Daniel Ferrante

A sample of how my days in France go.

I live in a dorm room on the campus of the city’s university. The walls are rather well soundproofed, so I rarely hear much from other residents, unless someone is really blaring music.

However, every morning I am awoken by the sound of people opening their blinds. Unlike the states, the blinds here use a weird turning device to lower and raise them. They squeak really loud and you can hear just about anyone in the dorm as they open or close their blinds.

I wake up, fall out of bed, drag a comb across my head - brush my teeth and pull myself together for a shower. As this is France and they rarely shower (why do towels cost 20€? Because no one uses them.) I never have to wait for an open shower.

The showers in the dorms are great. Instead of a handle to turn on the shower and adjust the tmperature, there is instead one button. Push the button for a second and you get 10 seconds of water. Push it for 5 seconds and you get about 90 seconds of water. Mind you, the water comes at whatever temperature it wants, there is no way to set the temperature.

So I do the dance of sudsing up, lathering, push the button, rinse, scrub, button, wash, clean, button. It’s a high tech system.

I then plod back to my room, change and head down to catch the number 5 to the center of town (in seconds flat no less).

I usually take the number 2 to school. And somehow I always seem to catch the bus whose driver loves Phil Collins.

I have nothing against Genesis or Collins’ early stuff. Rain Down, Lose My Number, and I Don’t Care Anymore are all great songs. But I can only hear Groovy Kind of Love so many times before I want to kill myself. And for those of you playing along at home, the exact number of times is: Not at all.

And it isn’t just one crappy Phil Collins song, it’s three or four in a row. I am quite certain that this is the bus designed to drive me insane.

And another thing!!

Dear Mr. Crappy Music Loving Bus Driver,

Stop playing with your f’n hydraulics already. Yes, the bus goes up and down to help you assist the eldery and handicapped get on your bus. But this isn’t East Side San Jose and I don’t need you imitating some blinged out El Camino or a Riced out Acura with your little dancing bus. Use the hydraulics as intended or I’ll bite off your head and suck your lungs out through your neck.

Respectfully Yours,

Daniel

PS Those of you whose pictures I used in the above letter, try getting a life.

Oh yes, so, riding on the bus, listening to Phil f’n Collins, I finally arrive at school. I teach for an hour, then sit on my ass for a year, then teach again, because apparently it’s too f’n difficult to give me two classes back to back. Sure, I work 12 hours a week, but I have to sit at school nearly all day everday. Thanks!!

I keep hearing from one teacher that my lessons are too hard. I have dumbed down my lessons so much I am now at the point where I merely grunt and have the students try to understand concepts like “wheel” and “fire” (and why does it, what’s the word? burn?).

I go home, cook dinner in the dorm kitchen, whose lights flicker so much, my eyes bug out, making me want to stab Scientologists (wait, I always want to do that).

But at the end of the day, I’m with my friends, and that’s what counts.

And now you know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall.