First off, the beginning of my freshman experience at Hays High School.
Secondly, the first day of my senior year at Wilson High School, with Grayson & Brooklyn.
Followed by my first day as a Wichita State Shocker!!!
I have to include my little brother and little sister's first day just last year.
And finally, here we are, my first day of school in PARIS.
It is a whole new experience, taking the metro to school. On the one hand it is cool because I can make use of the 45+ minutes I have to spend sitting. For instance, I can have my breakfast on the way to school! A sugary crepe and an Orangina soda :) Plenty of nutrition to start off the day...... okay, so maybe not, but it was delicious!
This is the woman that made me my crepe for the first day of school!! These creperie stands are scattered all over Paris - and it makes for an all-too convenient breakfast or snack :)
When I finally arrived at school, I was about fifteen minutes early for my first class; International Contract Negotiation. And, thank goodness I was! If there is one thing I have learned in France, it is to NEVER be late. I am often reminded of the phrase that Ms. Elise Peterson, former music director at Hays High, always said to us. "If you're early, you're on time. If you're on time, you're late. And if you're late, it's completely unacceptable." Ten minutes until the class was scheduled to begin, my professor began calling roll. Jeesh! She is pretty ruthless for the very first day! Students continued to pour in the room, and the agitation in her voice began to grow. At 7:57 she announced, "Okay, it appears you're all here, let's begin." Half the room is empty, clearly everyone is NOT here.
My professor started a powerpoint about how tardiness will not be accepted, and students will find the door locked promptly at 8:00am. Wow, she isn't joking around. Of course, as the words were exiting her mouth, more and more kids were entering the classroom. The look in her eyes was enough to make a statement, even if they had missed the first few slides. At 8:02, she finally lost it, and practically screamed that "8:00 MEANS 8:00!" I was scared for my life, and I had arrived 15 minutes early.
As the class continued, her strict authority hung in the air. She explained that all attendance, assessments, and exams would be taken seriously and graded harshly. I was curious if this was a facad to scare away lazy students, or if this level of severity would continue all semester. Either way, we pushed on, finally making it past her list of rules and on to the class material. Now this is the part of school I have NOT missed!
Now, I've debated on whether or not it is appropriate to include this next part in my blog. But I have decided for you to truly understand what it is like as an American student in a French university, I should. As she was explaining the process of international negotiation, she proposed the following scenario:
"If you are a manufacturer in France, exporting products to South Korea, what would be the three transportation set-ups? What is your ideal situation, your bottom line, and a potential compromise?"
Because of her intensity, students were scared to answer, but slowly we were able to come up with a few solutions. We decided the ideal situation would be to have South Korea receive the product in France, leaving us with minimal liability. Our bottom line, and basically a "no no" would be to go all the way to South Korea, where the transit of goods rests entirely upon us. But when it came to the compromise, we were completely unfamiliar with what our professor was looking for. She demanded a response.
"Come on. Tell me. What is the compromise? What are we going to do?"
(Silence.)
"They aren't coming to France, we aren't going to Korea. What do we do?"
(More silence.)
"Don't you know anything? What will we do. Are you all mute? Give me an answer."
I scanned the room, swallowed hard, and looked back to my teacher. With each inch that my hand raised higher, the stronger the urge to jerk it back down grew. What am I doing, she's going to kill me. But it was too late, she caught my eye, I was past the point of no return. Her bark at me to answer brought sweat to my forehead and underarms; never in my life have I been afraid to answer a teacher, yet here I was.
I answered, "What if we used a consolidator in the United States?"
My suggestion had no more than left my lips before she was calling me an idiot. Why would we do that? Why do we need America's help? That is preposterous, it makes no sense. That solution is not possible.
I debated whether or not to explain my response, using the limited amount of knowledge I had of international supply chains, and eventually swore to never speak in this class again. Never, ever, ever. This woman is downright mean.
I couldn't decide if her anger came from the idea of calling upon a third party, or if it was that the third party was the USA. Even more so, I wondered if my suggestion was truly stupid, or if my professor had an already-existing bias. My curiosity was soon answered, by another student's response. The scholar was a male, of Asian decent, and instead he suggested that we hire a middleman in Singapore - only to be answered by exclamations of praise. Dammit. Looks like I will lose 10% of my grade, because I refuse to participate.
I only halfway listened to the remainder of the discussion, and minutes later we were halfway through the class. My professor pulled up a power point slide to inform us:
"!!!! 10 MINUTE BREACKS!!!!"
It took every ounce of my ornery soul not to inform her of her mistake. And, though I consider myself to be an incredibly respectful, attentive student, at this moment I had no desire to listen to her another hour and a half. C'est la vie.
As nearly all the students in the building exited to the courtyard, the cloud of smoke formed itself yet again. I found myself lingering at the end of a hallway, paying 40 cents for a shot of espresso, and pondering whether or not to drop the class. I'm going to get an A. I'm going to stay in this class, attend every single lecture, get an A, and show her who's boss. That's what I'm going to do. Her belittling manner only fueled my fire to succeed in her class.
Here is a picture I took of David, from Madrid, and I. Thank goodness I had friends to help make the class bearable!
Upon our return, we were given an entry exam and our semester project was explained. As each question on the quiz was reviewed and answer provided, I started to get a complete picture of my professor's hatred of the states.
"Incoterms don't exist in America, you won't know what I'm talking about."
"What does FOB mean? As long as you aren't from the states you should know."
"Customs processes are similar world-wide, except in America, they make their own rules."
"Canada is the only country that really enjoys doing business with the US."
And finally, my iPhone said 11:00 and the condescending remarks were over. I grabbed my bag without being dismissed and walked out the back door. Honestly, I was straight pissed.
I had made plans earlier with all of my friends to cook them a big, American breakfast. They were intrigued by our fluffy pancakes, as they are accustomed to French crepes or the Swedish version of pancakes. I told them of my incredible recipe, coming straight from the Trego County cookbook. It is the same home-made recipe my dad has been using since before I was born, although it originally belongs to the Griffith family. I pulled the photo of the recipe up on my iPhone, and made a note of all the ingredients I lacked. When I reached the station with a giant Monoprix, I walked off the metro and into the store. Still slightly irritated, I grabbed a shopping basket and hoped that this would only take a few minutes. I was sorely mistaken.
I had found everything I needed, except for baking powder. In fact, I had even found the precise location of the baking powder, but I was unable to identify it. Nearly every single grocery item in France is made my a different brand than the ones we are used to in America. Of course, you can still find Pringles and Oreos and iconic snacks - but beyond that it gets really tricky. I know what baking powder looks like back home, it's Clabber Girl; a white cylinder with big red font and an antique photograph on the front. In Quebec, it is a plastic yellow cylinder with a brown screw-top lid that reads "Poudre à Pâte," produced by KRAFT. But in France, I had absolutely no clue where to start. After scanning the baking section for a solid fifteen minutes, I finally surrendered, deciding there was no poudre à pâte to be found. I should also mention that, if you make the mistake of using baking soda rather than baking powder, the pancakes taste like a mouthful of salt. I was not about to make such an error!!!
I marched over to the nearest Monoprix employee, who was stationed behind the deli meat station. I politely asked the middle-aged woman if she was familiar with poudre à pâte, to be met with a blank stare. I repeated the words slowly, and with as French of an accent as I could muster, "poudre à pâte, s'il vous plaît." She shook her head, not understanding my request. This day, is impossible. The idea hit me - I whipped out my phone and pulled up the notepad before typing that familiar phrase; a surefire solution. Only for more disappointment! The woman only frowned and shook her head, this time more violently, before asking for my understanding. I nodded back, slouched my shoulders, and turned back to go search for an alternate ingredient.
"Miss! Miss! Madamemoiselle! Mon collègue arrive dans 15 minutes, il parle anglais." My colleague arrives in 15 minutes, and he speaks English." Without another option, I perched my elbows on the counter and waited.
A teenage boy came strutting in, throwing his head around with his Beats by Dre, and threw his jacket down on the employee desk. The woman began explaining, and had to begin a second time after he finally removed his headphones, before pointing him in my direction. He walked over and, in true American fashion, greeted me with a "What's up."
I told him what I wanted, in English, and he started laughing. "Levure, you want levure." And there it was, right in front of my face, in little pink pouches that look like salt packets. How could I ever be expected to recognize that this weird type of packaging contains backing powder?! I grabbed what I thought would be plenty and thanked the boy, he was amused to say the least.
That evening I gathered all the ingredients in a plastic tub, and hustled over to the Cambodian building where my friends were waiting. All of us were starving and I couldn't wait to get started. I mixed up the pancake batter as they all stared attentively - so much pressure! And when the burners were hot, I fried the sausage and eggs. The pictures below will do a better job of explaining so I will stop here. Enjoy!
Needless to say, it was a success!!! Everyone loved my cooking - including me :)
When our bellies were full, everyone pitched in to wash the dishes and clean up the kitchen. The conversation was a steady stream, in English, French and Spanish, and we each vowed to cook one big meal that represented our culture before the semester was over. I am absolutely giddy for fish and chips, poutine, curry, and more!
Finally, it was time to go our separate ways and prepare for day two at university. A few of us girls acted silly in the stairwell while Felix took pictures before we were ready to leave :)
From left to right: Francesca, Kate, me, Persia, & Isabelle. I love them all!
And the most important lesson of all - great friends can make up for anything.
Bonne nuit :)
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