chicken_out epitome of incomprehensibility There was an information session about teaching school in Northern Quebec for 2015-16. It was in a hotel in a very French part of town, but the announcement about it had been posted in English on several job sites. It piqued my curiosity: I at least contemplated hauling my hypochondriac ass up to the small-town north because I *could* do it - I Am Stronger Than All That and such - contrarily, I like cold weather - I am moderately personable - I have a Master's degree - I have a new, warmer coat - I want to learn Inuktitut because Dad knows Hebrew and Greek and thus I need to learn at least one language with a different alphabet, even though I can barely say a correct sentence in French... all very good reasons. And I like to be helpful, evidently. It's one thing that I repeat in cover letters and in person, and it's at least sometimes true. Anyway, I neglected to finish trying to write my CV in French yesterday, wasting my time reading blog comments that made me feel guilty, and by the time I got to the metro stop I went the wrong way. Twice. And the place was scarcely a block away. Inside, I opened the door, and it was a lecture-style thing with one person speaking French to people sitting on chairs. I was late. I closed the door again. There was a man in the same hall, thin and black and wearing a cardigan similar to one of mine; he looked friendly, so I asked him if he was there for the teacher information session (in passable French) and he said no, it was something else. If the answer was yes, if he'd gone in, I think I'd have followed him. As it is, I just left. When I got back home and told what happened, my mother looked incredulous and wouldn't speak to me for a few minutes. Instead of slinking off to play piano or read, I washed the dishes. It was only what I was supposed to do, it was my turn to wash them, but there was an hour and a half's work there, if you count cleaning the confusingly heaped-up counter. Tired and drained as I was, the decision felt heroic - either that, or I'd used up my daily dose of cowardice and all that was left was bravery. (Now, mind you, some dishwashers are quite small and would fit even in that little kitchen. I'd be happy if technology could do that job for me.) 150116 ... e_o_i Not really in my defense, but to be clear, I'd expected more of a job-fair atmosphere, with people standing, milling around, and asking questions. I'd visualized picking up pamphlets, and speaking to people, preferably in English (ponytail nodding, instantly-professionalizing collared shirt crisp). But, when in Rome... speak Italian, eh? Eu, hien? B'en ouai, la. 150116 what's it to you? who go blather from