The first rule of Ecole-Club Migros is: do not talk about Ecole-Club Migros!
It may come as a surprise to some of you, but I really don't get a lot of opportunities to speak French on a daily basis. In the morning, I say pardon a few times as I bump into people on the subway, and at lunch time I say merci to the women at the cash register when I buy my coffee. The only person with whom I interact on a regular basis in French is my apartment manager, Madame Delessert, and that's only every week or so. I've learned lots of Vaudois French from her (she says ça joue? constantly), but I hunger to learn more.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do. When in Switzerland, go to Migros. I signed up for a French course that meets once a week for two hours at the "Ecole-Club Migros" in Lausanne. I had to take a test online to determine my placement level (it goes A1,A2,B1,B2,C1,C2) and it put me square in the middle of level B1. I looked at the description of level B1 and was immediately intimidated. I figured that the online test only measured my reading skills, which are relatively good, and not my listening skills, which are awful. So, I wimped out and signed up for A2.
It's hard to say what I was expecting. I guess in my heart, I was hoping for something similar to the French class that David Sedaris takes in "Me Talk Pretty One Day" -- read it if you haven't, it's hilarious. Or, at least I was hoping to have an enjoyable diversion in the evening and maybe make some non-scientist friends. Who knows. I figured I didn't have anything to lose.
Tonight was the first night of class, and, not to put too fine a point on it, it sucked. First: it was immediately clear that I was in the wrong class. The first thing we did was read the "objectives of the course" and they set such high goals as "understanding isolated phrases" and "being understood while doing simple tasks that require only simple responses." Of course, I note, in order to sign up for this class, someone called me up on the phone to confirm my online enrollment. Since she only spoke french, I had to understand "isolated phrases" of what she said, and I couldn't have completed the enrollment without "being understood while doing simple tasks that require only simple responses." Somehow, this didn't seem strange to anyone.
My classmates seemed nice enough, if a bit quiet. There were six of us in class; me and five women. Three of them were 20 year old au pairs from the German-speaking parts of Switzerland; one was a Swedish biologist working at the local hospital; and the last was a Japanese woman who described herself as a "business woman." I note that she was the last to arrive, and upon seeing that there was an open seat next to me that would have been the "polite" seat to take, she made a move for it then looked at me, and took the next seat over. It was like high school all over again.
The teacher was nice enough, as well, but I am not sure if she has ever taught anything before in her life. Roughly 90% of class time was spent in "awkward silence" in which she would ask a question to no one in particular and then wait for someone to provide an answer. I don't know about you, but I got pretty tired of being "that guy" who would just say the (obvious) answer just to get things moving along. It was clear to me early on that I was in the wrong class, so I tried my hardest not to spoil it for other people. At any rate, an experienced teacher would have avoided the problem entirely.
She had a lot of other habits that made me think she hadn't really put a lot of thought into the class, but maybe I'm holding her to too high a standard. All of my previous language teachers -- dating back to high school -- were either really interesting (Mari, my near suicidal Hungarian teacher in Budapest), really smart (Monsieur Schmidt, who was wasted on high school kids), or really engaging (Professoressa Magistro at Scripps, one of my favorite profs of all time). My Ecole-Club Migros teacher didn't seem to be either of the three. So, when towards the end of class she couldn't figure out how to hit the "pause" button on the CD player (she kept hitting "stop" instead), I knew that I was not long for her class. I'll call up tomorrow morning and beg them to let me switch to a higher level, we'll see how successful I am at being understood at that simple task. I hope it requires only simple responses.
Finally, here's a picture of the cover of our textbook. I want you to appreciate the quality and craftsmanship of the photo they chose. It must have taken the photographer hours to set up the shot properly, wait for the appropriate lighting conditions, wait for some weird guy with bleached hair and no socks to enter the shot, and then frame it perfectly so that you can see the grease spot on the ground. Brilliant.
Fig. 1: Who is more foolish? The fool who takes a bad picture, or the fool who takes a bad picture of that bad picture?
Postscript: If I were teaching an English course at Ecole-Club Migros, it would be awesome. I would focus on the skills people need to survive on the streets. Here is my proposed lesson plan:
Week 1. Greetings ("Odelay, vato. Qué tal?")
Week 2. Useful swear words ("What is this crap?")
Week 3. Things that go inside burritos
Week 4. Words that rhyme with "party" and "club", and how to write a pop-rap crossover hit
Week 5. Wu-Tang lyrics for every occasion
When in Rome, do as the Romans do. When in Switzerland, go to Migros. I signed up for a French course that meets once a week for two hours at the "Ecole-Club Migros" in Lausanne. I had to take a test online to determine my placement level (it goes A1,A2,B1,B2,C1,C2) and it put me square in the middle of level B1. I looked at the description of level B1 and was immediately intimidated. I figured that the online test only measured my reading skills, which are relatively good, and not my listening skills, which are awful. So, I wimped out and signed up for A2.
It's hard to say what I was expecting. I guess in my heart, I was hoping for something similar to the French class that David Sedaris takes in "Me Talk Pretty One Day" -- read it if you haven't, it's hilarious. Or, at least I was hoping to have an enjoyable diversion in the evening and maybe make some non-scientist friends. Who knows. I figured I didn't have anything to lose.
Tonight was the first night of class, and, not to put too fine a point on it, it sucked. First: it was immediately clear that I was in the wrong class. The first thing we did was read the "objectives of the course" and they set such high goals as "understanding isolated phrases" and "being understood while doing simple tasks that require only simple responses." Of course, I note, in order to sign up for this class, someone called me up on the phone to confirm my online enrollment. Since she only spoke french, I had to understand "isolated phrases" of what she said, and I couldn't have completed the enrollment without "being understood while doing simple tasks that require only simple responses." Somehow, this didn't seem strange to anyone.
My classmates seemed nice enough, if a bit quiet. There were six of us in class; me and five women. Three of them were 20 year old au pairs from the German-speaking parts of Switzerland; one was a Swedish biologist working at the local hospital; and the last was a Japanese woman who described herself as a "business woman." I note that she was the last to arrive, and upon seeing that there was an open seat next to me that would have been the "polite" seat to take, she made a move for it then looked at me, and took the next seat over. It was like high school all over again.
The teacher was nice enough, as well, but I am not sure if she has ever taught anything before in her life. Roughly 90% of class time was spent in "awkward silence" in which she would ask a question to no one in particular and then wait for someone to provide an answer. I don't know about you, but I got pretty tired of being "that guy" who would just say the (obvious) answer just to get things moving along. It was clear to me early on that I was in the wrong class, so I tried my hardest not to spoil it for other people. At any rate, an experienced teacher would have avoided the problem entirely.
She had a lot of other habits that made me think she hadn't really put a lot of thought into the class, but maybe I'm holding her to too high a standard. All of my previous language teachers -- dating back to high school -- were either really interesting (Mari, my near suicidal Hungarian teacher in Budapest), really smart (Monsieur Schmidt, who was wasted on high school kids), or really engaging (Professoressa Magistro at Scripps, one of my favorite profs of all time). My Ecole-Club Migros teacher didn't seem to be either of the three. So, when towards the end of class she couldn't figure out how to hit the "pause" button on the CD player (she kept hitting "stop" instead), I knew that I was not long for her class. I'll call up tomorrow morning and beg them to let me switch to a higher level, we'll see how successful I am at being understood at that simple task. I hope it requires only simple responses.
Finally, here's a picture of the cover of our textbook. I want you to appreciate the quality and craftsmanship of the photo they chose. It must have taken the photographer hours to set up the shot properly, wait for the appropriate lighting conditions, wait for some weird guy with bleached hair and no socks to enter the shot, and then frame it perfectly so that you can see the grease spot on the ground. Brilliant.
Fig. 1: Who is more foolish? The fool who takes a bad picture, or the fool who takes a bad picture of that bad picture?Postscript: If I were teaching an English course at Ecole-Club Migros, it would be awesome. I would focus on the skills people need to survive on the streets. Here is my proposed lesson plan:
Week 1. Greetings ("Odelay, vato. Qué tal?")
Week 2. Useful swear words ("What is this crap?")
Week 3. Things that go inside burritos
Week 4. Words that rhyme with "party" and "club", and how to write a pop-rap crossover hit
Week 5. Wu-Tang lyrics for every occasion
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