the first day

“Oh, so you start school today?” inquired my host dad this morning, surprised that I was up early enough to eat with my host siblings before they left. “Yeah!” “Well, good, it’s about time you started doing some work!” he chortled. 

And with that benediction, I headed off in the direction of the 6th arrondissement. My first class was actually one at my program center, so I had nothing to worry about as I pressed the buzzer and entered into that now-familiar courtyard.

The class’ name is “French Painting of the 19th Century: The Academism of the Expression of Individuality”. As a chemical engineer, this class was a welcome respite from things like “Transport Phenomena II” and “Introduction to Chemical and Biological Process Analysis”. The class is taught by a middle-aged French professor named Nicholas, with strangely long legs, a gentle smile, and a very measured way of speaking.  Monday classes will be held in the classroom, while the Thursday séances will be held at various museums around the city.

the famous Sorbonne

The professor finished his lecture precisely at 10:30, and I skidded off to my next class at the Sorbonne, taking a shortcut through the Luxembourg gardens (woe is me). The Sorbonne was founded in the 12th century, and the behemoth you see to the left has been standing since the 1600s – not intimidating in the slightest.

After having to sweet-talk the guard into letting me in without a Sorbonne student ID (those get here next week – I hope), and getting appropriately lost in the echoing hallways of that ancient institution, I found myself in the TD for my history class: “Paris from 1660-1789: Ways of Life”. TD stands for travaux dirigé, which is like the recitation section for the main lecture, which is called a CM, or cours magistral. The majority of the TDs begin with a student exposé, in which a student essentially teaches on the assigned topic for 10 minutes, with the teacher filling in or continuing after he/she is done stammering and stuttering through French history, literature, or psychology.

This being the first day, Professor Le Person (I know.), an energetic younger man, taught a high-speed introduction to the course, centering on the development of the different neighborhoods of Paris. The classroom was about as wide as a closet, and as long as a ship, and I found myself sitting all the way in the back behind a rather tall, incredibly well-dressed French guy. At that distance, the board was about as useful as an abstract painting, so I had to rely on my fickle oral comprehension skills. Ten minutes into the class, I was forced to pull out my phone and start recording the lecture. The kids around me were taking notes that were the length of an eighth Harry Potter, and I had barely written half a page. I must’ve missed something. Despite the shock of my first real French class, the professor was engaging, fun, and I actually learned a lot.

My next class of the day started exactly when the previous one ended, but it took place four blocks away, at the Research center. In a small attempt to make it seem like I’m not completely blowing my major off in a sea of Van Gogh and the Black Plague, I signed up for a second-year programming course: Introduction to Java.

la maison de la recherche – sorbonne

After getting lost a few times, I pushed open the door to a classroom in the Sorbonne’s research center, hoping it was the back entrance to a large lecture hall. To my horror, I found myself at the front of a teeny computer lab, face to face with a portly Frenchman with a magnificent toupee. “Miss, do you have a good reason why you’re late?” he demanded, to the snickers of the class. I shook my head, already deciding that I was not going to return to Introduction to Java next week. “I’ll let it slide this time, but I won’t let it happen again. What’s your name? You’re not on my list.”

“Ah, actually, sir, I’m an American student, and my program won’t officially register us until next week.” And with that short sentence, I had placed a target on my forehead. “Ohhh you’re American. I see. Well that’s still not a good reason for being late.” More chuckles from the class. The rest of the class passed with more targeted questions and comments in my direction, but he seemed to sense the look of terror on my face and softened up a bit. He then ended class twenty minutes late, to which I would like to respond that being French is still not a good reason for being late.

Favorite new phrase: C’est de gateau – a French idiom of the same sentiment as “Easy as pie” – as explained by my 16 year old host brother in regards to his physics exam.