December last year was another story. I was three months into my British Council teaching placement at a sixth form college in a very rural village in France. Getting into the Christmas spirit I decided to show my rebellious students a series of pictures of an 'English Christmas'. First came stockings, then crackers, turkey, Christmas pud and then an image of a regal old lady delivering a speech. 'C'est ta grand-mère , Alex?' The uncultured group then stunned me further with their apparent knowledge that English people, having made Christmas cake months in advance, dig a hole and bury it in the garden. Naturally.
Having cleared up this bizarre rumour, next on the list was the annual trip to London. I was one of four teachers accompanying 54 eighteen and nineteen year olds, most of whom had never left the country before. Bear in mind I had barely turned 22 a week before.
After a (very) lengthy journey on a coach, we emerged from the tunnel to a flash of trigger-happy amateur photographers; the essential checklist - a car driving on the left, a black taxi, and a double decker red bus. Fascinating photos all round. On our arrival into London, yours truly, with my knowledge of London limited to Oxford street shops and a handful of nightclubs, was presented with a microphone and told to do a guided tour of the sites in both English and French. Preferably with detailed references to dates and architecture if possible.
I somehow survived four days and six museums / art galleries, in all of which I was responsible for 15-20 students and had to listen, advise, and educate on what it was exactly we were looking at (yes, there was a certain amount of subtly reading the available description and then translating it confidently into French). I endured going into McDonalds and ordering 58 cheeseburgers, introducing myself to a tour guide having just had 54 snowballs thrown at me, and trying to figure out which pub a group of students had ended up in having been given the afternoon to explore Covent Garden, Picadilly Circus, Bond and Oxford Streets. Easy.
The climax of the week came on the last evening when the teachers had arranged fish&chips for the group before they got back on the bus and left me to the bliss of solitude and a very large glass (bottle) of wine. Arriving at the restaurant we were surprised to find no record of our reservation. And an assurance that the establishment had never served neither fish nor chips. With 54 hungry and bored students stood outside the door the owner told us to go to their partner restaurant where they would whip up another English 'delicacy', bangers and mash. I was given directions and proceeded to lead a crocodile line of students, in pairs, through the dodgy end of Soho on a friday night. Eyes down and walk quickly please students.
It's fair to say that while yesterday's marathon Christmas shopping provided stress and amusement, it was nothing compared to where I was last year. Saying that, I wouldn't change any of it for the world. Whether my colleagues at the school would agree however...
No comments:
Post a Comment