easier to learn a phrase with music or with a strong rhythm – do you remember doing this when revising for an exam, or learning a new language? – as you are allowing your brain more chances of storing the data and hence more opportunities of retrieving it via various routes – the linguistic and the musical. Singing is an almost instinctive response to childcare. Many cultures use music for child rearing, and children respond instinctively to the human voice, particularly their mother’s. In this way singing constitutes a fundamental form of early interaction between parent and child.

I set up abc anglais because of my own experience of coming to Grenoble six months pregnant with my first child. Although I have worked with children, including newborns and premature babies, I had no idea what to expect with my own baby, particularly in a very new and foreign environment. And I was very disappointed to discover that actually there is very little available for parents and babies in particular. It was a very isolating and disorientating experience. Thank goodness for Open House and the Baby and Toddler Groups there, which I quickly became involved with (and I encourage all similar families to). Running the groups there and doing prototype abc sessions at my daughter’s garderie gave me the idea to combine my professional skills with offering something that I feel is lacking in Grenoble – a service for our youngest of citizens. In the UK, I worked in nurseries and clinics for the under fives, and ran parent-child interaction groups which encourage positive communication. I draw on this experience and other principles of my profession in designing and running the abc sessions.

Helen McEwan

So, abc anglais is as much an opportunity for parents to have some quality play time with their young children, as it is an opportunity for the children to become exposed to English at the optimum time for language learning. It is also an opportunity for parents to practise their English, and enjoy being in an English-speaking environment. abc anglais is as much for parents as for children, and this is a fundamental basic principle. And it’s open to everyone, not just Anglophones. Families from USA, Asia, as well as many different European countries, and French families are currently attending.

Sessions are held in two locations in Grenoble – at Les Petits Bilingues, place de Metz, on Mondays and Tuesdays, and at the new English café – Bookworm, rue St. Laurent, on Wednesday and Saturday mornings. The new block starts the week of 9 November. It will run for five weeks, with a special Christmas session in the week of 14 December. Come and join us, it’s lots of fun!

(Check out the Bookworm Café blog and the fantastic Mômes à Grenoble blog for further information on forthcoming events, or contact me: abc.anglais (at) free.fr)

Bikes, St Laurent. Photo: James Dalrymple

New resident Shonah Kennedy – aka Miss Shonah – gets around Grenoble en vélo. She encourages you to do the same. Here is her guide to enjoying and surviving your daily bicycle commute in the Capital of the Alps.

by Shonah Kennedy

Did you know Grenoble is the flattest city in France? This is a statement that I have heard on more than one occasion in my two short months here – and it has indeed been verified by my favourite search engine! What does this fact mean for the residents of Grenoble and its surrounds – Get on your bike(s)!

What better way to commute in the flattest city in France than from the luxury of your own two-wheeler, two-leg-powered machine and – as an added bonus – breathing in the fresh air of the mountainous surrounds?  So, you want to commute by bicycle … there are a few essentials before you peddle off.

Essential 1: A Bike

You can go to the usual suspects – Decathlon, Go Sport etc. or you could try viable alternatives.  Quite by mistake I bought my bike from Carrefour – not even being aware that you could get bikes – and bikes of decent quality with any service – there.  However, my vélo de ville is strong, road-ready, equipped with a cute basket and warrantee to boot! There was even a very helpful bike technician there to tighten a few nuts and bolts before I rolled it through the cash register!

If you wanted to try to commute en velo, but without committing to a bike immediately – Métrovélo can help.  They are very informative and give assistance readily (they also have insider information on where is best to buy second hand bikes, if this is something you want to consider) and you can hire a bike from them for one day or one year!

Essential 2: Protection

So, now you have your machine of choice – be sure to be well equipped! When you drive, or catch a bus or tram to commute – you can run directly from your warm and cosy house into a warm and cosy vehicle (or, of course in the summer months, air-conditioned bliss). There is a layer of vehicle between you and the sometimes inclement mountain weather. Sadly, a bike does not offer this protection so you need to B.Y.O.

Therefore (and from experience of not donning these items) gloves, jacket, head gear and very thick socks will make your commute a more enjoyable experience.  And really, need more be said – it is cold out there (now) and all extremities are vulnerable. It is always better to be able to take layers off than be so cold you can’t operate your machine properly!

With regards to a helmet – there is no question, get one!  It is the only item that will stop you from hitting your head on anything harder than your head in the case of any type of accident. When sitting parallel to a big monster truck, or bus, human insignificance seems to be magnified and these moments make you realise that helmets are good ideas!

Thanks to daylight savings and another Northern Hemisphere winter quickly approaching, it is getting very dark “out there” very early – BE VISIBLE! Yes, look like the “stop/go person” at road works, get more lights than are necessary. Imagine a rolling Christmas tree and this should give you some indication of the level of illumination you need on the roads after dark – or pre-light depending on the hour you need to start commuting.

Essential 3: Know where you are going

There are over 280 kilometres of bike paths in Grenoble.  Not only does this make commuting extremely easy to do, it also allows for many opportunities to get lost! From the Tourist office, Métrovélo, or many online sites you can get a simple map and pre-plan your daily commute, until it becomes as easy and as simple as jumping on the bus.

Now you have your essentials – get on your bike! This is an exciting moment, so considering the following will make it really fun!

Enjoy your daily commute!

**Leave yourself plenty of time to get all your gear on (layers take time to put on and take off!).  Cycle at a steady pace (you don’t want to get to work everyday looking akin to “Mr Messy” because you had to cycle like crazy to get there on time!). For timing purposes I once tried to chase a bus. This little riding experiment resulted in the conclusion that it takes approximately the same amount of time to ride a bike as it does to take the bus. So, to be safe – as I was really pushing the leg power to its limits – perhaps a little extra time should be factored in!

**The road can be a veritable mine-field. There are cars, trucks and buses coming from all directions.  Once you are in town there are trams and pedestrian traffic to contend with. Wherever there is a bike path there are traffic lights, pedestrian crossings, one way streets, Give Way and Stop signs, puddles that cars will always run into just at the precise moment as to splash onto your newly ironed trousers – so all I can say is take it easy. Don’t get bike rage. Take a breather on the footpath and be aware that you and your bike are probably the most insignificant things using the road. The wonderful thing about commuting by bike is that you can go at exactly the speed you want. You want to stop and take a photo – there is no ringing the little green button, just put on the brakes!

**Know your limits.  The other day – in the pouring rain – I saw one brave soul riding along with her umbrella open. This is an absolute personal choice – however when it is a torrential downpour I am on any form of public transport that keeps me dry!

Remember – if it is difficult and you feel out of breath and the cars are just plain ignoring you and all the lights seem to be red – you are doing a wonderful thing for your own well-being, getting to see the city in a whole new light and also you are being very kind to the precious environment! So what are you waiting for – Get on your bike(s)!

Chateau de Vizille. Photo: James Dalrymple

Bernard Denis is a doctor and cardiologist, and was Head of the department of cardiology at the Hôpital A. Michallon in Grenoble. Now retired, he enjoys writing short stories in English. Grenoble Life invited him to submit this one, ‘My Oldest Patient’. 

My Oldest Patient – a character that all people living in the Dauphiné should know

by Denis Bernard

During my professional life (as head of the Department of Cardiology, Michallon Hospital) I had the opportunity to be consulted about a famous character. I won’t tell you yet who he is. It’s not a question of medical secrecy, but I prefer to give clues which will allow the reader to discover, through anecdotes, the personality and therefore the name of this character.

He was born in 1543, in a region not far from Gap: Le Champsaur.

He grew up in a Protestant family and became a remarkable warrior.

He was very skilful, wise, courageous, and he won a lot of battles.

He was cunning and that’s why he was called “the fox of the mountains”.

He became one of the richest citizens of Le Dauphiné and maybe even of France.

He was very generous and devoted to his province.

Often he acted as though he was the King of the Dauphiné – an illustration of his ambition.

He also built the well-known Chateau de Vizille. On this subject, an awful event shows how this character was sometime jealous and cynical. In Vizille there was an old castle named le Chateau du Roi and our character couldn’t stand this kind of competition.

One day he organised a huge party in his castle. All the inhabitants of Vizille were invited, especially the noble family living in le Chateau du Roi.

The party was magnificent. After sunset, the crowd was invited to go up to the balconies of the castle and admire a special firework display. On the skyline everybody could see the awful spectacle of the le Chateau du Roi disappearing in flames.

He had young and pretty mistress, Marie Vignon, whom he married, after the death of his wife. He still looked handsome but he was old for this time (in his sixties).

The wedding was simple – the celebration took place in the chapel of le Chateau du Touvet. After the marriage ceremony, a light lunch gathered all the friends of the couple in a large room on the first floor of the castle. The wine helping, everybody was happy and joyful. Unfortunately, in spite of the noise, our character heard somebody joking about the difference in age between him and his wife. Immediately very angry, he shouted, “If I catch the person who is joking about my wife and me, I’ll throw him through the window,” and a ripple ran over the audience: everybody knew that the groom was able to do what he had said.

The last clues: in Grenoble there is a street named after him, and the Jardin de ville is located just before a big house which was also his castle (now Maison de l’international).

I think it’s easy to find the name of this character. Do you give up?

His name is François de Bonne, Duc de Lesdiguieres, Connétable de France.

François de Bonne, Duc de Lesdiguieres

Lesdiguière was 83 years old when he died. In the seventeen century the life expectancy in France was about 45 years. Now in 2009 the life expectancy of the men in France is about 77 years.

Lesdiguières took care of Le Dauphiné with great success, he resisted a very dangerous illness and his life was uncommonly long. In spite of his many flaws, everybody in Le Dauphiné is proud of this character

And now, how did he become one of my “patients”?

In 1988, I received a letter from René Raymond, author of the book L’Insolite et Images fortes du passé. He needed the help of a cardiologist in view to give him a diagnosis based on the Lesdiguières autopsy report.

The Connétable died on September 28^th 1626 in Valence. After his death the body had to be embalmed but first an autopsy was carried out. A Capucin monk named Father Benoît de Montbrison wrote a report and here is a translation of a part of this report. (Don’t be afraid, it’s not frightful!).

“At the opening of the body we found that the noble parts were sound, we only noticed that the lung was a little dry and adhering to the ribs … But the most admirable thing was something that nobody – among the five doctors, some surgeons and apothecaries who were here present – had ever observed before, nor read, nor heard. It was that his heart, which was physically small (as is said about the heart of Alexandre the Great, and was observed about the heart of King Henri IV, le Grand), was crowned by a crown of small bones and cartilage. These things myself and my reliable comrade have touched and fingered, testimony of the truth of the grandeur he should attain”.

In spite of lack of details, it was not very difficult to give a diagnosis with a high degree of reliability.

As a matter of fact, the pulmonary lesion with adherence to the ribs and the very specific heart abnormalities allow us to diagnose the consequences of tuberculosis, which occurred probably during the youth of the patient.

This disease healed up spontaneously, with no clinical symptom of pulmonary or cardiac disease during his life. (The death of the patient was probably due to a disease without any evident link with the previous tuberculosis).

This history of tuberculosis makes this case so particular because in this period, and until 1945, tuberculosis was most often rapidly fatal.

Before sending René Raymond my answer, I thought I had better get the approval of my medical team.

In my department, there is a weekly meeting gathering all the doctors, surgeons, residents, trainees and students. Many difficult or odd cases are shown and opened for discussion.

Then, just before the end of the weekly meeting, I took the opportunity to read the autopsy report of the Connétable de Lesdiguières, as though it concerned one of my patients who died few days ago; but of course, without giving his name.

After an animated discussion, my diagnosis was approved unanimously.

And, when I said that the name of my patient was Lesdiguières, my respectful colleagues congratulated me on having among my patients such a famous old character.

But, through a light murmur in the room, I heard a student tell his friends, “If he took care of this patient throughout his life, I suppose he is the oldest teacher I have ever met”.

Fortunately I don’t look like the Connétable, and we were in a meeting room without windows!

After a short silence, everybody burst out laughing, the ice was broken and the meeting ended amicably, as always.

Oven-cooked, stuffed 'Potimarron' pumpkin!

Regular Grenoble Life contributor Suzanne Bonnefond takes a seasonal opportunity to share her photos of Foire A L’Ancienne Et Aux Potirons in St Antoine l’Abbaye, and her recipe for stuffed potimarron pumpkin. Enjoy …

by Suzanne Bonnefond

On October 25^th there was the Foire A L’Ancienne Et Aux Potirons in the medieval village of St Antoine l’Abbaye, Isère. On that note, here is a stuffed pumpkin recipe.

Stuffed 'potimarron'

Stuffed potimarron

Potimarron is the small orange variety of pumpkin that you can find in all the markets.

Rub a little oil on the pumpkin to give it a nice colour once cooked. Boil the whole potimarron in water for about 10 minutes, so that it will be easy to cut. Then, open it and remove the seeds, fill it with cooked vegetables, and add fresh cream or water, grated nutmeg, and salt and pepper. You can add gruyère on top if you like but personally I keep it simple, as it already has a delicious chestnut-like taste.  Cook in the oven for a good half an hour, the flesh of the potimarron will be very tender.

Enormous pumpkins: St Antoine l’Abbaye

Pumpkin cart: St Antoine l’Abbaye

All manner of 'courges': St Antoine l’Abbaye

Walnuts and 'courges': St Antoine l’Abbaye

The market in St Antoine l’Abbaye

Il y avait une foire aux courges à St Antoine, et j’en profite pour vous donner la recette du potimarron farci

Recette du potimarron farci

Le potimarron, c’est la petite courge c ouleur orange que l’on trouve sur tous les marchés.

Enduire le potimarron avec un peu d’huile pour lui donner une belle couleur à la cuisson. Faire cuire le potimarron entier dans l’eau bouillante pendant 10 minutes environ, ensuite on pourra le couper facilement. Le couper pour pouvoir le vider de ses graines, puis le remplir de légumes déjà cuits, avec eau, ou crème fraîche, et de la noix de muscade, sel, poivre … on peut ajouter du gruyère … je n’en mets pas je le fais le plus simplement possible, car la chair a un délicieux goût de châtaigne. Laisser cuire au four une bonne demi heure … la chair du potimarron va se détacher …

Chillis. photo: u m a m i

The French are not known for their love of spices - difficult for Grenoble’s British expats such as Hannah Dee, who comes from multicultural Leeds. Here is her guide to Grenoble Spice: the specialist food stores that hold those treasured, hard to find exotic ingredients.

Coming to Grenoble from a fairly multicultural part of the UK one of the things I found myself missing was the range of foodstuff available. Don’t get me wrong: I think French food is fantastic. The quality of the ingredients here, in particular the vegetables, far outstrips anything you can find in normal shops and markets in the UK. At the local markets you can get truly fresh local produce - cheap, plentiful, and advertising the origin of their produce in terms of département rather than country… Marvellous stuff. No more rooting around Leeds City markets looking at signs saying “Tomatoes (Holland)” or “Beans (Egypt)”.

But what you don’t get is the range of produce, and particularly not the spices. In UK supermarkets you can now get pretty much any vegetable or spice you want, any day of the year. Here in Grenoble, you have to go to a specialist shop (or one of the really HUGE supermarkets) to get fresh chillis and coriander. In urban areas of the UK, they’re in every corner shop. So with that in mind, here is a brief guide to the various specialist food stores I’ve found in Grenoble.

Saïgon Store, 6 Rue Doudart de Lagrée 38000 Grenoble has a range of mostly Vietnamese products – good range of noodles, some fresh exotic vegetables and some frozen stuff, and a huge range of spices. You can get decent hot chillis here and stuff like lemongrass, galangal, and other Southeast Asian vegetables and spices.

Carrefour Asiatique, 88 Cours Berriat, 38000 Grenoble has a similar range to the Saïgon Store, and is handily right next to tram stop St Bruno on the A and B lines.

Rajah Bazar, 15 Avenue Felix Viallet, 38000 Grenoble is a small, packed and friendly store with a huge range of spices and a fairly impressive alcohol selection. They also open late (indeed, there is even a Facebook fan page calling them the “Oasis nocturne de Grenoble“).

World Market, 24 Avenue Felix Viallet, 38000 Grenoble is another small and packed shop, selling food from all over the world. A good range of Pataks curry sauces, Thai and Viet and Japanese and Chinese food, manioc flour, couscous, hummus, falafel… They even have instant “Pão do queijo” packet mixes if you’re after a cheesy Brazilian junkfood snack. And a surprisingly impressive line in hair extensions.

Indian Bazar (Wahey Guru Di Kirpa), Cours Berriat by the junction with Jean Jaures has a small range of Indian foodstuffs – all the dried spices you could want, dried goods, and some chutneys and pickles. This shop doesn’t have the largest range of stock, and isn’t very cheap. But they do have lots of spice!

Supermarché Siam Bangkok, 38, Avenue La Bruyère, 38100 Grenoble is a slightly out of town (on the A tram, stop La Bruyère) supermarket, which claims to be a Thai supermarket but is actually much more international, stocking fufu flour and couscous and a lot of other stuff I don’t know what to do with. The range is similar to that of the World Food Store, but the floorspace is larger and there seems to be an awful lot of dried fish. This one is a little run-down, but still an interesting place to browse.

It’s worth finishing with a mention that the Géant Casino at St Martin d’Heres has a reasonably good section of international food in tins and jars (including Marmite, yeah!) – presumably because of the international nature of the student population.

But what about you? Are there any ingredients you’ve not managed to find? Or any shops that I haven’t mentioned? Do leave a comment if so!

Les Caves de la Chartreuse, Voiron

Gill Baconnier has lived in France for over twenty years – seven of them in Grenoble. She teaches English, works with dyslexic children and, in her spare time, tries very hard to actually finish writing her children’s novel. A former feature writer for an English regional magazine, her articles about life in France can now be found at her blog French Windows. She kindly agreed to share this article about Chartreuse with Grenoble Life.

“They say Christianity is in decay; but no religion that invented green Chartreuse can ever die”  Saki

by Gill Baconnier

Grenoble lies in a hollow encircled by three mountain ranges: the Belledonne, famous for its ski slopes; the Vercors, a stronghold for the Résistance during World War II – and the Chartreuse, home to the Carthusian monks and their famous green liqueur. Now, I’m not a great skier and I wasn’t around during World War II but I do know a bit about the liqueur: it has a beautiful colour; it smells and tastes like a summer’s evening in an Alpine meadow and … it gives you a Day-Glo hangover that you’re not expecting because it is really strong.

A bottle of Chartreuse

The Order of the Grande Chartreuse was founded in 1084 by a German writer and academic, Bruno, who taught at the University of Rheims. Weary of the endless piles of marking, pointless administration and mind-numbingly boring staff meetings – or perhaps simply obeying a call from God – Bruno decided to become a monk. Together with six friends, he scoured France for a suitable isolated spot and happened on the Chartreuse Desert, an inhospitable snowbound place near Grenoble. The group built themselves seven simple wooden cells, a chapel and a dining hall and enjoyed a life of prayerful contemplation and light snacks, thus establishing the first Carthusian (Charterhouse) monastery. Today there are twenty-four of these communities around the world and their way of life has not changed for over nine hundred years.

In 1605, the monks at a Carthusian monastery outside Paris were given an ancient manuscript of unknown origin, entitled An Elixir of Long Life. At that time, few people knew how to use herbs and plants for medicinal purposes and the monks were only able to understand and use parts of the recipe. By 1737, the manuscript had found its way to the Grande Chartreuse near Grenoble where the monastery’s apothecary managed to unravel the complex formula and create the Herbal Elixir de la Grande Chartreuse from the maceration and distillation in alcohol of one hundred and thirty plants, flowers and various other bits of vegetation.

This new medicine was distributed locally, by mule, to Grenoble and the surrounding villages. It became surprisingly popular and the monks soon caught on to the old ‘for medicinal purposes’ routine and adapted the recipe to make a milder drink – that is to say, ninety-six rather than one hundred and twenty-four proof – which they called Chartreuse verte, Elixir de Santé.

During the French Revolution, members of all religious orders were driven out of the country. The Carthusian monks fled in 1793 and as a precaution, made a copy of their precious manuscript. One monk was allowed to stay in the monastery and he was given this copy to look after while the original was given to another monk. Unfortunately, the latter was arrested and thrown into prison in Bordeaux but was able to pass the manuscript to a mysterious hero who somehow smuggled it back to the Chartreuse, where he gave it to a monk who was in hiding near the monastery.

This monk didn’t have a clue what to do with the manuscript – and who could blame him? He had his own problems to deal with (imminent death by guillotine, hypothermia, starvation and so forth), and he promptly sold it to a local chemist, Monsieur Liotard – who didn’t have a clue either, so why he bought it in the first place is anybody’s guess.

The Chartreuse massif

In 1810, Napoleon ordered all secret recipes of medicines to be sent to the Ministry of the Interior, and a relieved Monsieur Liotard dutifully sent in his white elephant of a manuscript. Despite being experts in irrelevant waffle, nobody in the Ministry could decipher the thing, but rather than admit that, they sent it back marked REFUSED. When Monsieur Liotard died, his heirs returned the manuscript to the monastery with, one imagines, a puzzled shrug.

The monks were thrown out of France once more in 1903 under a law that prohibited all religious orders. They were allowed back in 1932, when they began producing their liqueur again. In 1935, their distillery in Fourvoirie was destroyed by a landslide and a new one was built in Voiron, which is where Chartreuse is produced today. The blending of the plants, however, is done in the monastery by two monks – the only two people in the world to be in possession of the formula. Each monk knows half the recipe and because they don’t talk to anybody – not even to each other – it remains a secret. They are linked to the distillery by computer and are therefore able to oversee production while keeping their vows of solitude and silence and doing a bit of online shopping at the same time. Green and yellow Chartreuse – the yellow is sweeter and not as strong as the green – is matured in oaken casks in the longest liqueur cellar in the world.

The original elixir is still used for medicinal purposes today but frankly, you’d have to be pretty ill not to notice the taste. I’m not sure what it’s supposed to cure – although farmers here do swear by it for the treatment of flatulence in cows (note to tourists: do not be alarmed at the sight of staggering cows. They are not suffering from bovine spongiform encephalopathy – it’s Happy Hour on the Prairie). Green Chartreuse, however, is one of my favourite drinks; it is so sweet and fragrant that I hardly notice how potent it is – but the fact that Saint Bruno is traditionally depicted nursing a skull (even if it isn’t his own) should have alerted me. Hmm … If you ask me, these monks have a lot to answer for!

Possibly flatulent Chartreuse cows

You can visit the Chartreuse Cellars in Voiron (less than half an hour from Grenoble by car but if you’re driving, you’d be wise to skip the Chartreuse-tasting part of the guided tour!):

Les Caves de la Chartreuse
10, boulevard Edgar Kofler
38500 Voiron
Tel : 04 76 05 81 77

There is also a museum, housed in 12^th century building that was once part of the monastery, at St Pierre de Chartreuse (half-an-hour’s drive from Grenoble):

Musée de la Grande Chartreuse
“La Correrie”
38380 St Pierre de Chartreuse
Tel : 04 76 88 60 45

Sarkozy & Chirac

In the second post in his blog The Franco-American Daily Deconstructionist; History and Culture in Everyday Life, John Hess asks ”Are you all as bored by the Clearstream affair as I am? If so, then excellent, this blog is just for you!”

Clearstream: Clients, Patrons, and French Political Parricide

by John Hess

For those of you who prefer reading Hello! and Closer, here’s a one–sentence summary: in 2004, in the course of an investigation into a kickback scandal involving the sale of French-built warships to Taiwan, a forged document linking Nicolas Sarkozy (among other prominent politicians) to the malversations was leaked to the prosecutor, allegedly at the behest of Dominique de Villepin, then the Interior Minister and a protégé of President Jacques Chirac.

(Whew! I did it!)

The details are all over the more serious sort of newspaper, and as promised, I shall not bore you with them. Buy Le Monde if you’re interested (it’s cheaper than Hello!, and you get to find out what Left Bank intellectuals did during their holidays in the sun).

What’s really great about this whole affair is the element of pure political assassination, which is unusual in the contemporary Western world, and is more reminiscent of the later Roman Republic than of a modern democracy. Sarkozy and de Villepin are, after all, from the same political party.

Clearstream really began in 1995, when Nicolas Sarkozy, originally a protégé of Chirac, betrayed his erstwhile patron by supporting Edouard Balladur’s rival bid for the presidency. Balladur lost, and both Balladur and most of his key supporters were exiled to the political equivalent of Siberia by the victorious Chirac; the satirical TV show Guignols de l’info portrayed him as John Travolta’s hit man from Pulp Fiction, knocking off Balladur’s entourage one by one, including Sarkozy.

Most of the balladuriens never managed to slip out of their concrete boots and stayed put at the bottom of the Seine, but the buoyant Sarkozy, with his ability to handle the media and generate popular support, proved indispensable, and muscled his way back into the heart of right wing French politics, gaining a ministerial post in 2002 at the start of Chirac’s second presidential term. But for the chiraquiens, Sarkozy was only suffered, not forgiven. During the course of 2004, Sarkozy’s relations with Chirac degraded to new lows, as Sarkozy managed to get himself elected as leader of the political party that Chirac had himself created; and Chirac began grooming de Villepin as his successor, naming him to replace Sarkozy as Minister of the Interior. And, coincidentally or not, 2004 was the year that the Clearstream forgeries were produced. Much of the energy of the three year remainder of Chirac’s presidency was wasted on other fruitless efforts to stymie Sarkozy’s inexorable rise, so as to clear the way for the president’s adoptive “political son”, de Villepin, a brilliant but otherwise politically ungifted man.

This storyline would have been quite familiar to the readers of Cularolife.com, had the internet existed in the first century AD, because it’s a Roman, Latin story: the story of patrons and clients, and the personal favors, betrayals, and vengeances that pass between them; of adoptive heirs and lethal political manoeuvrings.

Anglo–Saxons are used to tribal politics: liberals against conservatives, socialists against free-marketers, etc. Personal rivalries exist (e.g., Brown/Blair), but they are subsidiary to the considerations of the interests or ideologies of the political tribe. In France, it is the opposite, for the Roman tradition of patronage politics is still dominant. Political parties are more like “a loose coalition of personalised alliances, in which everyone belongs to someone.” Ideology is much talked-about, but it’s the networks that really count, which determine who gets access to the governmental goodies. Thus the importance of respecting the patronal hierarchies – and the depth of the anger of the patron when betrayed by the client.

When one considers that Chirac catapulted himself to the top of the French political right by betraying and subsequently destroying his political patron, Valéry Giscard-D’Estaing, it seems fair enough that he should be deprived of the right to name his political heir by the betrayal of one of his own clients.

Now, stay tuned for the inevitable coming drama: who will betray Sarkozy in the eternal quest for the fruits of power?

Nero (left) poisoned his way into the cushy job of his adoptive father, Claudius

Xavier Darcos announces plans to combat stress in the workplace. Photo: Ministère: Travail, Solidarité, Ville

James Dalrymple of Grenoble Life asks why the French – despite sleeping more and living longer than everyone else – are so stressed. Apparently the French government wants to know too …

This month Labour Minister Xavier Darcos confirmed what I had already suspected – France needs to start dealing with stress, which has reached epidemic proportions. The proposed measures may be viewed by some as a knee-jerk reaction to the media storm surrounding the apparently high number of suicides at France Telecom since 2008, which – when taking into account the size of the organisation – may not be much higher than the (admittedly relatively high) national average. However, the new regulations likely to be implemented may not solve deeper issues related to national character: having lived in France for a few years now I feel qualified to say that, contrary to popular belief internationally, stress is endemic to the nation.

Ignore the latest OECD survey that says the French spend more time eating and sleeping than anyone else, a posteriori the French are an anxious lot. As a teacher I have come into contact with a broad cross section of Grenoble’s business community and I am constantly surprised by the amount of furrowed brows and hand-wringing I encounter, and this is not just because of a lack of love for learning English.

Despite the abundance of reasons to be happy in comparison to, say, British people (having quality healthcare, for example, or efficient public transport, good weather, a proliferation of delicious fresh produce, living two years longer on average, being paradoxically slim, etc. etc.) – the French strike me as a far more stressed people.

Call it what the British would refer to as the Blitz spirit (i.e., putting on a brave phizog in the face of abject misery) but we seem to deal with life’s inconveniences better than the French. Maybe our self-depreciating nature would simply not function in a society like France’s where, on the whole, there is much less to justifiably gripe about.

But tell that to the French. I realise now why the French hold that generous stereotype of the Brits as monocle-wearing stoics, bastions of calm in the midst of chaos. It was a view of the Brits that I found laughably alien when I arrived in France as a bruised and bewildered London commuter, but now I see why.

While a Londoner can somehow find it in himself to tolerate entire weekends (and bank holiday periods) of engineering work shutdown on the Underground and dreaded Thameslink, or the limbo of an NHS waiting list, or finding that every shop he knew from his childhood has turned into a Tesco-metro-mini-express … he can probably laugh it off down at the pub.

He may even indulge in that national sport, binge-drinking, but take refuge in regaling his colleagues about the quality of his hangover the next morning. According to recent press, the Frenchman will drink 10% more than his British counterpart, but by stealth – his habit of quaffing half a bottle with every meal perhaps slowly spiralling out of control.

Contrary to conventional wisdom, the French work very hard. Yes, they enjoy unrivalled amounts of extra holiday time, but the only way to deliver France’s much-vaunted productivity is to slog it out at the desk. The French believe this too, they justify their stress by pointing out that they work harder than everybody else, something that might amuse American readers.

But no matter how much holiday is around the corner there is no doubt that the French feel the pressure in their highly regulated job market. Maybe it’s the coffee here – it makes people jumpy and brisk where the British workplace ceremony of making and drinking tea is a big cuddly arm of comfort around the shoulders: there there!

I was surprised to learn that the French sleep more than the international average, since the quality of my own sleep has declined since my arrival; it must be that coffee again. How to cure this? Making sport (sic) is the advice given by most Grenoblois as a cure-all for stress: whether it be slogging it up a 45 degree slope on a bike plastered in lycra or, even less logically, a gym, where the promise of more skin-tight neon and casual nakedness is hardly an attractive prospect to sooth my nerves.

The latter strikes me as particularly pointless in a city where – even if you don’t fancy tackling a near vertical ascent by bike dressed as an extra from Fame – plentiful cycle tracks make it the easiest of cities to work up even the most modest of sweats (my favourite kind!).

On a darker note, the relatively high suicide rate in the country may be representative of a more inherent inability of the French to cope with stress. In France Telcom’s case this has been blamed, by unions at least, on a never-ending drive for efficiency since its 1993 privatisation. The 40,000 jobs that have been lost in transforming France Telecom from public sector flagship to competitive multinational company are certainly not to be sniffed at, but I can’t help but wonder if this constant evolution - more characteristic of the American way of doing business – is a sometimes fatal anathema to a people for whom stability, security and prudence are cherished. How other nationals would react in similar circumstances is a moot point.

However, I find insistence by students of mine – who work at a recently internationalised French company - that in France one person does the job of three people in another country, as laughable. When French workers speak with misty-eyed nostalgia about the not-so-long-ago when they were less blighted by pressure, it is clear they are talking about a pre-globalised world. Is globalisation – France’s modern-era bogeyman – to blame for all this stress?

From a personal point of view, I suppose what I really want to know is: why is everybody in such a hurry? If I’m not being hassled off the road by drivers (often female I might add) for whom driving at the speed limit – or, in most cases, just acceptably above – is not fast enough, I am being harried in shop queues. The French are not quite the monster queue-pushers some Brits – sensitive in this matter - would like to suggest: it’s not quite like (and I’m talking from personal experience here) in India or Morocco, where queues are just for tourists, or in Italy (so the rumour has it), for fools.

Nevertheless, the French don’t like queues, and many try to expedite them, quite unsuccessfully, by standing as close as possible to the person in front of them. Most confoundingly, there are the women d’une certain age at my local primeur who have solved the age-old indignity of being next-in-line by placing their pannier by the cash-till before a desperate (and evidently stressful) snatch and grab job around the shop to fill it up - their place at the head of the queue secured.

I am often tempted to assuage the anxiety of those around me by saying hey, don’t stress: it’s France! when I realise how meaningless this would be. But again, what is there to be stressed about? In Britain, we have surely one of the most hysterical televisual news formats in the world, dramatised by the strokes of Big Ben: BONG! Feral youth on the rampage … BONG!! Knife crime escalation blamed on diet of Fanta and Turkey Twizzlers … BONG!!! Nuclear apocalypse beacons … etc.

How we manage to take this constant diet of failure and self-flagellation in the UK is a mystery, whereas in France the news is suspiciously neutral: 500 cars were set on fire in Paris last night but this is not representative of a wider malaise in French society and you needn’t worry your pretty little head about it.

My conclusion: maybe in Britain we are always being told that life is much worse than it really is and therefore are pleasantly surprised when we can laugh it off. In France, government promises (disseminated almost unchallenged by the television news) that the social state can cure all, can create a gap between the ideal and the reality. Anxiety may lie in between. Careful, it might be contagious!

Gill Baconnier has lived in France for over twenty years – seven of them in Grenoble. She teaches English, works with dyslexic children and, in her spare time, tries very hard to actually finish writing her children’s novel. A former feature writer for an English regional magazine, her articles about life in France can now be found at her blog French Windows. She kindly agreed to share this article about la noix de Grenoble with Grenoble Life.

Nuts about Grenoble

by Gill Baconnier

Walnuts have been around in France for a long time … a fossilised nut dating from the Tertiary era has been discovered in Ardèche and fragments dating from the Neolithic period have been found in the lake dwellings of Charavines in Isère. The image of Stone Age man cracking nuts around the fire is comfortingly familiar, even without the paper hat and the cheap sherry…

The walnut was sacred to the Ancient Romans. They thought it looked like the human brain – the outer husk was the scalp, the shell represented the skull and the crinkly nut inside, the two hemispheres of the brain (this is interesting because my own brain, judging by its performance these days, probably looks and functions exactly like a walnut.) It was the Romans who brought walnut trees to France, after having successfully cultivated them on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius. They established plantations in the Narbonne area, in Perigord and here in the Dauphiné where they thrived.

During the Middle Ages, the walnut was used to pay rent and for a little farmhouse in the Dauphiné region you would have had to shell out a few sétiers (just over a pint) of walnuts. They were so important in mediaeval life that a new profession was created, that of ‘walnut measurer’, although it was a limited career choice as only two posts existed for the whole of France.

However, up until the nineteenth century, the Dauphiné peasants’ main income came from silk worm farms and vineyards. It was not until disease killed off the silk worms in 1858 and grape phylloxera wiped out the vines in 1870, that they turned to walnut cultivation. It was a wise choice. Walnut orchards demanded far less work than vineyards and the new Grenoble to Valence railway line made export easy. Certain species of trees were more prolific than others and legend has it that one in particular was brought here by a young demoiselle as part of her dowry, for her marriage to a local lord. These trees were nurtured and protected so that today, Grenoble produces the finest walnuts in the world. Over fifty percent of the total French production comes from this region while France itself is the third biggest exporter behind The United States and China.

In 1938, the Grenoble walnut was awarded an Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée and – just like fine wine – it meant that the quality was strictly controlled. To qualify, the walnut must be one of three varieties: the franquette, the mayette or the parisienne. These are only three of many. All walnuts look the same to me but to those in the know, each variety has its peculiarities: they are elongated or round, pale or deeply coloured, bland, sweet or bitter. Their names are sometimes bizarre and – like roses – they are often named after events or people: Oswald, Lent or Conference Souvenir; Big John, Fat John or Distaff.

Harvesting is mostly done by a harvester these days but in some places – particularly on the mountain slopes – it is still done by hand. Back at the farm, the nuts are sorted, washed and dried then packed up and sent all over the world. Technology has replaced the veillées of old where the whole village would get together in the evenings to shell walnuts and tell each other stories by the fireside, sing songs, play games and eat together. Now computers bleep, machines whirr and business booms while the ancient nut presses and dryers are quaint ruins left to crumble quietly in the shadow of the Vercors.

Both the tree and its fruit have many uses. The nut is a fertility symbol and in parts of France walnuts are mixed with onion soup and served to newlyweds or they are thrown at them instead of rice – presumably shelled beforehand. Biting on a green walnut is said to relieve toothache and a poultice of crushed walnuts and pork fat cures boils. Walnut oil was once used in lamps or as axle grease, which is hard to believe when you see the price of a tiny bottle of the stuff today. The husk was used to dye hair and clothes and stain furniture and was even used as a self-tanning lotion as recently as the 1950s.

The tree itself was considered cursed: people believed that witches held their meetings in its shade and so they would rip off its branches and throw stones at it as punishment. French folklore warns against falling asleep beneath a walnut tree for fear of waking up with a fever or pneumonia – or perhaps, quite simply, a face full of walnuts.

The wood is of superior quality – it doesn’t split, it is fine-grained and easy to sculpt and polish. It is highly resistant but also beautiful to look at. Unfortunately, it fell victim to these very qualities during the First World War, when all the trees were cut down to provide wood for rifle butts. New trees were planted when the war was over so one catastrophe at least was averted – although not the most important one.

The walnut is omnipresent in Grenoble. Eat it as it is or candied; in the form of sweets, nougat or jam, or made into wonderful tarts and cakes. Savour walnut bread or walnut-covered cheese with a salad tossed in walnut oil. As an aperitif, drink eau de Noix or ratafia, both made from walnuts. I cannot think of a better way to find out if la noix de Grenoble is really all it’s cracked up to be …

Visit a walnut museum at:

Le Grand Séchoir
Maison du Pays de la noix
705, route de Grenoble
38470 Vinay
Tel : 04 76 36 36 10

Bernard Denis

Bernard Denis is a doctor and cardiologist, and was Head of the department of cardiology at the Hôpital A. Michallon in Grenoble. Now retired, he enjoys writing short stories in English. Grenoble Life invited him to submit this one, Travel around the world.

Travel around the world

by Bernard Denis

Twenty years ago, I had to stay at home during the summer vacation. I don’t remember why, but I took this opportunity to put my house in order, especially the library.

During this task I found many books I had never read, or others I had read many times, and it appeared that it was not easy to sort them all out. How long would this work take? Probably my whole vacation and it was so boring.

Never mind, I had many other interesting things to do. For example, to put in order my large amount of postcards that were stocked in a case. It was a way to travel without going out of my library.

During my professional life I had had – as Cardiologist, Head of Department at the Hôpital Albert Michallon in Grenoble – the opportunity to visit many countries around the world. And every time I was abroad I bought postcards in view to send these to my family, but also to my team. Then it appeared that in this large collection I found many brand new postcards and which were of course from many foreign countries.

Why not send these unused postcards to the secretaries and nurses of my department as though I was travelling around the world? It was a credible trip. But how could I do that?

I chose postcards from England, Canada, Japan, Hong Kong, Thailand and Central Europe. With this range, the countries could be successive stages of an imaginary trip around the world.

I wrote on each postcard a kind of day-to-day journal; it was for me a very amusing and exciting exercise to invent many situations and events, to describe cities and landscapes, inhabitants and so on …

After that it was mandatory to put the right stamp (from each country) on the envelopes which contained the postcards.

How could I find these? The only solution was to buy stamps in a shop where stamps are sold for collectors. So I went to the shop and I told the sales woman about my project. Immediately she was very interested … “What a marvellous idea!” she said, and she found all the stamps I needed.

I stuck the stamps on the envelopes but after that I had to mimic the postmark of every country.

Imagine for Japan: I had to imitate the ideograms! For me it was a very exciting game, and my drawings were perfectly achieved. I was really pleased with myself!

And now how to send these letters?

It was impossible to put these letters either in an ordinary mailbox or take them to a post office. Fortunately in the hospital there is an internal post service. It was exactly that I needed. But was not it too risky for me to go to the Hôpital Michallon?  If I met somebody from my department, the joke would have been spoilt.

The only solution was to send the letters from the Hôpital Sud in Echiroles. So, every two days I posted a letter, in the mailbox dedicated to internal mail, and after twelve days the trip was finished: Grenoble, London, Quebec, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Bangkok, Budapest, Paris, Grenoble.

When I came back from my vacation, I won’t tell you the welcome which awaited me. Everybody believed I was really coming back from an around-the-world trip!

All the postcards were pinned on a large map of the world, hung up on the wall of the secretary’s office. And I had to answer a lot of questions.

Nevertheless, a secretary of the team was suspicious and said, “it seems you were in a hurry; it’s not like you!” Another said that it was a pity to travel so fast; and to spend so much money for that.

Eventually the conclusion of my team was I had met an air hostess and run after her from plane to plane, apparently without any success.

Thanks to this joke it was a good opportunity to gather my team in a warm and friendly atmosphere and drink a glass of champagne.

Even now some people believe that I really travelled around the world. It was a nice dream. For two weeks, I had opened a window on new landscapes, far beyond the hospital and the dull everyday life.

Bernard Denis was born on August 25^th 1934. He is a doctor and cardiologist but has been retired for nine years. He was Head of the department of cardiology, at the Hôpital A. Michallon, Grenoble, and Professor of cardiology at the University (Faculté de Médecine). He specialises in Echocardiography and organised (with great success) seven congresses dedicated to this technique.

Bernard is also the author of a book Semiologie et pathologie Cardiovasculaires. The last edition of this book (1996) is used by students from many French-speaking countries.

His hobbies are music (piano), sport (cycling, skiing and walking) and reading English books.

Michel Has Another Serving of Pasta

In his new blog The Franco-American Daily Deconstructionist; History and Culture in Everyday Life, John Hess’s attention is caught by a recent French road safety  advertisement. 

Michel Has Another Serving of Pasta

 by John Hess

Yes, this is the title of a public interest advertisement. And in most countries, you’d guess that it had something to do with good nutrition, perhaps to counter the carbohydraphobic excesses of the South Beach diet. But no, this is France, and it’s about road safety.

The advertisement appeared on hoardings in the summer of 2009, and may be viewed in full here. The very incongruity of its purpose and content caught my attention as few adverts do, which I suppose is to its credit: an original idea. Sort of like if an advert for Porsche featured a smiling old lady: “since Roger bought his 911T, Dora is finally proud of her son-in-law.”

But I’m afraid it may have given life-saving a bad reputation. In America for example, to be effective the ad would have had to point out the moral significance of Michael’s survival; “Michel Gets to See His Grandchild graduate from College”, or “Michel Calls his Daughter to Say ‘I Love You.’” But here in France, we get the equivalent of “Michel Mechanically Consumes Yet Another Ordinary Meal.” Yes, thanks to better driving habits, Michel is one of the statistics that has been saved, permitting him to mindlessly continue his meaningless, unproductive existence. Almost makes one want to run Michel over, then back up over the corpse just to be sure.

Of course, this is a stereotypically American point of view, and there is something to be said for simply enjoying life as it comes, from day to day, and that this enjoyment should be protected and cherished. But I do think that this is advert is an interesting expression of what I would describe as the dominant French mode of life today: social existentialism – living for the pleasures of everyday life, with as much beach time and tasty food as possible, and as little work, risk, stress, disease, etc. as possible, with a huge assist from socialism. Thanks to the welfare state, Michel has retired relatively young (the advert subtly indicates that he’s a pensioner), and thanks to the nanny state, Michel is alive.

The irony of course is that, in spite of this insistence of the importance of simply enjoying everyday life, the French are not really the most cheerful lot one could meet. While the advert claims that 12,000 lives have been saved over the last six years due to [ahem] our more careful driving, this is the number of depressives who manage to commit suicide every year. Perhaps the advert really should be called “Michel Has Another Serving of Pasta, and He’s Dissatisfied and Grumpy Because it’s not Lobster and Champagne on the Beach – But at Least He’s Alive, For What That’s Worth.”

Not very catchy, I admit. But I do wish that the government would get serious, and sponsor a much needed, and succinct, dual ad campaign: “Stop Driving Like a Bunch of Wackoes”, and “Either Enjoy Your Beautiful Country, or Give it to the English.”

Map of Grenoble - check!. Photo: Ambrosiana Pictures (G)

Shonah Kennedy – aka Miss Shonah – is an experienced and qualified ESL teacher from Australia. She has agreed to share with Grenoble Life the highs and lows of looking for work in Grenoble as a non-EU citizen.

by Shona Kennedy

It was a hot and oppressively muggy day. However, I had given myself a mission and it had to be accomplished.  Job search time!

Now, I could have just sat down in a park with wifi access somewhere (as the internet connection is still in day four of a possible ten-day operation) and emailed schools in the area and waited patiently for replies, BUT I am a little more masochistic than that, so …

I decided to arm myself with CV, confidence, a smile, comfy shoes, a “never say never” attitude and hit the streets – and as many English language schools as my comfy shoes could take.

This was a mission I was not taking lightly.  I prepared my itinerary over a good cup of morning coffee – again a big thanks to James’ post on English language schools in Grenoble. I started with schools closest to my new house and worked my way around in a clockwise direction – and made most excellent use of Grenoble’s more than efficient public transport system.

I was ready: List of schools – check!  CV – check!  Maps – check!  “Never say never” attitude – double check!  Off I went.

There were some “unknowns”:

Firstly, I had been warned of Grenoblois indifference, however after living on and off in Paris for almost two years I thought I would be able to cope with a little Grenoblois indifference – as I was sure nobody could do that as well as the Parisians (and I mean this with the upmost respect – they have indifference perfected and it truly is an art form).

Secondly, cold calling is not an action I personally like.  Cold calling reminds me of the pool game “Marco Polo”.  One person knows exactly what is going on – where in the pool they can move, running around, laughing at the other blindfolded person aimlessly trying to follow the replied “polo”, to their desperate calls of “marco”, when (and if) it is called out. In this job searching endeavour I felt like the one running around the pool knowing exactly where I was going – especially because I had a map!  And the poor unsuspecting English Language institutes were the ones with the blindfolds on.

Thirdly, my French is bad – no actually it is worse than bad.  Can you get worse than bad?  Well, if that is acceptable, that is where I am on the badness scale!  I have taken classes (top of the theory test, please note!) and I can see the words in my head – I can even spell them!  I can hear the sentence perfectly spoken in my fantasy scenario … then there is some sort of malfunction between my head and my mouth, unfortunately they do not co-operate and what emerges is an awful hodgepodge of spoken French with an Australian twang that does zero justice to this beautifully flowing language.

There were some “knowns”:

Firstly, I love teaching English as a second language.  It is fun!  As a teacher I have fun (and learn), and the students hopefully have fun, learn and teach (unknowingly) too!  So, basically I want to work (a very big positive when job searching!), and the quicker the better. By treading the streets I am speeding up the whole process!

Secondly, I have just arrived in this area, so what better way to meet people than to work.  Again, the quicker I can do this the happier life will be.

Thirdly, I have a carrot dangling at the end of a stick – I promised myself a new phone when I acquire a great job!

Oh!  And lastly, I am an Australian.  Sadly I don’t have a European passport, valid ancestry or any magic card up my sleeve that – at the moment – allows me to work in France.  However, I had heard a rumour that companies can “sponsor” people for work; therefore I thought I would see if there was any truth behind this whispering.

So … weighing up the “unknowns” and “knowns” I decided my best bet was to hit the streets.

The first school was curtly efficient.  She was nice, all smiles and positive.  However, she told me directly they were in no need for any new teachers – at this time (perhaps next week, then?!).

After that it was a breeze!  Everyone I met was friendly, enthusiastic and, at a stretch, encouraging.  As expected everyone cringed at my French and most changed immediately to English – I think more to stop me murdering the French language!  Everyone took my CV and said they would give it to the “right” person (which I am sure wasn’t just “a line” as, within the 24 hours post this little adventure I was contacted by 75% of the schools!).

On other positive notes: as a new resident to this gorgeous city, it was a fabulous way to get my bearings and use the public transport system.  I got some exercise walking the streets and I was able to practise my halting French (it can only get better)!

Job searching at street level is definitely a great way to overcome fears of: rejection, isolation, language and getting lost.  I would suggest (as James did to me) to get out there and show prospective employees what you are made of.  And really the worst anyone can ever say to you is “no” and what have you lost then? Nothing!

On that note this teacher of English (still looking for work) is slightly stuffed after all that walking, talking and – I must admit – enjoying.

Testing the off-road performance!

Darren Moss is an experienced climber from Preston in the UK but has lived in Grenoble for the last two years. In summer 2009 he and his girlfriend Cecile took off for Corsica from Grenoble by scooter. They lived to tell the tale on Grenoble Life.

by Darren Moss

All she’d ever done since I bought it was take the mickey out of it. So it came as a bit of a surprise when Cecile, my better-half, suggested that for our August holidays we should ride my 125cc Retro Chinese scooter from our home in Grenoble to Corsica.

I bought it from a supermarket last September for a thousand euros, brand new. Cecile described it’s Italian retro styling as a cross between a Harley Davidson and a plastic bug. Undeterred, I named it Tian-Ma, after the legendary Chinese horses of unnatural power and agility.

We made a pile of only the absolutely necessary items: a fifteen kilogram bag of ropes and climbing equipment, tent, sleeping bags and mattresses, a cooking stove and pots and pans and cans of gas, beach towels, snorkels and masks, inflatable dolphin, swimming costumes and a parasol, warm clothes for the mountains, waterproof jackets, first-aid kit, headtorches, tool kit for the scooter … We looked at our mountain of absolutely necessary items and something had to go. It was painful, but we left the flippers.

With four bulky backpacks strapped to it and another between my legs, the handling wasn’t up to it’s usual Ducati-like standard. The suspension bottomed out over bumps and tight turns were difficult as the handlebars hit my knees. But eventually, in the early evening, doubting our legality, we wobbled onto the open road and kept our eyes peeled for Gendarmes.

Maximum uphill speed: 25kmph

As it only did sixty kmph flat out, maybe seventy downhill with a tailwind and the mirrors folded back and my head tucked behind the speedometer, the autoroutes were a no-go. Even the big Routes Nationales were scary, as cars whooshed past leaving us weaving in a whirlwind of dust and fumes. So we stuck to the scenic route. This was better anyway. On steep uphill sections we couldn’t shift faster than twenty kmph, so we could relax, admire the scenery and converse with passing cyclists. At ten-o-clock, we struck our first camp, under a viaduct near Monestier de Clermont.

The next day we made it to Orange, where we saw Buena Vista Social Club in concert and luxuriated in a three star hotel. On day three we had to make it to Toulon, six hours of scootering away.

What’s that bloke doing in the middle of the road? It was one of France’s finest, Monsieur Gendarme, signalling us, of course, to pull over. I considered gunning the throttle and burning past him, but he looked quite fit and could probably run pretty fast. There were two of them. While the serious one scoured the bike for socially endangering infringements, the friendly one chatted about rugby and his elbow injury and how we reminded him of when his dad had travelled to Corsica on a motorbike when he was a kid and how we should mind out for people driving round the bends on the wrong side of the road, and the pigs – watch out for the wild pigs. By the end we were all laughing like a bunch of mates and they let us off scott free. We warbled away, riding proud and righteous.

On the afternoon of day four, we trundled down the ferry ramp amidst and the roar and growl of a squadron of brother-bikers. Corsica. We’d made it. For the next two weeks we swam in crystal seas, marvelled at the blood red sunsets, climbed the sculpted granite spikes high on the Massif de Bavella. We lazed naked in sun warmed mountain pools. And Tian-ma powered onward, over the highest of passes, along the roughest of roads and around the wildest of pigs.

Sunset, Col De Bavella, Corsica

Amazingly, someone nicked our reg. plate! We crawled out of the tent one morning and there it was; gone. It was undoubtedly already in Italy stuck to the back of a stolen motorbike. The thief obviously had too much respect to steal the whole bike. We reported the theft and fashioned a stylish cardboard replacement.

Then the back tyre developed a crack an inch long down the sidewall, which though not leaking air, could’ve exploded at any moment. Perhaps the designers envisaged that the tyre would last longer than the bike because to remove the rear wheel you have to remove the exhaust pipe, which requires the removal of the plastic fairings, which requires the removal of the seat, the rack, footrests … I’m convinced that manufacturers the world over have a competition to produce “The world’s least user-fixable vehicle”. This thing would’ve done well. So we nervously continued until the sad day that we had to leave Corsica.

On hearing of our epic voyage, the garage owner we found in Nice, his son, the mechanic, administrative assistants and several passing locals shook our hands in congratulation and admiration. He said that as a salesman of this model he knew how bad they are and that we’d made him very proud. He took photos to send to the manufacturers in China. Maybe there are already huge billboard advertisements all over China showing me and Cess astride their trusty steed.

Three more days of butt-numbing trek followed. We even grovelled our way up to Col de la Cayolle on the border between the Alpes-Maritimes and Alpes-de-Haute-Provence, all two thousand three hundred and twenty six metres. Some of the last bikers to fire past us beeping and waving, took our photo when we arrived.

Grenoble. Home. One thousand eight hundred and forty three kilometres and exactly three weeks later. The following Monday I rode the scooter to work. People still laugh at it, but they don’t know anything. Even Cecile is convinced. They’ve never known the joys of warm summer wind breezing through your Bermuda’s, the sweep and swoosh of the mountain roads, the joyful burble of a little low polluting cheap as chips motorbike, Tian-Ma.

Kelly Rigotti writes Almost Frugal, a blog about being smart with your spending, saving and money goals. As probably the only American living in France writing about frugal living, we invited her to share her personal finance tips for her adopted home town of Grenoble. Part I in the series is about food.

by Kelly Rigotti

Although I’ve been writing about frugality and learning how to be frugal since late 2007, this is the first time I’m writing a post about frugality from a local perspective. My blog is called Almost Frugal and most of my readers live in English-speaking countries, especially the United States. I’m American and I’ve lived in Grenoble since January 2000 and I think it’s safe to say that I’m the only American blogging about personal finance and frugality in Grenoble. I could be wrong, but I bet I have the niche covered!

Although I do talk about living in France and the challenges of trying to handle money as an expat (especially paying back my American student loans, most of the topics I cover on Almost Frugal are general enough that anyone can relate to them, no matter where they live. I’m really excited though, to finally be able to talk about frugality and living frugally in my (adopted) city, Grenoble. Today I’ll be talking about the best places to spend less on groceries.

Groceries can make up a significant part of any household’s budget. Certain French grocery chains, such as Lidl or ED are relatively inexpensive, but they don’t always have the best quality food (although I’ve never gone wrong with their canned goods, juice or wine selections). I prefer to take advantage of fidelity programs from stores like Carrefour, Géant or LeClerc. The fidelity programs from all three of these stores are free to join, and if you don’t mind your personal shopping habits being mined by the stores for information, you can recoup significant discounts on your grocery shopping.

Carrefour’s fidelity program offers discounts of 5% on their store brand products, as well as other discounts on time-limited promotions. Often these promotions don’t give the best, cheapest option, but every once in a while Carrefour will have a doozy of a sale – buy one get two free and so on. Carrefour does not put the store credit on your card, instead it mails you a fidelity check at the end of every month, good for use on your next shopping trip.

Géant is the most expensive of the three stores I’m talking about here, and in my opinion, the one with the worst customer service. But it does have one of the best selections of expat foods (Campell soup, anyone) and so I brave the high prices and rude salespeople every once in a while to stock up. Like most grocery stores, Géant will often have loss leaders: products priced quite low to get you in the store to buy everything else. As a side note, did you know that it is illegal in France for supermarkets to price products below cost? Supermarkets are not allowed to lose money on their stock. This is why you won’t find any true bargains at a French supermarket- it would be illegal.

The best supermarket, in my opinion, for customer discounts, is the LeClerc supermarket in the Espace Comboire shopping center in the town of Echirolles. Unlike Carrefour or Géant, which are both chain stores, LeClerc is a series of licensed franchises. This means that the discounts and promotional offers found at one store might not necessarily be found at another.

The LeClerc in Espace Comboire has a series of great, ongoing promotions, a different one for every day of the week. The best is Thursday’s, when, for every €50 of goods purchased you get €5 in store credit on your fidelity card. Combined with other in-store promotions, I often manage to save €20 or more per shopping trip.

Unlike the United States, France is not big on coupons. You will find them every once in a while, either on your register receipt at the grocery store, or as a manufacturer’s coupon, but there isn’t the overwhelming coupon mentality here as in the United States.

Another excellent way to save money in your grocery bill is by buying online – this way you can keep an eye on your total as you go and save money on gas. Both Carrefour (called Ooshop) and the Intermarché in Seyssins have online delivery services. Depending on where you live the delivery charge can be free to quite expensive.

If you’re looking for bio (organic) or locally sourced food, then there are two good online options, neither of which is very expensive and both of which deliver. The first is called The Label Bio and sells a variety of organic and local food. I like them because they sell preselected baskets (panniers) of a variety of food – whatever is in season for €12 to €55 depending on the size and selection of the contents. The second is called The Pannier de Johanna and although they don’t sell preselected baskets of food, they have a wide variety of products to choose from, from patés to flour, all locally sourced or organic.

Here are some of my favorite posts on Almost Frugal on saving money, food and frugality:

Food Shopping and Menu Planning
Stretch Your Food Budget
Your Favorite Frugal Food

Bio: Kelly Rigotti is American and has lived in France for a lot longer than she thought she would when she first arrived. As well as writing about frugality at Almost Frugal, she has a day job as a marketing and communication consultant. In her spare time, she attempts to ride herd over her three children, four cats and handsome French frog of a husband. You can follow her at Almost Frugal, on Facebook or on Twitter.

“Keep walking at rue Saint Laurent”

Prakhar Amba is an avid amateur photographer and regular contributor to the Grenoble Life Gallery. On 18th July 2009 he participated in the Worldwide Photowalk in Grenoble, Grenoble Life invited Prakhar to share his photos and experience …

by Prakhar Amba

“Keep Walking” says the logo of a leading whisky manufacturer. It is slightly difficult for me to imagine the sight of a figure in a black hat and waistcoat striding along with a half empty bottle in his hand. Oops! He tripped and fell down! Anyway, it could serve well for photographers who like to bring out the extraordinary in the seemingly mundane tasks and places which occupy our lives. On 18th July a Worldwide Photowalk was organized where more than 32,000 photographers walked (and shot thousands of photos) in more than 900 cities of the world. I walked in Grenoble.

For me the best way to see a city is not to visit its monuments and museums but to walk in its streets, for it provides a window to observe the daily rhythms of the life of its denizens. So I love to walk, in the rush hour or the afternoon pause, to observe life flow around, oblivious of the clothes lines, the graffiti, the flowerpots on the balcony, the empty beer cans, the rusty paint and so many small things which gives each city a unique character. On July 18th 2009 I walked in the company of 40 other photographers, which made it even more interesting because each individual has his own way of approaching the street. It was a sensory overload to walk the streets of Grenoble through the eyes (or the lens) of so many.

"Kids with cameras"

We started from Place aux herbes and walked towards the Quai underneath snow flake-shaped electric lights and worn-out shoes hanging between balconies. I am yet to understand the significance of the shoes being hung in the city streets – back at home it would be to ward-off evil. We walk through narrow alleyways along shops evoking Aromes D’Asie & D’Orient and several restaurants from all four corners of the world. All around me are people shooting and, well, we are a sight in ourselves. Seeing so many cameras a little boy gets excited and has his moment of fame.

"Rock da party"

A little further along someone is enjoying his cuppa of mint tea in a couscous shop. If the world was black and white, England would be tea and France would be café, but thankfully we live in shades of grey and so in France we can enjoy aromatic tea and tisane.

"Mint tea"

Closer to the Quai Stéphane Jay a girl walks by as the signal turns green. As an Indian, I am told by the French how colourful my country is. No doubt, but I should say so is France, home to the fashion industry which is, afterall, all about colour. In India tea is always brown but here I have drunk tea in shades of vanilla, mint, orange and several others. A glass of red wine adds colour to your meal. And red and green chairs add colour to the streets of Grenoble.

"... and she walks away"

Finally the Quai, to the sight Grenoble is famous for: Les Bulles. There was a photographer who made the same shot with a pinhole camera. He had stuck a hole in a tin spaghetti can and put a black tape to cover it. Inside there was light-sensitive film: peel the tape off to make an exposure. I always saw those in physics books but this was the first time in action. It was difficult to frame shots at the bridge because there were so many photographers around. As I walked across the bridge an old lady walked her four dogs, someone flew a kite in the middle of the bridge and many watched the world pass by from their balconies.

Grenoble - Les Bulles

On the other side of the bridge at “La Cymaise” someone enjoyed his smoke while another his café and croissant. And all the while people kept shooting. There was one crouched on road waiting for the man to light his smoke. As an old photographer’s guidebook says, “one mans smoke is another man’s photo”. Ok, no one says that but I personally find smokers an interesting subject. The way they hold the stick, the smoke breathing out of the nose and the signs of pleasure of their face.

"Café and croissant"

"Smokers at La Cymaise"

"Draw a smoke"

Now we climb towards the Musée Dauphinois, and here its not the artwork displayed inside but the gentle curve of a door knob which makes me wonder of the countless hands which turned it.

"Turn me gently"

Have you seen the movie Amélie (Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain)? In the movie one of Snow White’s dwarves travels around the world getting photographed at all the major sights. People have their idiosyncrasies, they like to get photographed with their Bugs Bunny and Mickey Mouse at the Taj Mahal or the Eiffel Tower. I met one who liked to photograph his (not her) Barbie doll.

"Barbie on a fence"

We climb down and walk through Place Victor Hugo to one of Grenoble’s well kept secrets, the Garage Hélicoidale just behind the FNAC. You enter it amidst the sooty walls and smell of fumes not expecting to see much really but its so much more than just un parking. Numerous floors wind upwards in a circular helix topped by a glass roof that becomes its source of skylight, emphasizing and illuminating its climbing gradient. The best part of the for me was to see the whole structure reflected in a car parked in the basement.

"Garage Hélicoidale"

Goodbyes said and ‘Au revoir’ wished and we disperse. I walk back home with the thought in my head “Keep walking and keep shooting” – for in each nook and corner of our world are hidden moments worth capturing. Even garages can be more than just for parking your car and then forgetting where you left it.

Tag bus in action! Photo: Ambrosiana Pictures (G)

In previous article for Grenoble Life I bemoaned France’s rather particular brand of service culture, in some instances comparing it unfavourably to the UK. However, there are certain aspects of life in France in which the nation seems to defeat us Brits with an effortless and dismissive Gallic slap: transport. Whether it be the gleaming speedways they call les autoroutes, the super-fast TGV trains or local bus networks that operate with the kind of clockwork, almost Teutonic punctuality - getting around in France can make Britain seem grimly backward in comparison. 

When people ask me about life in France I always answer that one quickly assimilates the positive aspects in a culture but the negative ones obviously take longer to get used to. But one thing that I have quickly integrated is France’s bus network and meaningful time tables. In England we seem incapable of developing a timetable that takes into account the vagaries of the traffic at a given time of day. In London such timetables are mere token gestures that serve no apparent function – and it has been a long time since I have seen anyone try to use one.

In the last ten years LED displays have been introduced to London bus stops to serve you the latest bus arrival times. It is not clear if these are operated by GPS satellite or crystal ball (I suspect they are simply based on the original, obsolete timetables) but they do little to expedite your journey. Instead they serve to heighten your expectation and thus your disappointment too - buses listed as ‘due’ frequently vanish from the radar, never to arrive.

To have, in Grenoble, a bus timetable that you can obtain online and as a leaflet, and plan your journey accordingly, still strikes me as a minor miracle. For someone who has grown up with buses arriving ostensibly au hasard, I still find myself delighted in France that using such transport needn’t be fraught with anxiety. On buses in France I am always at my jubilant best – full of optimism for modern life: in idiotically open-mouthed awe that a bus could actually arrive at the stated time. I suppose I ought to get out more.

Grenoble’s buses are not just efficient but clean. London buses rarely seem to receive more than a cursory rinse around the edges, with chicken wings, apple cores and sodden newspapers often to be found pressure-hosed into a paste around the top deck drainage holes. Not so here, where local operator Tag (Transports de l’Agglomération Grenobloise) circulates buses that positively gleam.

In London bus drivers are not to be bothered with questions or even the smallest of favours. “Well you thought wrong!” one snapped at me after I was foolish enough to query the route destination. Worse even is that many London bus drivers, under instructions not to take passengers except at the official stops, seem to take a sadistic pleasure in ignoring the pleas of sprinting commuters, or even abandoning young women in deserted streets late at night as they didn’t get to the designated stop in time.

I have seen Grenoble’s bus drivers communicating via klaxon to help passengers make their connection – almost unthinkable in London – and wait for running passengers rather than speeding away from them. When I see this happen I get misty eyed about this brave new world where drivers actually conspire to help their passengers reach their destination! “Don’t take it out on us!” says the latest advertising slogan protecting London bus drivers from the kind of abuse enraged commuters often serve up in the rush home, the “it” presumably being a totally miserable journey home, every day.

Maybe bus drivers in London have a demoralising job with less than pleasant conditions but often one is made to feel an enemy rather than a customer. While in France the reception from bus drivers is hardly chaleureux, there seems to be an unwritten contract between driver and passenger to say bonjour and merci, au revoir at the beginning and end of each trip. A wave of thanks on disembarking is always seemingly acknowledged by an appreciative nod in the rear view mirror. French bus drivers probably get a better deal. Considering the number of strikes they have called in the last few years I wouldn’t be surprised.

The main crime of the Tag and Transisère bus companies is not to run a service after half past eight, effectively cutting off Grenoble’s suburbs and neighbouring towns from the city’s night life. As someone who lives in Meylan I can say with some certainty that drink driving is endemic in France. I am apparently the only adult in the ‘burbs who elects to use the single, hourly night Navette from Grand Sablon to Meylan – the only way to get home from Grenoble on Friday and Saturday night without walking or driving.

Packed with carless drunk teenagers from the wealthier parts of Grenoble’s agglomeration, taking the Navette is quite an experience. It is often seen helmed by Marie-Noëlle, the beleaguered and tiny-voiced conductrice who seems comically incapable of controlling the raucous adolescents. “On est perdu!” they scream and sing as Marie-Noëlle wearily navigates the winding back streets of Corenc.

A French friend of mine in London told me she was surprised by the grim acquiescence of Londoners regarding the state of the bus service. One might wait 20 minutes in the rain for a bus only for it to neglect to stop for passengers. The English suffer in silence while the French, she said, would be up in arms remonstrating. She put this down to national temperament, that strangely generous French stereotype of the British (unknown on the other side of the channel it seems) that the Brits are bastions of calm in the midst of chaos.

However, I put this tacit acceptance of inefficiency down to the fact that the Brits simply don’t know any better. Many haven’t experienced a clean and reliable bus system, and don’t expect one. See you on the 6020 to Chavant!

Prakhar Amba is an accomplished photographer and regular contributor to the Grenoble Life Gallery, including these magical ones of Fête de la musique 2009 in Grenoble. The pictures suggested a story, and Grenoble Life invited Prakhar to tell his …

by Prakhar Amba

Whenever I ask the French what they miss most when they visit foreign countries, the most common responses in order of priority are le pain and le fromage. There is never a third response. Now I am an Indian, a country best described by the word ‘diversity’, be it languages, colours, smells, spices or music.  Music is everywhere in India, it is in the loudspeaker playing the latest Bollywood hit, the brass band blaring in a marriage procession, the cacophonous symphony of the tuc tuc’s horn as it criss-crosses the traffic, or the prayers at the banks of holy rivers. Life for us revolves around music. After all, even our Gods are master of their own musical instruments, be it Krishna’s flute or Shiva’s daamru.

Needless to add, the thing about India I miss the most is music. Here in Grenoble, the streets are silent, even the traffic is muted. So I anxiously awaited La fête de la musique on June 21st, and I was not disappointed. But how does one write about music? After all, Victor Hugo said “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and cannot remain silent”. Words fail me, but maybe images say it better, for they are stuck forever in the moment when the singer lets go and you are immersed in the note never to escape. So I set off for the centre ville in the pleasant Sunday afternoon on my metro vélo with my camera. The wind blowing in my hair, my ears open to catch any musical notes floating by. And the soft notes of violins pull me to the church next to Place Victor Hugo.

Here a group of children played their violins. Ah violins! There already is something mystical about its curves and the mirrored ‘s’. To behold the sight of kids nimbly working the strings and the accompanying gasps from the parents is quite something. After all, music is not only played by the musician but has to be appreciated by the listeners. It reminded me of a poem by Tagore I read in school which spoke of music being born from the crash of the sea waves (player) on the shore (listener). Music of the wind (player) rustling through the forest (listener) and here before me was the same interplay between the player and the listener.

To add to the magic of the moment was the conductress who, through the swish and swirl of her hands, wove tales of love and despair in the music.

I also found a little cherubin sitting in a corner, practicing her violin with her friends. You know the shot which makes you smile, when you know you captured the moment right. For me it was this. I don’t know the music they played, Vivaldi or Beethoven, it didn’t matter for me. For me a smile played on the faces of everyone present. The performance ended, and endless claps and graces later the group dispersed. The violins are packed in their cases for another day.

I move on to another street where a girl sings enchantingly. She sings in English but music knows no language and it is appreciated by all. She sings jazz, or was it blues or maybe folk? I know not. For me she sung from her heart, she sung of love and longing.

Sometimes I wonder why most of our songs are about love and the most beautiful of them are those of love lost.  Maybe it’s because we as humans fare poorly in expressing our love for another through words that we burst into a song to do the same. No doubt in Bollywood every expression of love is faithfully followed by a song. To say ‘I love you’ to someone for the first time is never going to be easy until you practice it a hundred times, setting it to the tune of your favorite song. Even mystically speaking, Sufism is for instance a facet of Islam in which divine love for God is expressed through music. Similarly with Hindus, the Bhakti tradition is love songs for the mystical lover, Krishna.

And now its time for some punk – around the corner a group plays with the lead singer swaying in her skirt causing the traffic to snarl down while onlookers gulp down glasses of beer. I thought France was more about wine but it seems with music it has to be beer. Music beckons me to move forward, somewhere from a narrow alley flows a song in a language which I know not of. Maybe it’s Spanish or Portuguese or Zulu, I care not for I can move to the beats of the drum and the singer, she has nirvana written all over her face. She sings as if she is in a trance.  I imagine she sings of reunion with her lost lover for otherwise I cannot explain her expression.

She opens her eyes and all is silent. We wait maybe for a cue before everyone breaks into applause. A moment of awakening. And then there is guitar solo. The guitar is I believe one of the most versatile instruments, from the Spanish to the electric it has a certain aura about it and can break into the most beautiful and unexpected notes. So here was the guy who performed a duo with the girl with the drums and made people tap their feet.

I move on towards the Gare but the streets are silent so I decide to explore the river side. On the bridge from where you can see the cable car (les bulles) are a group of musicians preparing their gig. So I cross over to reach the lane of Italian pizzerias. I find Grenoble to be a gastronomical delight even compared to Paris, for here you can find good Indian restaurants and also authentic pizza. Coming back to matters of music, a delightful sight beholds me. It’s dancing skirts or, as my dad remarked on seeing the photos, dancing lehengas. Now lehenga is traditional Rajasthani dress worn by the bride at Indian marriages. One can always find similarities between cultures.

I first thought they were Italians – after all I was standing outside a pizzeria – but the music, no, it carried tones of South America and yes, they were Colombians. The music had the energy to make your foot tap but the best part was the swirling skirts, the elegance. Enough to make the passing cars honk to the beats of music. Yes, it felt like India where the traffic contributes to the music of life. It got better when I meet a friend there who introduced me to the group. The girl in maroon is the sister of the girl in pink and the one in red is their mother. The little girl whose expression I call ‘I dream of Jeannie’ is the daughter of the girl in pink. So we had three generations dancing and singing together.

Now, about the little girl. Do you know the American serial ‘I dream of Jeannie’ where the Genie granted you your three wishes by twitching her eyes? This little girl was just like her. I wonder what she wishes me. I was granted my three wishes, good music, good photographs and memories of back home. Later, I joined the group for a drink in a café nearby. See the benefits of the La fête de la musique? Making new friends. So we sat and discussed, I a little humbled in presence of such talented musicians and singers. When the question popped up – what instrument do I play? I replied, ‘none’, for I am the listener, I am the one who appreciates their magic.

Evening falls and I walk in the small lanes along Bastille where different styles of music, French, African, American, and from all nooks and corners of this wide world, fuse together to create a new symphony of harmony. We may have barriers of languages between us but music joins us for we can dance to any rhythm. Another thing I noticed was how there was space for all different kinds in the same small lane, it teaches us small lessons of co-existence with the other.

Later I walked back to Place Victor Hugo and now the space was taken by the rock gigs and an endless mass of people moving around. It was heartening to walk in the city awake even late at night, people breaking into spontaneous dances, some kissing and some holding hands. It felt good to be a part of the crowd, felt like home. To end, my favorite French instrument, I encountered it in 2000 when I first visited Paris. I still don’t know its name but it has its charms. I visited Sacré Coeur in Montmarte and there was an old man with a red cap turning little punch cards into it with a lever and out flowed music that reminded me of childhood. So here it was again in Grenoble.

Sales Rep of the Month? Copyright: Divine Hervester

A friend of mine recently remarked that new parents are second only to tourists for being treated with utter contempt by marketers and sales representatives. Us freshly minted mums and dads are targeted as sentimental fools to be parted from our hard-earneds, our judgement having been subsumed in the mists of a post-natal emotional hangover. We are soft touches to be bullied, cajoled and even emotionally blackmailed into buying things we don’t really need, with extra zeros added for good measure. I wouldn’t have expected such voraciously capitalist thinking in France but I had such an experience recently here in Grenoble that I feel duty bound to share. It might interest anyone who has been subject to a home sales visit in France or finds that increasingly in this country the price of a product has absolutely no relationship to its value.

After the birth of our daughter my wife and I were approached at the Clinique Mutualiste aux Eaux Claires by a woman photographer from the ABC Photo agency who offered to take some professional shots of our baby. We were told one print would be free and that we would be under no pressure to buy anything else. ABC has an arrangement with the clinic – something of a monopoly in fact – in going from room to room offering new parents this service. The woman took what appeared to be some nice pictures and told us she would be in touch to let us choose those we wished to have printed.

However, when we were contacted – two months later – it was by a different woman, an ABC Photo sales representative who wanted to visit us at home. We were not really in a position to refuse because we wished to see the pictures, but immediately braced ourselves for some kind of hard sell. What transpired was so ridiculous that it would have been laughable if it didn’t smack of incredible cynicism on the part of ABC.

When the woman arrived at our apartment with giant portfolio carriers, dollar-sign shaped alarm bells immediately started ringing. After some cursory chit chat and some nosey questions about why I wasn’t at work on Monday morning at 10.30, she slipped a hardback book out of her bag, with the stagey delicacy of one proffering something Very Precious Indeed.

In fact it was an album with pictures of our daughter used repeatedly in different backgrounds, which the sales representative proceeded to present page by page, explaining the logic of each themed chapter: bathtime baby, dinnertime baby, bedtime baby etc. The suggestion that was she was showing some bespoke emotional souvenir that had been created uniquely for us. She kept the price discretely to herself at this stage as she continued with her pitch.

Then things took a turn for the surreal, as she preceded to pull out very large framed baby portraits; just examples, thankfully not pre-made ones of our daughter this time. Some were photographic reproductions, and others had been transformed – presumably on Photoshop, and with extraordinary lack of taste – into fake watercolour paintings.

It was hard to keep a straight face in an apartment of a meagre 55 square metres and have someone try to flog you a huge picture of your own baby – who you can see at any time – that would dominate your living room. I resisted the temptation to ask the saleswoman if she would put such a thing up in her own home, or asking her why she thought we would contemplate transforming our salon into an enormous shrine to our baby.

If if this wasn’t ridiculous enough she started setting down her formule on paper, in her neatest script, as if she was going to offer us the deal of the century. The book, plus the painting, plus some prints, for a mere 770 euros! She even had the cheek to condescend us with the analogy that it was just like in a restaurant, that if we ordered a menu it is cheaper than à la carte! She would even throw in a free teddy bear wearing a t-shirt with a print of our daughter on it, just to show us it’s not all dollars and cents (or, rather, euros and centimes)!

Given that we had expressed little enthusiasm for the watercolours or the bear she announced that the book alone would cost a mere 200 euro. I almost spat hot coffee all over it. If the price had born some resemblance to the normal market price – 30 euro? – I might have felt inclined to buy it as a present for our daughter. Such standardised, cheaply manufactured products are easily ordered over the internet, and many people have them made as a memento of their holidays. ABC evidently think people – or specifically new parents – are unaware of this, and pre-print the book without asking, assuming parents would feel obliged to pay a vastly over-inflated price.

We politely explained that this was not really in our budget; I’m never rude in such situations. But I’m still annoyed that the photographer had given us the impression we would be able to choose the prints freely, while the saleswoman was leading us to believe they were not sold as such, but only part of some exhorbitant deal including other, unwanted items. I told her this as politely as I could, and she relented, allowing us to choose the prints only. We sent her on her way having purchased 60 euros worth of prints, feeling as if we’d had a narrow escape even though we had been blatantly robbed.

It hasn’t escaped my attention that France is starting to seem very expensive indeed, but only someone without any sense of the relative value of things would be foolish enough to pay 200 euros for a book. I have limited edition art catalogues with tritone lithograph prints that cost half that. Money doesn’t always equal taste of course, but who does have the best part of a grand down the back of their sofa to blow frivolously on such things? Since the visit I’ve amused myself with visions of buying a number of the enormous, vulgar, fake watercolours of my daughter and having them shipped at massive cost to relatives. I could clear my rainy day account to blow several thousand on tasteless, unwanted tat! It would all be so easy!

This type of sales pitch has never happened to me in England and I’m left wondering if France is stuck in a bit of a time-warp as concerns to sales. One of the great advantages of the internet is that it means people can avoid being pressured into buying things in their own homes. People are aware of what things should cost and can make their price comparisons freely in their own time. They can order uniquely personalised gifts cheaply at the touch of a button.

The techniques employed by ABC seemed shockingly retrograde. Why not just set up a website and let your clients select the prints at their own leisure? Here’s a novel idea: sell people what they really want and what they had originally agreed to buy! Then you can charge a price that does not include the salary of an entirely unnecessary sales rep. No need for that extra zero! The home sales pitch is not even yesterday’s economy, it belongs to the last century.

Vivian Draper in the Radio Campus studio with Bertrand the technician

I had the great honour of being invited recently as a guest on Grenoble’s only English language radio show, ETR, presented by the wonderful Vivian Draper. English Talk Radio is very much Vivian’s baby – she scripts the show, chooses the guests, and it is recorded fairly spontaneously without a rehearsal, dressed or otherwise. Working with a technician, the show is made in one continuous take which Vivian conducts with the energy and vivacity of an orchestra conductor.

Considering the show includes a mix of telephone and studio guests and musical interludes, the potential for technical catastrophe is high but Vivian always somehow smoothly steers the ship in the right direction. Although the show is not live, what you hear is more or less what took place, bar some technical glitches that have been cleverly excised. The air of live spontaneity remains, however; as Vivian says, and I think you will agree, “mistakes are part of our charm.”

I was the in-studio guest when the show was recorded last Friday, which happened to be one of those unapologetically sticky Grenoble summer days. I had to hightail it from work where I had already taught four classes, and made it to the studio quietly sweating and trying to conceal my dehydration. As Vivian says “timing is everything. We have thirty minutes to fill, and thirty minutes is a long time in radio time. No silences allowed; radio time is valuable, so we have to watch the clock, watch the script, watch the technician, watch the guests”. As a guest – and thus one of Vivian’s many spinning plates – and seeing how she took on the burden of filling those elongated 30 minutes, somehow made me calm about my contribution. After all, all I had to do was talk about Grenoble Life.

The other guests were interviewed by telephone. Michael Streeter, editor of The French Paper, a new, nationwide broadsheet for France’s ex-pat population, talked about the launch of the first issue. Then Kristine Minski, ETR’s financial presenter, gave an astute breakdown of France’s economic health. Check out the MP3 of the show below to discover more.

Since having first made contact with Vivian concerning her interview for Grenoble life, I have had my radio tuned into 90.8FM Radio Campus and I have to say it is fantastically diverse. Principally a music station, at any time of day you can tune in and hear songs of different styles from different continents. English Talk Radio airs at 19:00 every Wednesday, with a repeat on Sundays at 12:30.

To learn more about Vivian, and English Talk Radio, read the interview with her here. You can listen to the show by clicking the play button below.

Grenoble Life on air with English Talk Radio

English is increasingly common in Grenoble, not least in graffiti !

I used to wonder why, very often, when I tried to speak French in a restaurant, shop, post office or market, for example, the reply would come back to me in English. Given that I am at least semi-competent in French, I couldn’t help feel offended at being treated as a tourist in the country I called home. I don’t think it would be presumptuous to say that I am not alone in this experience. When I first arrived in Grenoble I made a school-boyish but pardonable error in asking: Est-ce que vous avez du bière? at a café, having not quite nailed down the gender of that favourite English beverage. The waitress looked at me as if I was from out of space, before replying “Not bière”.

However, what has become increasingly apparent to me is that my linguistic skills are not being spontaneously judged and deemed unfit but rather that the French are grabbing an opportunity to practice their English. The look of the woman in the café was probably not one of complete incomprehension but one masking certain grammatical computations, for what it was worth. It is probably a look I wear myself quite often as my brain lags doggedly behind my tongue during an experiment with, say, the French Subjonctif.

On the bus yesterday I was very amused to hear a group of nine or ten primary school children singing in unison, “I like English! I like English!” before a musical rendition of the alphabet that faultered every time they negotiated the obstacle course that is “L-M-N-O-P”. “Yes, it is! No, it isn’t!”, I left them chanting ecstatically, presumably in recollection of their English classes, quietly wishing to myself that I had adult students with such unbridled enthusiasm about their training.

This morning I was delighted to be greeted at the boulangerie by a welcome new face. As I have mentioned in a previous post about Grenoble’s service culture, trips to my local shops have sometimes been fraught with peur et tremblement. Today, however, I was greeted by something extraordinary, a new face whose defining characteristic was a smile from ear to ear. Surveying the empty shelves I asked, “Vous n’avez plus de croissants?“, to which the smiling face replied, amiably and in no poor accent, “Not any more!”. In such situations I prefer to persevere in French while remaining friendly enough to show that I don’t mind a conversation in two languages. As he handed me my change with the kind of extraordinary deference reserved for a foreign dignitary (a half bow, and a “thank you, goodbye”), I didn’t even care that I had no viennoiseries to bring back to my wife on Mother’s Day.

Such exchanges are not always as pleasant, I had an interesting experience at the market in Aiguinards a few weeks back. I was at the fromagerie when a man struck up conversation with me, at first curious about my five week old daughter in a baby carrier: generally a guaranteed way to attract attention in France, for better or worse. Realising I was British, he then used the occasion to practise his English, even though I persevered in French. He told me he had spent time studying in the UK, before complaining about the “Shitty weather”. He went on to add that the “food was really Shitty in England, absolutely disgusting! The food was so Shitty it was the first time in my life that I lost weight. There’s probably more cheese here [gesturing at admittedly fantastic selection on the market stall] than in the whole of Britain”. “I don’t mean to offend you”, he added. Charming!

So, despite the best efforts of the Académie française, English seems to be permeating French culture. At my school the other day I had to evaluate the level in English of a number of employees sent by their company. For many of these, it was their first job and they had just recently completed their studies. Furthermore many had taken the opportunity to live and work in the UK to learn English. The impression I am getting is that while the French are proactively and pragmatically studying English, the Brits have become lazy and complacent about studying languages since English became so internationalised.

Tant pis!, the Brits might say (if they knew how to), except that, as reported in the Guardian, companies in the UK are increasingly turning to foreign nationals for jobs that require more than one language. The article shows how second language study has declined in Britain since the Labour government stopped making it obligatory at GCSE, a serious error in the view of many, myself included. I remember one frustrated colleague when I worked in London reacting to a telephone conversation in stilted English with a counterpart from a French museum with the angry exclamation, “I hate it when people can’t speak English!”. Perhaps the wind of change has already come.

Grenoble University Campus

I visited the Grenoble University Campus for the first time in a while last weekend and spent some time enjoying the Brutalist architecture. As someone who also studied at a university built during the much-maligned architectural wildnerness of the 50s and 60s, and who subsequently went on to work at London’s monolithic South Bank Centre, there is a special place in my heart for these visions in concrete. I think the style has long passed its nadir in terms of fashion and popularity, and we have begun to accept such buildings as part of our urban and cultural landscape. We no longer immediately associate such concrete idealism with the failed high rise housing estates. Walking around campus on a sunny May Sunday, it was easy to appreciate the original vision: the blend of functional concrete and broad lawns. Frankly the abundance of greenery and uncrowded assembly of buildings was refreshing after the more tightly-knit pressures of the city centre. Here are some pictures – let me know what you think.

Opposite the student union

Cours Berriat in the good ol' days, when it was very easy to get your baby's picture taken

For now my daughter is uniquely a French citizen. British citizenship – and hand-cramp inducing paperwork that involves – will have to come later, preferably with me excused from block capital inscribing duties, since it seems I have long forgotten how to use a pen. As my wife and I were planning to take our daughter to the UK for a holiday this summer (OK, it’s not so much a summer, but the notionally warmer period that sometimes takes place, probably for around two weeks, between July and August). we have set ourselves up for the administrative rigmarole of applying for her carte d’identité in a relative hurry. Easier than getting a passport, the bureaucratic requirements didn’t seem so exigent on paper, but necessitated the usual documentative suspects that have become a regular feature of my administrative life in France: both the mother’s and baby’s copie integrale de l’acte de naissance *; photos taken by officially designated photographer; and a recent bill as proof of address.

It all seemed so suspiciously easy, but alarm bells started to ring when our casual enquiry about where such photographs should be taken was met by a bureaucratic stonewalling: would the town hall give us some tips where the official photo should be taken? No, of course they wouldn’t. Fools us for having the gall to ask. Apparently photomaton booths no longer exist, and in the digital era only photos numériques suffice these days for such purposes, despite the ease with which they can be manipulated. No matter: a five week old baby girl could hardly operate a photo booth anyway, considering how much trouble they can give certain 31 year old men (ahem).

Without enormous difficulty we located an appropriate place of business, at the somewhat dingy and conspicuously non-air-conditioned K’Store on Cours Bérriat. When we arrived we were surprised to find only a small photo developing counter in the middle of the mall where a young woman both serves customers and develops the photos herself (I am developing a totally unscientific theory that the much-fabled French productivity may be the result of sacrificing service, or at least combining service into a job which would perhaps be done in another country by a separate person – not unlike those bossy owner-waiters in restaurants who seem so displeased to see you). To be fair, the woman was making the best of a difficult juggling act: it was surprising how much business this little photo lab was doing at half past three on a Tuesday afternoon.

However, there was one major spanner in the works. For a carte d’identité, the baby’s eyes must be open, which seems ridiculous given that her eye colour is bound to change in the coming months, not to mention the fact that her entire appearance is transforming with every passing moment. Furthermore, my daughter has a curious defence mechanism when in the company of strangers, and that is to retreat completely into herself like a hedgehog, either feigning or genuinely falling into a deep and unshakeable sleep. Normally this is a blessing – we have even managed to take her to a restaurant and she has slept peacefully and angelically without interruption, attracting appreciative glances from other diners (yes, that’s right! It’s only been five weeks and we’ve already nailed this parenthood business!). On this prematurely sticky May day, however, the blessing became a curse. We tried to wake our daughter up but she wasn’t having any of it, despite us employing our full arsenal of tickles and noisy toys.

All this was taking place with increasing desperation as I had to periodically run out to the street to top up the parking metre and the photo shop lady, camera tripod at the ready, had to attend to customers. During a small window of open-eyed opportunity, she managed to take a couple of shots, but these proved too blurry given that we were doing our utmost to jolt some life into our daughter at the time. Stubbornly, she fell back to sleep with a swiftness that might lead you to suspect that she was toying with us. Another sweaty dash to the parking metre later and we intensified our efforts to rouse her in full view of bemused onlookers, starting to feel oddly abusive to this ostensibly peaceful little baby, knowing full well that she would choose to ‘release the tension of the day’ as soon as we set foot in our apartment.

Finally we were reduced to undressing her to just her body suit, and after a generous amount of begging and bouncing she awoke with a startle and promptly vomited over herself. As any parent knows, a baby being sick is no exceptional occurrence, but the next few moments were tense as we tried to position my daughter decently in the camera’s line of sight, her mouth working languidly as if ready to be sick again. (Once, in her first couple of weeks, she vomited so spectacularly it was like the detonation of a milk-filled grenade. One moment my wife was cradling her, the next moment both mother and baby were covered in regurgitated milk. It was a like a scene from Ghostbusters: She slimed me!).

The photo, taken seconds later, managed to transform my once beautiful baby into a slavering Shrek-like creature; or more precisely Phil Mitchell from Eastenders. Not a big deal until you realise that this will be her identity card photo for the next ten years. On the other hand, the application is yet to be approved – which is touch and go considering the fact that she appears nearly diagonally in the photo, and is meant to be completely upright – we could have to do it all over again!

*Copie integrale de l’acte de naissance is a copy of the official birth registry that can be obtained from the Hôtel de Ville or Mairie of your home town. This is only required for the carte d’indentité application when one parent is a foreign national.

Communication Café kids painting

Reia Farrall – Bilingual Education in Grenoble

The battle has been won for the moment … with my husband constantly speaking to our daughters in French and I in English (and having an amazing English nounou one day a week), and with regular visits from respective grandparents: our children appear to be bilingual and quite happy in either French or English. Now, we are just about to embark on making that all-important ‘next’ decision that seems to affect English-speaking families in Grenoble – which primary school will our children go to? Do we leave them in their local school? Do we put them in La Houille Blanche: where English is taught for one hour for a day, but has a competitive entrance; and would require a lot of organisation for getting ourselves together to get there? I really enjoy the fact that my girls can go to their local school, so that they can still be with the friends from their local area. And given the lack of resources, the teachers and school where our girls go do amazing things with 30+ in their nursery school classes.

However, being a teacher, and having specific ideas on the ways in which I would like our girls to learn, I do sometimes feel a little battered by the French school experience where the girls are consistently assessed according to the ‘norm’ of what French students should know at certain ages. I know that us English-speaking people are often criticised for our ‘positive reinforcement‘ – but I feel that it is lacking a little in my daughters’ education.

Education for me is not just about learning facts. Knowledge is important but education is also about showing our children the different paths that they can follow in life, and how to think for themselves. A school education should help our children to become dignified human beings, respectful of others, conscious that we live in an interconnected world where our decisions affect not just ourselves. The question as a teacher becomes how to encourage ‘learning’ and to help students discover the individual intrinsic worth of each person and themselves.

So rather than worry about the fact that I feel the French system is not doing this and put our girls into another French school, my friend Zoë Atkinson – a speech therapist – and I have taken the plunge and set up an association called Communication Café to help our children learn English. We want our children to embrace their dual cultures, to learn English in a way that we both feel helps our children’s confidence in themselves, and with positive reinforcement. We want to above all encourage our children’s English language development, to help our children feel good about themselves, and to meet other children like them. So it looks like it is not the French system at La Houille Blanche for now…

Results!

Zoë Atkinson – Speaking English in Grenoble: a speech therapist’s view

As far as French cities go, I feel lucky being in Grenoble as an English-speaker, the town being cosmopolitan and open-minded beyond its size. Being an English-speaker has not caused me many problems, apart from the occasional blank when faced with needing to talk about something beyond my French experience. So knowing that my child was going to be French, and not English like myself, didn’t pose as much of a problem for me as it did for their grandparents! Most people react positively when they know that my three year old can speak French and English almost fluently (even if a little mixed up!). I, however, have a few reservations.

Being Mum to a bilingual child, I wanted my daughter to have the chance to mix with other kids in English, to be comfortable with the English part of her identity, and to learn to read and write in English. To summarise, I wanted her to be able to make the most of her opportunity to be bilingual and for it to not be an embarrassment to her. If ever we need to go back to an English-speaking country, I would like her to be able to re-integrate without difficulty.

Being a speech therapist, I was aware that bilingual children integrated into French schools and, learning English at home only, may miss out on academic vocabulary that they would learn in French in school (concepts relating to specific subjects, such as maths, science, technology, religious study or art). I also felt that their use of English is often restricted, and that kids may find it difficult to speak to other kids in English. The French sound system is also different to the English, which affects the ability of bilingual kids to learn how to read and write in English.

Communication Café

Communication Café

We created the Communication Café association to provide another solution to our English-speaking frustrations in Grenoble. We currently run groups in English for children who have at least one English-speaking parent. We start young with Baby-Signing for 0-2 year olds and offer classes for ‘Maternelle’ and Primary ages. We have small groups, with fun theme-based sessions. For the ‘Maternelle-aged’ kids, we have adapted communication objectives taken from speech therapy, plus the foundation objectives from the British National-Curriculum. For the Primary ages, we have adapted objectives from the British National Curriculum, primarily English, but we also dip into other subject objectives with themes that suit those subjects.

Here is a quote from one of our mothers:

I can’t put in words properly the joy we share, watching Oscar spotting English words and wanting to read them and seeing the flash of satisfaction and brightness across his face when he “gets it”. I cant pin point exactly why or how, but it seems you have given him a quiet, assured confidence to try and have fun with words and seeing that confidence develop within him is very rewarding – so thank you very much to you both. Oscar has always been a very curious person but sometimes can lack true confidence to give things a try. So, seeing this natural confidence with words evolve in Oscar is a parental pleasure money can’t buy, if you know what I mean.

Reia Farrall is an Australian-qualified teacher. She has lived in Grenoble for six years, is married to a Frenchman and has two daughters. She currently teaches at Grenoble University at the Institut d’études Politiques. Zoë Atkinson is a UK qualified Speech and Language Therapist. She moved to Grenoble in 2000 with her French partner, and has a daughter. For more information visit our website or contact us via info@communication-cafe.com. Additionally, the Babel association offers English classes for children from English-speaking families: association.babel@laposte.net

Reia Farrall at work

Some like it hot !

One of the first things people associate with France is food and wine. But is it really as good as the French would like us to believe? Or have they been resting on their laurels? Joking about the poor quality of British food is something of a habit I have with my students, an ice-breaker that animates most French: but coming from a capital city the size and status of London I was honestly underwhelmed by the dining experience when I arrived in Grenoble. Now, however, food is one of the aspects of British culture that I do not miss in the slightest. Occasionally I get pangs of nostalgia for a full English breakfast – particularly, as they are conspicuously absent from supermarket shelves: bacon, British-style sausages and baked beans – and other novelty items such as hot cross buns, scones and, um, Marmite (try convincing the French to eat that!). Happily enough Britain is not so far away that I can’t indulge in some of these ‘delicacies’ once in a while and, in the case of the Full English, sometimes regret.

On the whole, however, I take enormous pleasure from eating in France, from the abundance of fresh, regional produce, from the sheer dizzyinging choice of things to taste and savour. I am horrified when I hear British ex-patriots bemoan the absence here of Britain’s attention deficit inducing confectionary: our fizzy drinks, crisps and chocolate, even our white sliced bread. In a nation where Chocolateries take the preparation of desserts to a new artform, hearing people pine for Cadbury’s – a product not even legally permitted to call itself chocolate – seems laughable.

Before painting a generally complimentary portrait of the current state of French cuisine, Rough Guide to France mourns the fact that “those little family restaurants serving classic dishes serving the region’s produce – and where the bill is less than 15 euro – are increasingly hard to find. The processed, boil-in-a-bag and ready-to-microwave productions of the global food industry … are making serious inroads”. This tallies with my experience: one too many times I’ve had to endure hastily defrosted gratin dauphinois literally swimming in oil. Many eateries in Grenoble and further afield serve frankly sloppy fare at prices which would be considered steep even by London standards (especially given the current exchange rate). While Britain is dominated by chain restaurants, such fare meets modest expectations and is not normally overpriced. Moreover, it is usually served with a smile, and that is not always true in France.

Personally, though, I prefer the pleasure of a home cooked meal to eating out. If you enjoy cooking, like I do, you will attest to the fact that the pleasure of food is not just in the eating. France is paradise for someone like me. Coming from Tescoised Britain, where supermarkets have a cartel-like stranglehold on food retail and where independent greengrocers, butchers and bakeries are becoming a thing of the past, France is heaven. Every district seems reasonably well catered for in this respect, while traditional outdoor markets are still the central focus for many communities.

I am also amazed at gripes from ex-patriots concerning shop opening hours in France, where bakeries and butchers are often open on Sundays, and normally until 7pm during the week to catch trade on the run home from work. The high cost of hiring casual work in France means such businesses may close down while their owners take summer holidays – an almost unthinkable concept for many Anglophones – but on the whole the shops open at times that serve the needs of their clientele. In Britain the only shops open after 7pm are the likes of Tesco, Londis and Seven Eleven. When I lived in London there were few authentic bakers, butchers and greengrocers open on the weekend after Saturday morning – no chance of really fresh bread on Sunday. So what if Carrefour is closed on Sunday? Who wants to go to Carrefour on a Sunday?

Cultural observers will point to the meteoric rise of British chefs such as Gordon Ramsey and Jamie Oliver both domestically and internationally as evidence of the nation’s resurrection as a nation of foodies. However, this phenomenon seems more symptomatic of Britain’s celebrity obsession and boom and bust attitude towards PR, than some wind-change in British cooking. Ramsey is already feeling a massive press backlash in Britain from the very papers who contributed to his initial success. Meanwhile, Jamie Oliver’s books continue to sell by the shed load, but most British supermarkets still don’t carry all of the basic ingredients required to make the recipes. While the supermarkets improve sluggishly, something about the current food culture in the UK smells of hype and faddishness. There is still this notion that ‘quality’ = ‘luxury’, so that perfectly ordinary (certainly by French standards) products are branded as de lux.

In France people seem much more in touch with flavours and ingredients. The seasonal food culture that I vaguely remember from my childhood still exists here but seems all but dead now in a Tescoised Britain. Here people know the difference between fresh strawberries and those flown in from, say, Israel, to fill supermarket shelves in November; or between delicious ripe tomatoes or those grown in enormous Dutch greenhouses for all-year-round consumption. I am consistently impressed in France with people’s engagement with food: many of my students brewing their own alcoholic drinks out of seasonal flowers (génépy, for example), or out picking elusive Morille champignon in the Vercors in the small window of opportunity between the snow melting and the onset of spring. I was only aware of one type of mushroom before I came to France, in Grenoble there are whole festivals devoted to their variety. In the late summer, opportunist pedestrians can be seen in my district picking wild berries by the side of the road; while my students have regaled me with stories of hunting sanglier (wild boar).

Another student of mine, a gruff former truck driver, has a fine palate for wine, and responded to a Guinness dégustation (tasting event) at my school by identifying caramel and coffee among its flavours, a pensive finger placed on his temple. It’s unfair but still hard to imagine a British truck driver being able to identify much more than how many sugars there are in his tea. That people are knowledgeable and passionate about food in France generally seems to transcend socio-economic and cultural barriers in ways that sadly can’t be said about the UK. The French love of food has even been attributed to the famous French paradox: how the French can indulge in a relatively high-calorie diet and stay comparatively slim.

If there is a less pleasant side to the French love of their food culture and traditions, it’s their insularity and dismissal of other nations’ specialities. I have tried on many occasions to convince my adult students of the finer points of Christmas Pudding, a dish which to be prepared properly involves the kind of lengthy preparation that would bore even a Lyon bouchon chef. Such attempts were met with suspicion and sometimes mockery: one student said something along the lines of “first it looks like shit, and then when you taste it you wish it had been shit”. Charming. As I said at the beginning of the article, I’m prepared to concede French superiority in culinary matters, but as a reasonably competent and open-minded cook, I won’t be condescended.

In inclusive Britain, we have plugged the gaps in our own food culture by embracing that of other nations. Indian restaurants, for example, a staple of British life, are not always quite so edifying in France. Imagine my disappointment when ordering a Tikka Masala at a centrally located curry house to be served chicken covered in what can only be described as instant gravy mixed with saffron for a tangy colouring. Evidently tempered for delicate French palates, the very soul of Indian cooking had been exorcised. I am happy to report, however, that there is at least one good Indian restaurant in Grenoble, ‘The Bombay’ on Cours Jean Jaures. They don’t serve Vindaloo but the helpful waiters normally ask how hot you would like it, so British castaways such as myself can sweat through their dinner like back home, cooling their tongues in Cobra and Kingfisher beers. And just in case you forget you’re in France, they offer you an apéritif too: a happy comprimise indeed for an English drunkard like me!

What's French for 'ga ga' again?

Looking down on the improbably cherubic face of my week-old daughter I already find myself pondering her future. As a Brit who’s been living in Grenoble for nearly two and a half years, and married to a genuinely bilingual wife, there are some important decisions to be made soon concerning the language of our child. I’m making slow but steady progress in French although my wife and I normally converse in English. We met at University in the UK and we spent most of our first six years together in England. There was no effort – language-wise – on her part: she grew up near Grenoble in a bicultural household with a French father and an English mother. Despite having grown up in France my wife has strong roots in the UK, particularly Greater Manchester, where her mother comes from and where she spent all of her summers and Christmases since birth.

However, now that we live in France it is difficult to make the transition to speaking French together. We do sometimes, but it never progresses far beyond the pedagogic and often lapses into English if we want to refer to the numerous cultural shared references and jokes that resist translation. The other major excuse factor counting against my accelerated progress is the fact that I teach English for a living, and whereas I come into regular contact with French, in principle I am not allowed to use my students’ native language as it is contrary to the methods employed by the school at which I work (and indeed most theories of language learning). Thus, of all the knowledge I am likely to impart to my daughter, naturally pronounced (or even, for the moment, fluent) French is not one of them. Nor should it be of course. My daughter will grow up in France and no doubt have no difficulties assimilating the language.

One of the overlooked factors of language is its synonymousness with culture. My daughter will be three quarters British by blood and naturally I expect her to be bilingual but also bicultural, to embrace the British side of her identity as much as the French, more or less in the same way that my wife was able to do. My wife’s family had specific rules about language in the household that remain today: she speaks to her parents in their respective mother tongues, to one of her two brothers in English and the other in French. These bonds are hard to break or to invert: language is after all emotional too – which might be a good reason she and I found it difficult to make a meaningful switch to French.

Grenoble being very international, there are a number of organisations sprouting for Children to learn English. These range from associations which aim to support the needs of parents of mixed nationality, for example The Communication Café (more from them soon!), to those – such as the franchise Les Petits Bilingues – which offer predominantly French children a head start on the school system. The latter camp owe their existence less to Grenoble’s Anglophone base as to the increasing importance of English as a core requirement in the diplôme-centric French job market. Whereas such organisations do no harm, the word bilingual or bilingue is often misused as a selling point to French parents who want to give their children the best possible start in life. Bilingual is clearly not the right word. In my (unscientific) opinion it is practically impossible to be genuinely bilingual without growing up in a bicultural environment. Semantics aside, the traditionally globalisation-resistant French are getting pragmatic about the world’s international language.

Initially we discussed the idea of speaking to our daughter in different tongues: English individually with me, French for my wife, and English as a family. However, the early signs are that my wife feels more comfortable speaking English to our daughter, as that is what seems most natural in the context of our relationship. This may change but it will certainly not be to the detriment of our child. Where it leaves me is another question. I’m not overly worried about my abilities in French, it will come with time, but I may not get the kind of exposure to the language that I had envisaged before my arrival in the country.

It has been said to me on several occasions that I will never feel French, significantly by long-term ex-patriots fluent in the language. I agree: fluency in a language doesn’t necessarily amount to complete cultural integration. Having grown up in multicultural London, it has taken me time to adapt to the notion of my own otherness: I was surprised by what a curious specimen I seem to be to the Grenoblois. Being French wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows in the UK, I imagine. There are times when I feel like the French are from a completely different planet, though I’m sure the feeling is mutual (at least where I live). However, it is with a small modicum of sadness that my daughter will feel French, perhaps (but not necessarily) more than she feels English, and that will make me a little exception to the rule in my little bilingual household.

What is certain is that my wife and I can give my daughter a rich future accented by the best of France and Britain (perhaps meaning a British sense of humour and taste in music, with French taste buds and Gallic good looks!). We must be disciplined, but we shouldn’t be overly anxious. Unlike many couples of mixed nationality my wife and I have the advantage of both being native English speakers. I just hope that by starting a family in France, I will feel less and less étranger and increasingly at home.

There is a fair amount of literature on the web concerning bilingualism, from personal experiences to practical help, none of it particularly conclusive. However, there seems to be a general consensus that there are two principal methods to bringing up your child bilingually: 1) one parent, one language; 2) speak the minority language at home. Your opinions on the most effective are most welcome.

No cure for the common cold? Try telling the French

The last time the World Health Organisation published a league table of the world’s best healthcare systems, France came top. That this was in 2000, and that WHO no longer compiles this type of ranking should not dissuade you from the fact that you are in pretty safe hands when living in France (the UK having pulled in at a respectable 18th, ahead of Germany, Belgium and Sweden – impressively – and way ahead of the US in 37th place). Without getting too bogged down in the parameters of such a study, I can only give some personal examples of the ways in which the part-private, part-public French system compares with the much-embattled (and probably not nearly as bad as everyone says it is) UK National Health System.

The large social security contributions made by employees (around 20 per cent of income, taken at source) and their employers (roughly a further 60 per cent) have helped finance a system that covers most – but not all – of the cost of healthcare through a reimbursement system: sometimes involving paperwork, but fairly benign by the standards of French bureaucracy. The other part in theory must be covered by the patient, but many, like me, opt to buy additional insur