Dear Cherwell,
When a diplomat finally gets to take leave of wherever he has disappointingly been posted, he is permitted to write his “parting shot,” in which he is finally allowed to let the world know how almightily disgruntled he has been for the past few years in Tazbekistan/anywhere other than New York or Paris. Here is mine.
I love Lyon. I really, really do. It is a beautiful city nestled at the foot (feet?) of the Alps and is filled with what my 16 year old sister would refer to as “Instagram potential” (cute squares, crumbling book shops, cats in berets and so on and so forth.) Most importantly it isn’t Paris which, let me tell you, is actually pretty horrific when seen from any point of view other than a honeymooning American couple snogging under the Eiffel Tower.
However, my time here has not all been quaffing and croissants. I have learned that one can be just as miserable drinking wine in a café on the banks of the Rhone as drinking contraband Red Bull in the Lower Gladstone Link.
For in between my forays into French life, I work as a Language Assistant. When I signed up for this, I pictured rosy-cheeked Angeliques and Rémys sitting in a sunny classroom bedecked with posters and charmingly bemusing “drawings,” hanging on to my every word as I read them Very Hungry Caterpillar. This dream was quickly shattered by a swift google street view search of my lycée (not école as requested), a concrete monstrosity which is tucked delicately between a ramshackle garage complete with tyre mountain and a cobbler whose peeling façade hinted strongly at having other “business” on the side. I was based an hour out of Lyon in a suburb called Vaulx-en-Velin which is essentially rougher than a badger’s arse.
I reserved (a bit of) judgement and waited till I met my first class to pass it completely. This didn’t take long. It transpired very quickly that I was working in a dramatically failing school with a fairly large population of students who were unable to speak English or, more worryingly, French. This of course would be for some a challenge to be relished, someone with visions of changing lives, writing poetry blah blah. This someone was not me: a 20 year old student with about as much control over children as Miley Cyrus has over her own career.
I yet again decided to experience another class before finally deciding that I hated France, my job and all children. Yet no evidence to the contrary made itself known. In the course of three months I: was verbally abused, confiscated a spliff from a kid rolling in my class, had to deal with a high, drunk, vomiting 11 year old, witnessed the confiscation of home made bombs from 12 year olds and discovered some kids trying to nick my purse. This from the country who refuse to create their own word for “le binge drinking” as it is, dans ses yeux, an ‘orrible breetish custom.
It isn’t all “action – réaction,” though. Some of my students do occasionally take their headphones out for long enough to listen to me, and some are truly brilliant. I have one student who came up to me after a lesson about Edinburgh and tell me that now she knew she wanted to not only go to university, but in Scotland. Job done.
So all in all – my message is this. Come to France. Better still, come to Lyon. It is an enchanting city, the gastronomical capital of France and the public transport is cracking. You can eat your body weight in baguettes, drink wine till you fall into the Rhone and cycle about wearing stripy tops. Do not, no matter how many “inspiring” lyric gap fill exercises you may have prepared, be a teaching assistant.
Love,
Poppy
