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Eating Tapas in the World

Since our eldest daughter, Emma, started working for the travel magazine, there seems to be a lot of research trips, which she goes to great lengths to explain are actually hard work, and not nearly as fun (or relaxing) as one might expect. She got back from Spain last night, having spent ten days driving round the county learning about tapas, and eating a great deal of it too. See - I told you it was hard work.

It seems that not all the trips are this glamorous. Her first trip was to a former military training centre in Dorset, that’s now been converted into an activity retreat for hyperactive teenagers and executives suffering their mid-life crisis. Fortunately she was only there for two nights, as a third night in the non-stop rain and sleeping in a canvas tent may have sent her packing. Still, someone must have been impressed with her article “Trench Foot: The Great Character Builder” as even she admits that the assignments have been a little less draining since then.

Although she fell asleep within an hour of getting through the door last night, she had time to present us with half a leg of cured ham and a bag of marinated chick peas. The ham looked especially mouth-watering, and we would have tucked into it with gusto, had Emma not said that she “didn’t want to see another chorizo, breadstick or cured ham for as long as she lived” and insisted on having some proper food that reminded her of home - this apparently meant calling out to the ‘Garam Masala’ for a korma.

Before she wandered zombie-like to bed, we flicked through some of her notes together. She’d been particularly enthusiastic about Cordoba, where the concierge from the NH Califa Hotel had told her that with half a million inhabitants in the tenth century it was possibly the largest city in the world!

And where do you find the finest ingredients for the perfect tapas? Apparently we have to wait until her next article is published, and so - I’m afraid - will you.

A French Teacher’s Memories: A Short Nap

On Mondays, my first class was scheduled at 8am. French grammar at 8am… you understand that I was neither fully awaken nor fully happy on Monday mornings. To tell you the truth, I generally stood in front of 36 pupils neither more awaken nor happier than me.

I tried to give them exercises; I tried to correct previous exercises; to ask two or three pupils to give a presentation on such or such topic in order to start a debate, then on a topic they chose; I tried each and every thing. The sole solution would have been to cancel the class (or to prevent the pupils, and myself, from watching the Sunday midnight movie).

Actually, I decided to read aloud. I liked to read; pupils were relieved not to have too much to do (the understatement of the century!) and many of them folded their arms, put their heads on this cushion and finished quietly their night. It was the right time for reading: they were so still that I could have whispered and still be heard; or maybe they wished I would whisper so that they would not have been disturbed during their nap.

One Monday, the bell rang… and I awoke. Before I was known as the teacher who fell asleep in the classroom, I attacked: “I had never met such boring pupils”.

Then, I spent the Monday morning classes standing near the first row, hoping that only horses slept standing up.

Gabrielle Guichard is a French teacher who can be listened to on FrenchPodcasting.com.