A is for Apple

Stop the press and buckle your seat belts. As I write this I have recently become a *gulp* qualified English as a Foreign Language teacher.

Now let me be frank. I have always greatly admired and been in awe of people who can speak more than one language fluently, but it has only recently struck me just how lucky I am that my native language is English.

Not being one of the bilingual set despite being a mad keen traveller, I decided teaching English during my year of craziness would be the best way for me to earn a crust of bread in France - yes I'm aware a more intelligent person would have relocated to a country where they speak the language - but I have 2 words in return for you: wine and cheese!

In simple terms I can look forward to spending about 20 hours each week attempting to teach the ridiculousness of the English language - both written and spoken to equally unwitting students.
And my god, if I had to attempt to comprehend the why's and wherefores of some of the inane rules English has I would slam the book shut and never open it again.

 But I can sympathise with my students due to my own wrestling with learning French. Throughout my travels I have always attempted to learn how to say at least 'hello', 'goodbye', 'please' and 'thank you' in the language of wherever I am, often resulting after a few weeks in a weird mish-mash of words bouncing around my head which tends to jumble up after a wine or two. But after a month here my few carefully learned French phrases aren't really cutting it and I am facing the prospect of actually knuckling down and learning French - something easier said than done as it turns out.

Hard at work in the classroom.

In complete contrast with the gruff reputation of Parisian's refusing to speak English it's actually becoming a common occurrence that The Boy's and my French questions and responses are greeted with amused giggles and English responses; in particular from the owner of my local brasserie who after three weeks of daily visits now greets my entrance into the cafe with the announcement of my regular order in English. Not quite what I expected but it does give me the warm and fuzzies. And there is always the saving grace of the friendly waiter at the same cafe who teaches both The Boy and I how to correctly ask for things and puts up with my halting French, complimenting me when it improves slowly.

But there are also days when I can have entire conversations in French or recognise the majority of words in the newspaper headlines on the news stands and I skip home, light hearted and singing inside.
There is the beginning of the faintest glimmer of light at the end of a very long tunnel.

Eye spy me an Aussie

There's a certain knack, I think, while travelling to correctly picking the nationality of your fellow travellers.
Is the super stylish woman walking down the street French or Italian? And it's fairly probable that guy with the bum bag and the map is from the States.
But I've found it's impossibly easy to pick out a fellow Aussie, both by sight and sound.
At the moment in France it's cooling down, the days are getting shorter and the nights cold. But only an Aussie it seems would react to this by simply pulling on a beanie and jumper, hunching against the cold but leaving their board shorts and pluggers firmly in place.
Walking around the streets of Paris I've even turned this into a game, picking out a potential fellow Australian for their unseasonable attire and walking as close to them as I can (without being, you know, even more creepy than I'm already being) to check if I'm right. So far the odds have been in my favour.
But I find it's the Aussies I can identify by their voices well before I see them that make me cringe and wish I could pull out a charmingly French phrase to hide behind.
On a recent trip to Amsterdam I had this exact experience.
I was walking down a beautiful street full of restaurants and the odd coffeeshop when suddenly, out of the darkness, came a voice yelling 'fucking this, fucking that' as loud as possible.
Now don't get me wrong, I love spending an afternoon in the beer garden of a pub nursing a beer, and can out-swear most people when I'm in the mood, but in this instance I wanted nothing more than to give the guy a swift shove into the canal to shut him up.
But it struck me the next day that if this had been a Brisbane street I would have just rolled my eyes and kept walking, or possibly, that person swearing at the top of their lungs could even be me.
Why is it that in a different context what I accept at home becomes immediately repulsive somewhere else?

The Pursuit of Madness

I've finally done it.
After 5 years spent slugging away at a uni degree, followed by nearly as long spent finding my feet and attempting to build a name in the small world of journalism in Brisbane I've thrown it all in.
But not just that I've also moved to the other side of the world for a year to a country where I don't speak the language and can't even work in my chosen profession.
Before you ask, yes I've been told I'm crazy and there have been more than a few moments in the past week after the holiday phase wore off when I've been inclined to agree.

 But like it or lump it, I'm here for the long haul, with my patient (and sometimes not so patient) guy along for the ride.

Paris. The city of lights, love and inspiration for countless writers over the centuries. I'm hoping it will help refresh my mind and creativity as well. Or at the very least help me do more than order coffee in poor French.

Wish me luck!