Bonjour, y'all!

This morning I found myself trapped within the courtyard of the school, a large paved square fenced in by the building itself, along with the other 1,000+ people who attend Lycee Vaugela. After struggling for an hour to understand what was happening - why I wasn't allowed to go inside, why there was a guy with a loud speaker, why the vice principal was handing out little white sheets - I finally understood that we were to vote for a 'blocus', whether we wanted it to happen or not. A 'blocus' meant that kids would barricade the doors in protest, and also meant no classes for the rest of us. And so we did like anyone would, wrote 'pour' on the white slips, and avoided the dull grind of a Friday at school.
Later in the day, Bonnie and I found ourselves taking a stroll in an area of town we had never explored before. We had nearly 4 hours to kill, and a saunter in the warm weather felt so good after weeks of cold and rain. We were chatting in English - of course - and not thinking a thing of it, when we were shouted at in a familar accent.
"Hey, other Americans! They're speaking English! Americans!" And although we were not, we stopped and turned back towards the bar where a group of 10 Americans sat on the outdoor patio drinking dark beers.
They were happy to see us (and to hear us speak English) in a place where they couldn't speak a word of the native tongue. We introduced ourselves (firstly correcting the loose term of 'American' and replacing it proudly as 'Canadians'), and were invited to sit down with the group. They ordered drinks for us - on the house - and told us about themselves. We learned that the men were all in their early 20's, and hailed from states like Vermont and Massachusetts. They were here on a university trip to do some skiing in the Alps for 8 days, and had a hotel close by.
As I told about myself, I clearly shocked them. Revealing I was here for three months on exchange went down fine, as did my name and where I'm from. However, dropping the age bomb nearly blew them away. "I'm 17", I said, as their eyes widened.
Now, this is my favourite game to play with older guys. They're very interested, buying drinks, smiling, asking questions. All the while thinking I'm older than in reality. And then I casually say my age and laugh in my head as their expressions grow less subtle. After the idea sinks in, I ask how old they thought I was, and their replies are always so far off. "21 or 22 at least!" I love hearing it. It's enough to drown their hopes, but not enough to scare them off. :)
However, these guys were really interesting to talk to. They told us about their problems here so far, and funny things they've noticed about the French. Example, driving dirt bikes on city streets. Example, teeny tiny tin can cars. And all the things Bonnie and I have gotten over since first coming to France.
The funniest thing about our conversation was how little French they knew, and how little they planned on using during their stay. Instead of bringing the dictionary around, they attempted to speak to the waiters in English. At the bar, the waiter didn't understand, so they simply said the foreign English words louder (as if it would help!). They stared in amazement as Bonnie consulted the waiter in French for them, like they had never seen such a thing. Later, I said something to Bonnie in French, and was scolded for 'les mots'. And no, I wasn't poking fun at their accents, because they had the same one as me! Vermont isn't so far off, you know.
And so I found it very interesting how in Chambéry, France, I encountered Americans. They were relieved to hear another like themselves walking down the street, and provided a good hour and a half of entertainment for Bonnie and myself. It was truly cool how a common language brought us all together, even if it was just for a laugh and a beer.