bread and ashes.

Our school building was a three story Victorian era townhouse complete with large, ivied windows, winding staircases, and a white-pebbled courtyard behind which was another smaller building, le jardin. Our director, Don Henley, lived on the top floor with his wife, two boys, and their yellow lab puppy, Daisy, who would come barreling down the stairs and into classrooms, wreaking havoc by drooling on people and taking the occasional leak on someone's bag. 

Other than that, there was not much traffic along the top flight of 

stairs, so they were adopted as another nook for doing homework or chatting. Perching here had its risks, however; at times you would be pelted by paper airplanes or toy parachutes only to look up and catch the mischievous giggles and smiles of the Henley boys before they scampered away.

On the second floor lay the girls bathroom (which left the boys sprinting to the basement between classes), the computer room, and two classrooms, La Grande Salle et La Petite. La Petite Salle was made even more petite thanks to the gigantic table that monopolized it; at the beginning of each class there would be a mad rush over, under, and around, knowing that the last two people in would be literally under the nose of the teacher with their unfinished homework in plain view. Not only that, but while I hate to say it, the rumors about the French and body odor, while not always applicable, certainly held true for a few of our teachers. Pascale's breath alone was motivation to arrive 10 minutes early for class. 

La Grande Salle was the polar opposite of the Petite. Here, sun flooded the double windows, through which flowers and vines peered in and beyond which lay a sweeping view of the chimneys and rooftops of Rennes. In the fall and spring we let the warm breezes blow in and listened to the crunch of cobblestones, the chime of churchbells, and the chatter of passing students ("I don't want to go to English!" was once overheard, much to our Mrs. Reed's bemusement). 

In the winter, we shut the windows and let the wind and rain pound against them as we listened to personal essays read aloud and pored over the works of the great expatriates. The year began as a typical junior English class, studying Hamlet as I had done before. I never imagined that it would be here where I would learn the most, not about style or grammar or even poetry and literature, but about what it meant to be an expatriate, about the ways our lives were changing, and how to identify and express the vast range of emotions we were experiencing every day. I began to see my own thoughts and feelings reflected in print by everyone from Faulkner to Hemingway to my classmates, and I began to sense the connection that we, as strangers, and seekers, implicitly shared. 

A bar by the name of La Duchesse Anne was right next-door, with a back entrance in the alleyway that led to our school. Bernie, the proprietor of "the Duche", was an extremely large, brusque Frenchman with a rumbling voice and curling mustache. He wore the same sweat-stained white t-shirt every day, stretched over his protruding belly, and he huffed and puffed between sentences as if even the effort to talk was an exertion. 

An establishment such as the Duche would never have stood a chance in the United States, but would have been shut down for health and safety reasons in a heartbeat. It had no system of ventilation and attracted chain smokers like a magnet, a combination that led to a foul, stale odor that by December seemed to have taken on a life of its own. It clung to those who entered even momentarily, reaching beyond the walls and forcing us to hold our breath in passing. Bernie's sandwiches, ordered every Wednesday for our lunchtime math class, tasted like bread and ashes. 

Still, in September the Duche’s doors were open, and it therefore sufficed as an after-school hang-out for Mel, Chastity and I, who discovered how rebellious and cool we felt when sitting outside at the plastic tables to have a beer and cigarette. We dodged in for a drink between classes, we tried the croque monsieur and creme brulee for lunch, and we spent every afternoon of that first week watching American music videos on TV and eating frites, too scared to head out into the world of downtown Rennes and too self conscious to spend the extra time with our French families. When we (or at least, I) were invited to our classmate Preston's party that Saturday night, we naturally made the Duche our meeting place.