Yes indeed, the moment I’ve been waiting for has come. After weeks of frustration and rejection, some poor fool was stupid enough to rent me an apartment. Though Ingrid Michaelson has her hopes high hung to “buy our parents homes in the south of France,” she would be hard pressed to be able to rent a small apartment in the northeast section of the country without certified documentation of annual income, a French citizen willing to pay rent on the occasion that the occupant cannot pay, and mountain of paperwork written in French legal jargon...a double foreign language. For whatever reason, people prefer Ingrid Michaelson’s version…it must be the ukulele.

ANYWHO, I’m not one for complaining in excess, and the important thing is (as the title indicates) that I am currently housed.  You can now find me on the 4th floor of 1 bis Passage Leroy.  I am about a 20-minute walk from the heart of downtown, and my crib is fresh. It has everything you need: walls, a roof, and a door that both opens and closes. Click on this video to get a sense of it:

In addition to the new digs, you may or may not have noticed I have a roommate! His name is Herbert, the basil plant. He was technically two euro at the store, but he doesn’t know that because, well, you can’t put a price tag on love. Herbert has been kind enough to give me some of his leaves as I make grilled French cheese and tomato sandwiches and ratatouille, and in return, I give him sun, water, and an unwavering passion for flannel.  We listen to the same type of music; we’re comfortable with the occasional pause in conversation, and we’re both registered voters in the state of Ohio.  Needless to say, I really like Herbert even though he’s been really slow getting me his half of the rent.

Thanks again for all of your kind support and words of encouragement, and I am sorry that I have not been so consistent with my postings.  Now that I am living under my own roof, I will be better equipped to inform people about my work and my day-to-day tomfoolery.  May this blog post find you well wherever you read it, and I will write/film/talk again soon!

As a child, I was sent to the principal’s office a grand total of three times, and each time I felt as if the world was going to come down with all of its punitive powers on top of my (not yet graying) head. I was petrified of getting in trouble and always assumed that whatever it was that I was doing could warrant immediate administrative action. Was I conspiracy theorist in the making? Possibly. Was I right about the world scheming to destroy me? NO DOUBT, but, since my last visit to the principal’s office about 10 years ago, I like to think I have gained a bit of confidence in dealing with the great unknown of my actions. Realizing that more often than not, my actions were in the legal, ethical, and universal right. Justin Beiber calls it “swag”; Austin Powers calls it “mojo,” but I just call it my “inner Fonz”. As I went into my first day of work at the College Stendhal in Nantes, my inner Fonz was put to the test.  The following tale has been translated entirely into English to enthrall those who are not speakers of French. Here it goes.

I walk into the front door of the school and am greeted by the front desk receptionist. I explain that I am the new American fellow to help with the English classes.  He cordially greets me and then goes off to find one of the other English teachers. He returns with a teacher who also cordially greets me and immediately puts me to work with the other teachers, observing and helping out with one of their classes.  All seems to be going right, but then one of my new coworkers pops her head into the classroom where I am working and beckons me into the hallway.  She says to me, “So we are in a bit of trouble.” I give her the typical confused foreigner look. She continues, “We forgot to have you check in with the administration to make sure your paperwork was in order and that you actually are who you say you are and not a pedophile or other wrong-doer looking to be with the kids.”

Of course. On the first day of my first big kid job, my bosses are wondering if I have stolen my own identity and/or if I am some miscreant or escaped criminal. Conspiracy? Not yet. My inner Fonz is still strong thinking that it is just a misunderstanding. I’ll just report to the upset administrators, and all will be well.  My coworker adds with sense of fear, “She is pretty angry right now. I can stay in there and translate for you if you want. She is kind of scary. She’ll yell at you for about five minutes, and then, you’ll get a chance to talk.”  Conspiracy yet? HECK YES. The frogs have had it out for me since LITERALLY day one, but my inner Fonz hasn’t given up on me yet. I assure my coworker that I’ll be fine and that she could go back to her class.

I timidly walk down the long and narrow hallway reminiscent of that moment in the Wizard of Oz where Dorothy and crew go to their appointment with the wizard…except, I lack my usual ruby slippers and three musically complimentary supporting characters. I step into the office and am greeted by the administrator, a smiling elderly French lady, but not any ordinary smile. It was that smile I remember from being in the principal’s office years ago: the administrator’s smile that really meant, “I am so glad you are here because now I am going to rip you a new one.” We exchange pleasantries and than the hammer drops.

Admin: “Do you realize how many regulations you broke this morning?  How do we know that you are not a criminal? If you are the new teacher, why didn’t you reply to all of my emails from the summer? This is ridiculous! Are you sure this is the right job for you, son?”

Andrew: ”…Oh I’m sorry ma’am. Here is my passport and contract if that is any help, and I never received these emails. Are you sure you have the correct address?” (We check. It’s the wrong email)

Admin: “Regardless, you should have known better than to just go to work without even checking in with the people that are in charge!”

Andrew: “I admit that was pretty foolish, but in America we have this phrase called ‘the silver lining’ which means that even out of something that is an unfortunate situation, one can find some positive aspects. For instance, I was able to assist teachers that really needed the help today.”

Admin: “…Mr. Bradshaw, no such phrase exists in France.”

I finish the initial paperwork and then go back to my classroom with no tears, no new gray hairs, and my inner Fonz giving me his patented thumbs up. I made it.  Though it was a bumpy one, it is a first day of work that I can look back on fondly, and in spite of a terrible first interaction, I think I made a friend in the administration. As I went to check in the second day, the administrator was on the phone waiting on hold.  With a typical French tone of apathetic criticism, she says, “Well, at least the hold music is nice,” and with a slight smirk she jabs, “…silver lining.”

Oh Happy Days.