Birthday, Brussels and Burning Stuff

Okay, it has been a shamefully long time since I've posted. I honestly don't have a valid reason, other than that the weeks are just vanishing. I genuinely can't believe that I've been here for over two months. It feels completely like home now and I have quite a busy schedule over the week. With 6am starts, I get pretty tired during the week, the extent of which is probably best demonstrated by the fact that I slept through 'Count on Me' by Chase and Status at full volume. For over an hour.

My current alarm is 'International', also by Chase and Status. At first, it was the most heart-attack inducing wake-up call I could ever have imagined, but me being the heavy sleeper I am, I'm almost managing to sleep through this too. I'm only just aware it's playing these days and I don't want to put it quite at full volume for the sake of my poor housemate.

Unfortunately, if that eventually fails to work, I have no idea what will...

Moving on... During the two-week half-term break, it was my 21st Birthday. Spending such a milestone birthday abroad was a drawback to taking a language degree when I was choosing which courses I wanted to do. I had previously (quite genuinely) envisaged spending my 21st in a shack in the middle of nowhere, eating ratatouille out of a tin with only a stray cat for company. Thankfully, I have a lovely house with other people in it-- there are even cats, and, til only a few weeks ago, kittens too! Having said that, my housemates left to spend the holidays with family and friends and then to start a 4 week-long work experience and my assistant friends had gone back home for the holidays-- one has recently moved out, too. Really I could have lived out the tinned-ratatouille-and-cat image, but thankfully my parents came out to see me! Needless to say, there was much shopping, coffee-ing and cake-ing and cocktail-ing-- even champagne-ing! In fact, I went to my favourite cocktail bar with my Dad on my actual birthday and since they know me there (...) when they found out it was my birthday one of the barmen sent over a free aperitif of chocolate brownies and fruit soaked in liqueurs. Nawwh. 

 Not bad, I say.

Brussels

On the last Saturday of the holidays, I thought I'd take myself out for the day to somewhere new, so I booked a day out in Brussels. The train from Lille only takes half an hour, which is great because I got a full day out. It was the first time I'd traveled alone, but it was actually great. I'm an only child, so I'm pretty used to being alone and, in fact, I need to be alone at some point every day for reasons I can't quite explain, other than to say it's an only child thing... In any case, with no housemates and, for the time being, no friends, I was quite used to it. Besides, the great thing about being alone is that you can do exactly what you want and you can do things as fast or as slowly as you want, too.

The first place I went to was La Grande Place, which is pretty impressive:

La Vieille Bourse (Old Stock Exchange)

There is a museum opposite La Vieille Bourse with a rather random collection of things, but the most bizarre of all was probably the collection of costumes adorned by the even more bizarre peeing statue...

There were hundreds of these replicas wearing one of the costumes worn by this statue. I have absolutely no idea who thought of making a water feature out of a small boy answering nature's call, but there you have it. I don't know what his current costume was supposed to be, but here's a picture so you can see for yourself. If you can make out what's written on his jumper, please tell me!

Of course, I bought some Belgian chocolate, and I had to have a waffle (after my exhausting day of visiting all sorts of museums and generally being all over the place):

It was nothing short of wonderful.

Of the many museums and art galleries I visited, I think Le Musée des Instruments de Musique (Museum of Musical Instruments) was the most unique. There are different floors with instruments from various different countries and eras; as you go in, you are given an audio guide which is activated when you walk up to each exhibition. Instead of verbal information, a piece of music played by the instruments you are looking at is played-- awesome idea. Here are some of my favourites:

I love Eastern music (actually, just music really) in general.

I have no idea what the 'creature' is, but he's quite amusing:

I'm not sure what this is meant to be-- maybe a very primitive harp?-- but it must be so old!

I think wind instruments made to look like snakes should still be around-- these are amazing.

And, finally, my favourite instrument, and the most elaborate foot-pedals I have ever seen:

I was completely worn out once I came home, but it was a brilliant day, and I want to go back to see the Chocolate Factory and the Ancient History Museum-- not necessarily in that order.

A Little Bêtise to Leave You With

A blog post from me would not be complete without an example of my random acts of idiocy, so I hope you're sitting comfortably!

I was making myself a sandwich, but I'd forgotten to take the butter out of the fridge earlier for it to soften, so I thought 'I'll just put it in the microwave for a few seconds'. Of course, I was forgetting that the paper it is wrapped in isn't just grease proof paper, it also contains metal. After a few seconds, I caught a rather alarming flash of light in the corner of my eye, and I rushed over to turn the microwave off. There was smoke and fire and flames and everything-- flames I tell you! Thankfully, it wasn't too bad, although the plastic cover in the microwave is now burned... oops. I just put the flames out in sink and prayed the microwave wouldn't blow up next time I used it. (It hasn't.)

À bienôt! 

David Bacon and the Three Bitches

I've been at work for two weeks now and many wonderful things have happened at work and outside of it. I'm actually writing this post in one of my schools on a staff room computer-- being a French keyboard, everything is in a different place, so if there are some bizarre errors, I apologise in advance. Spelling errors are potentially more likely since this picture just about sums up my current state (I kid you not):

For my first two weeks I have been observing classes to see how the schools teach, involve all the students and discipline. Fortunately, on the whole the students at both of the schools I am working in are very polite and enthusiastic, so hopefully I won't have too much trouble when I do start helping out properly. The teachers have a pretty much zero tolerance attitude to any chatter and misbehaviour and I think this certainly has a positive effect, since I've not encountered any really unpleasant behaviour thus far.

I've observed many different lessons-- not just English, but also French, History, Music, Spanish and PE. I think my favourite was probably History because it was about ancient writing and I got to walk around and help the students with the final task which required them to imagine that they were an ancient Egyptian scribe who was defending the value of their work to a friend. It was a great way to practice my French and to get a proper taste of teaching, and it was very closely related to a few topics I love: language, orthography (spelling) and writing.

This is an example of a papyrus with some ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics written on it. We had a papyrus to show the students so that they could see what people used before paper.

Language is something that has always interested me-- no, fasinated me. From a very young age I had some very strong opinions about language: words I do and don't like (for no particular reason really), pronunciations I don't like (which is most certainly NOT to say I am prescriptivist or pro-received-pronunciation in any way). I studied English Language as an A-level and loved learning about different accents, dialects and language varieties like Jamaican Creole and how it influences things like Hip-Hop culture and areas with high ethnic diversity such as London. I also learned about the advent of the printing press and how it revolutionised orthography and writing culture. Whilst this is a little more modern than ancient Egypt to say the least, I certainly felt that I had some expertise to offer the students who asked me questions about the role of a scribe and such-like.

In an English lesson with a Euro class I did a little presentation about French stereotypes (berets, frogs, cigarettes, garlic and the like) and a bit of pronunciation work. In France, children who choose to be in Euro classes tend to learn 2 or 3 European languages, and since it's a choice, this generally means that they're pretty enthusiastic! This class were great in fact, their pronunciation was quite good anyway, but it was great to demonstrate how English pronunciation patterns differ from French ones. As you'll see later, pronunciation can make all the difference... In fact, possibly the hardest thing for a French person to learn is the syllable stress of English. In French, there is no definite syllable stress, but if you must have one, it tends to be the final syllable (len-te-ment: slowly), whereas in English there can be multiple stressed syllables and there is no fail-safe stress pattern (mar-ma-lade, A-mer-i-can, etc...). Anyway, I can see your head is about to touch the keyboard in boredom, so we'll move on, shall we...

Je Me Présente (Presenting Myself)

For most lessons, I have been invited to introduce myself to the students at the start of the lesson, however there was one rather awkward lesson-- music in fact-- where I was not introduced in any way... The teacher was lovely, but he did just tell me to sit next to a girl near the back of the class with no explanation as to who I was (bear in mind that this was a class of twelve-year-olds) and I was gawked at unashamedly and unreservedly throughout the lesson-- they must have thought I'd seriously flunked a few years!

In the English lessons where I introduced myself, the teacher usually invited the students to ask me some questions. Of course, there was the usual 'Where are you from?', 'How old are you?', but in one class, I was asked by the same fifteen-year-old boy whether I was married (I am aware I look older than 20, but maybe I should consider a cosmetic procedure now?!) and whether I wanted children (Steady on! Not for a very long time, thank you). I was also asked all manner of whether I like Little Mix, One Direction, Justin Bieber: 'No, no, and most indubitably: no.' In fact, saying I didn't like One Direction has quite possibly ensured that one particular girl will hate me for the duration of the year, but I can live with that.

In fact asking me about celebrities is where diction comes in: you simply forget that foreign people will pronounce names very differently to you. This became very clear when one girl asked me if I liked a particularly well-known female singer. I'd asked her to repeat the name a few times because I simply had no idea who she was talking about, so she wrote it on the board: Mariah Carey. The French pronounce it something like 'marrya carry' and without any stress on the syllables. Of course, once she'd written it down it was obvious... This at least prepared me for a boy who asked me if I liked David Bacon.

Oh, David Beckham... (justr FYI, I'm indifferent.)

The incidents reminded me of a line from the cartoon 'Bartok the Magnificent' in which the rather pompous bear, Zozi, says to Bartok: 'Diction, my dear boy: it can make all the difference.' I couldn't agree more.

The Three Bitches

I realise how long this post is getting, so I'll leave you with a wonderfully offensive error I made when talking to the History teacher. It was the end of the lesson and she was asking me how I'd found the Biology class I had observed before History. It had been great, but there were three boys who had been talking constantly throughout it, much to the teacher's exasperation. I'd picked up a slang term for boy: 'gars', so I told her 'le cours s'est passé bien, mais il y avait trois gars qui ont tchatté beacoup!' Since 'gars' is short for 'garçon' (pronounced 'garr-son'), I pronounced 'gars' as 'garss' at which she looked at me and repeated in English: 'there were three bitches?'


It turns out 'bitch' in French is 'garse', pronounced 'garss', and the short term for 'boy' is in fact 'gars', but pronounced 'gahr'.

Diction, my dear boy: it can make all the difference.

The Arrival (and Several Faux-Pas) Part II

Alors... following on from my last post, when I arrived in France I met my résponsable, Mélanie who drove me to my other résponsable's house in Belgium for my first night in France. I felt very multicultural. The woman I stayed with is called Marie, and while I was there I met her partner, Aurélian, her best friend, Dave, who was staying with them, and their absolutely huge dog. I'm not sure how you spell the dog's name, but imagine the word 'hippy' being said without the 'h' in a French accent and you pretty much have it. We'll call her Ippy.

We didn't do much on that night because I was quite tired after all the travelling, but the next morning I was home alone as everyone else was at work. Cue the disaster of the day. So, I had to use the bathroom, and I soon realised the flush on the toilet wasn't turning off... Aurélian would get back at 10.30, but this was almost an hour away. I had visions of the bathroom flooding, but thankfully the water was running through the bowl, so it wasn't filling up. I took the lid off the cistern and saw that the flush mechanism was slack, which was why the flush wouldn't stop. It must have been a problem they'd had for a while, because there was a polystyrene block that the lever had clearly been stuck into, so I fiddled around with that until the water shut off. Phew.

When Aurélian got back we took Ippy for a walk, or rather, she took us for a walk. Despite being only 15 months old, she's bigger than the average labrador and at least 3 times as strong. At one point Aurélian let me hold the lead and I was almost instantly pulled off my feet as Ippy rushed towards something in the bushes...

Meeting the Teachers

In the afternoon Marie came to get me so she could show me around her school and so I could meet the teachers. It was lunch time and we ate in one of the classrooms with about 6 other female teachers all having multiple conversations and talking over each other. I could make out a few topics, but there were so many I just quietly ate my baguette (so French) and made the odd interjection. The staff were really friendly though, so I felt quite happy.

After lunch I met 'le chef', ie. the headmaster. I was a little bit nervous to meet him, since in France work relationships are very hierarchical. The French language has two forms of 'you': the familiar/friendly form 'tu' and the more respectful, distanced 'vous' which is also a plural form. Whilst you would use 'tu' amongst fellow teachers and towards a student, using 'tu' when speaking to your boss might result in a bit of friction to say the least... They will refer to you as 'tu', in general, of course. It takes a bit of getting used to, but thankfully I didn't slip up there!

Moving In

Skipping forward a bit to the most exciting part of the day... finally getting to see my house for the first time!! I could barely contain my excitement all day. I wanted to meet my housemates and settle in a bit more and explore the area. The search for a house had been long and mostly fruitless, with landlords who didn't respond to messages, houses that were much too expensive, and adverts for rooms that were still online despite the rooms no longer being available (grrrrr!). I was incredibly lucky that Marie had kindly offered to view houses on my behalf, she had been to this house the previous week and had told the landlord I'd take it, so I knew it had to be good!

We pulled into the drive and I saw a really beautiful, well-kept house. I knew the landlords lived next door, so when we rung the bell and were invited into a spacious living room and office area I presumed we were in the landlords' side of the house-- it was so smart and well furnished, with a huge TV on the wall. We talked to the landlords and then I realised that this was actually my home for the next few months-- I couldn't believe it!!

My landlords are a couple called Laurence and Philippe and I'd been emailing them over the past week asking various things about the house and moving in and that sort of thing. I'd mainly been emailing Philippe, but Laurence emailed me a bit too, which is where another error comes in... Of course, in England at least, Laurence is a boy's name, but in France it's a girl's name. Naturally, I had no idea of this at the time, and rather embarrassingly I think I referred to Laurence as 'Monsieur' a few times. I'm pretty sure that when she was introduced to me in person I more than likely looked a little surprised that she was a woman, but there you have it. They're both absolutely lovely in any case and I'm very happy to have such friendly people as my landlords.

They took me on a quick tour of the house... the huge TV is 3D (!!), the kitchen (complete with Tassimo machine) had so many utensils provided I thought it must be shared with the landlords, but no! Everything you could possibly imagine is in there! My room is great, it's nice and big with loads of storage and blue décor-- there's even a TV and a nice view of the garden. The garden itself is beautifully kept and the landlords keep chickens and doves in an enclosure at the back. I also found out that their cat had just had kittens!! Essentially, there's no better place on earth. Then there's my lovely housemates, Maud and Nathan, who are both studying at a nearby Lycée (a sort of between college and university type establishment). We're all quite busy so we don't get to see too much of each other, but we often try to cook together.

French Kissing

Not that sort, don't get too excited.

I'm not sure I'll ever quite get my head around this kissing-people-on-the-cheek-but-not-really-only-kissing-the-air-by-their-face-thing-as-a-greeting thing. When Mélanie met me at the train station, we only said hello, but when I got to Marie's she greeted us both with a kiss on each cheek which took me by surprise as I'd forgotten that the French do this. I thought it was just a thing women did to women as well so I was even more surprised when Dave and Aurélian came home and did the same thing. Ippy definitely wanted to get involved, and in fact she wouldn't leave me alone (bless). My landlords, however, didn't kiss me or Marie, but when I met Maud and Nathan for the first time, it was the first thing they did, but then we don't do it when we see each other day-to-day. Some of the teachers at work do it, but not all. Then there's the dilemma of which cheek to go for and the awkward situation where you're both going for the same side of each other's face and it doesn't quite work...

Until next time...

The Arrival (and Several Faux-Pas) Part I

I've been in France for just over a week now, so I thought this would be a good time for a new blog. As usual, you'll find several examples of me embarrassing myself and finding myself in awkward situations, and I'm sure you're more than happy to laugh at my expense, so without further ado...

La Veille (The Day Before)

For the fortnight leading up to the day I left for France I had been unbearably excited-- to the point where I could hardly sleep, in fact. I haven't been that excited for a long time! The day and night before leaving were a little strange in that they felt completely normal. I met my friend Rebekah in town as a last goodbye and we spent the afternoon sitting in cafés drinking hot chocolates with all the trimmings and saying we couldn't believe how soon it had all come round. It felt very strange not talking about the new year at uni and it's definitely strange that I'm not there at the moment. 

Despite talking about the fact I was leaving the next day, it still didn't feel real and even in the evening when I went through my packing I couldn't quite comprehend what I was about to do. I did have a momentary awakening to reality when I tested the weight of my bags however... Instead of being proactive about it at around 9pm when I first tested the weight, I told myself I'd be fine, but then at about 11.30 the notion came to me that the fact the bulging suitcase wouldn't even stay upright might indicate I should at least take out a jumper... 

This was kind of the stage it had got to...

Bon Voyage

By the time the actual day came, I didn't feel excited or scared, I simply got my stuff together with my mum and we left for the train station. My dad met us for a coffee there and we sat waiting for the platform to be announced. After saying goodbye to my parents I made my way to the platform and looked for my carriage. Thankfully a male passenger helped me lift my bags onto the train-- I'm pretty sure the suitcase was heavier than me, and my rucksack wasn't exactly a featherweight. I waited til the train started moving before I switched my mp3 on. The last time I'd switched it off it had been at the start of one of my favourite pieces of music and I thought it would make a good accompaniment to the departure. It's called 'Endless Dream' and it's a post-rock masterpiece by the Irish band 'God Is An Astronaut'. I'll put a link here:  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q4_91yAQIW0

What I love about this is how anticipatory the music is-- especially from about 30 seconds in. There's something lyrical about a lot of their music, particularly in this track and 'Golden Sky', which is from a truly magnificent album called 'Age of the Fifth Sun'. I adore post-rock, as you might have gathered, so if you have any recommendations, feel free to post them in a comment!

I got to Lille on the Eurostar from St. Pancras and had originally planned to take a taxi from Euston to St. Pancras, but since it was a sunny day and I had a fair bit of time to kill I decided to walk. The hustle and bustle of central London always puts me in the travelling mood-- not to mention the atmosphere in St. Pancras. I had brought 'The Fry Chronicles' with me, fully intending to spend a good two hours absorbed in the world of Stephen Fry, but I was feeling impatient to go and I kept having this sudden paranoia that my train was cancelled or would be hideously late. This was partly because I couldn't see my train on the screens and I spent about half an hour wondering what on earth I would do if my train didn't come. It was then I realised I was looking at the arrivals board. Silly me. 

One of my favourite places.

Although I was worrying something might go wrong just when the journey really mattered, my journey to Lille was fairly uneventful-- except for the presence of a slightly odd character on the Eurostar (there's always one). Another man helped me get my case onto the luggage rack after I nearly caused myself an injury heaving it onto the carriage. I hadn't really given the logistics of getting the case onto the carriage much thought-- especially since I'd been helped on my first train. I just got right up to the carriage door and saw the three very narrow steps onto the carriage and thought: 'Oh shite'. A small crowd began congregating behind me while I was blocking the door with my attempts at lifting the case-- no offer of help there though. 'Rather you than me' would probably sum it up. I don't blame them.

A Little Something to Leave You With

I realise that this is beginning to become quite a long post, and also that there hasn't been a particularly embarrassing incident yet, so brace yourselves-- this is a faux-pas to end all (or at least most) other faux-pas.

As I said, I was extremely excited about coming to France, especially when I finally got a house sorted (more on that in the next post). In short, I live with two French students-- one boy and one girl-- and the house is owned by a private landlord family who live next door. Naturally, I told people how excited I was about going to France: my 'responsables' (ie. the respective teachers who are in charge of me at each of the schools I am working in this year), my landlord, my housemates, a French friend I met during my search for accommodation... I don't know how many times I wrote ''Je suis très excitée' to be in France/to meet you' to each of these people before I arrived, but it wasn't until my first night in France when I stayed with one of my responsables that she decided to tell me I needed to change the way I told people I was excited, because 'excitée' is... sexual. 

Oh dear God. 

The Pre-Year Abroad Reconnoitres (Part 2)

So, I'm back to tell you more about my visits to France this summer and the summer before-- caution: may contain traces of stupidity.

As I mentioned in the previous post, there really is nothing like visiting the country whose language you study to remind you why you're doing it. As I have found on both of my visits to France-- contrary to popular belief-- French people are lovely. No, really. The merest attempt to communicate in French to a French person often results in a beaming smile on their part, more than helpful advice in response to whatever you asked them, and even the odd congratulatory comment on your linguistic abilities. What more could you want?

In fact, this year, Rebekah (who I was traveling with) and I sat on the fountain in the centre of Lille just to have a break from walking around. There was a woman next to us (the fountain usually has lots of people sitting on it), and she immediately started talking to us, asking if we were on holiday and so on. She explained she was no good with languages, so we spoke entirely in French. We talked about many things: love, divorce, languages, translation, immigration... It was a text-book perfect conversation. She was very friendly. Admittedly, had this been England I might have edged away from her a little, but this was a linguistic opportunity not to be missed... even if I did spend most of it with only a rough idea of what she was saying.

Centre Grand Place Fountain

 If you're inclined to dislike French people-- and especially Parisians, consider my trip to Versailles last year:

When trying to make our way to Versailles, Kee and I (well, mainly me) thought we had the métro route absolutely sussed. I was prepared with a pocket-sized tourist booklet with a fold out métro map (I really must have looked the part, especially when I had my rucksack). The métro is pretty much like the London Underground, and since that's not too difficult to get your head around, I thought this would be a piece of cake. In fact, there appeared to be a direct line from our main station to Versailles, so we went about the station looking for said route. Of course, we couldn't find it, so I stopped a Parisian woman  (who was clearly in a rush) for some directions. Considering all I'd been told about how notoriously rude Parisians are, I was surprised that after a slight hesitation she decided to help us and pointed out that we were actually trying to find a tram line in the underground... oops. She then kindly told us the way by the métro, which is faster in any case, pointed us in the direction of the line and referred to a map on the wall, and we were on our way. She really didn't need to stop on her hectic commuter's rush to work to help two clueless tourists, but there you have it.

They were re-doing the gold leaf on the Palace when we visited-- looks pretty awesome!

When we got to Versailles, we went to get tickets from the self-service machines. An assistant came over to check that we were getting the right tickets and so on. I had noticed on the website that students get free entry, so I asked the assistant about this (in French), producing my university card. Of course, since I don't go to a French university, there was no way he could tell it was a genuine card-- or university for that matter-- so he asked to see some official ID, which I had conveniently left in the hotel room. My friend was far more prepared and showed her driving licence and uni card, saving her 18 euros (!!). I must admit I felt a little sick at this sum of money, and the assistant must have taken pity, or maybe he liked the fact I'd spoken in French, because after a moment's consideration he suddenly beckoned us to follow him and we were led (like VIPs, I like to think) past all the ticket desks and even queue jumped the security checks and were pointed in the direction of the audio guide desk. I'm not sure I've ever felt so grateful to a complete stranger. Of course, once we realised he was letting us both in for free, we did the very British thing of saying 'thank you' continuously-- lest he change his mind! He even gave us a little smile and a wave as he walked back to the ticket area. Bless.

Now, really, do those three people sound like the product of a nation of rudeness and anglophobes? I think not.

If there's one thing I'm going to miss about England while I'm in France, it's the value for money coffees. If you find most coffee shops very expensive over here, don't go to Europe, for goodness' sake! Having visited Versailles, we made our way to a café for lunch where I ordered a cappuccino. It was €5,50-- a bit steep, but really only a pound or so more than you'd pay in England. Eventually, the barista brought over our food and drinks to the table, and I was more than astounded at how small the coffee was. I was expecting a coffee the size of the average mug, but this was actually the size of a double espresso (really making my cappuccino a double macchiato-- you can tell I'm a barista..?). If you're not familiar with coffee speak, imagine an over-sized thimble. I'd been had.

While we're on the topic of coffee, this year I had a slightly better cappuccino experience and possibly the most novel cappuccinos I have ever seen. The first was served to me in a small bowl with whipped cream on top at Le Pain Quotidien:

I seriously approve!

The second was served at an Illy ice-cream parlour, which incidentally served about every flavour of ice-cream you could possibly imagine.

Still not enough coffee in there, but the novelty makes up for it...

Moving on to cold beverages now and a slightly mortifying incident in Roubaix this year... My friend and I wanted a quick drink somewhere because it was so hot. We walked into a little Whetherspoon's-esque diner/bar and were immediately asked what we wanted. We'd not had time to look at a menu, so I thought I'd ask them what cold drinks they had. I'm really not a cold-drinks person, so I'm not used to asking-- I can order coffee just fine though. Bearing in mind hot drinks are 'boissons chaudes', I asked if there were any 'boissons froides' which received a slightly confused look the lady tending the bar. She then told me they had some salmon, which needless to say confused me. Evidently, she thought I'd asked if they served cold fish ('poisson froid' presumably). I repeated apologetically, with more emphasis on the 'b' and eventually she realised what I meant: 'boissons fraîches'. Embarrassing mistake, yes, and certainly counter-intuitive, but was it really so difficult to realise what I was asking for..?

Let's go back to the previous year's travels, and-- more precisely-- the journey between Rouen and Amiens. Kee and I had to take a train from Rouen to Paris St Lazare and get a connection from Paris Nord to Amiens. We had 15 minutes between the connections, so we went at a leisurely pace to the métro ticket desk to get our tickets. We were told that the direct line between the two stations was out of order, and so we'd need to get two métros to get to Paris Nord. This was quite a long-winded journey, so we hurried to the first métro. To say that we were packed in like sardines couldn't quite convey how busy it was. People were having to get off at stations they didn't need to so that others could get off and then all the new passengers squeezed themselves in. Of course, having huge rucksacks didn't make us feel the slightest bit awkward... All the while time was marching on and by the time we reached Paris Nord there were only five minutes before our connection left. Ample, you might say, but I think Paris Nord is possibly the biggest and busiest train station I have ever been in. For one thing, it's not just trains, it's local trains, high speed trains with different areas for the different companies, trams, métros, taxis and so on. And it's always busy. It was much busier than this, but just to give you an idea.

There were plenty of signs everywhere, but when you're in a rush it all blurs into one and I wasn't sure which high speed train platform we needed to be at, so I asked a guard. He wasn't really sure himself at first and was perplexingly laid back about the whole thing, but he gave us some rough directions to the platform and we hurried off. It was so crowded we were pushing and shoving our way towards the high speed platforms until we came the ticket barriers-- very much like the tube. I was just coming up to a barrier, ticket at the ready, when someone rudely barged me out of the way. It happened to be Kee who, in the frenzy of getting to the train before it left, hadn't realised she was pushing me out of the way rather than a stranger-- I was nearly on the floor. (We still laugh about it.) We got through the barriers and rushed to a platform and asked if it was the right train (1 minute to spare). No, it wasn't and we were pointed further up the wing of the station.

It's also rather nice!

Considering we had our rucksacks with us, Kee was wearing pumps and I was wearing flip-flops (of all things), I think we ran pretty fast. So fast, in fact that some poor commuter who happened to be in our path, walking in our direction literally didn't know where to go. He had a look of terror and did that little left-to-right dance you do when you don't know which way to go, as we zoomed past him... and down the wrong side of the train: cue a sharp 180 in which my flip-flop almost flew off my foot.

Kee doesn't speak French, so it was more than obvious that the stress was getting to her when she looked in all directions, hands out in confusion, shouting in desperation the only French word she knew: 'Amiens!!'

When we got to the right side of the train, I asked/shouted at the guard (quite out of breath, desperate, and perhaps a little crazed by the experience) 'Ce train va à Amiens?!'. He actually took a step back-- wide-eyed, more than literally taken a-back: 'Oui!' he said. In fairness, he'd probably never met someone so desperate to get to Amiens in his life.

We hurried onto the carriage laughing with relief. Rather embarrassingly, the train was delayed by ten minutes before it left the station and-- it gets better-- it was then held up part-way through the journey for two hours (two!!) because the train in front of it broke down. So much for rushing and knocking countless people over...

Well, that's perhaps all there is of any particular interest during my trips to France the past couple of years. By now you've probably realised I'm prone to episodes of stupidity, awkward situations and bad timing, so rest assured there will be more to come. I can only imagine when I actually get to France I'll have some particularly wonderful examples of me embarrassing myself on a regular basis, so keep reading!

The Pre-Year Abroad Reconnoitres (Part 1)

It struck me that perhaps you're wondering why my blog page name is Jess the Cat Goes Franglais. Well, most of it is self explanatory, but since I'm not actually a cat, that part might require some explaining. There are several reasons for it, really. It first started in July of last year when I visited a few cities in northern France with Kee-- one of my best friends. It had got to that stage when you've been in someone's company for so long you start thinking out loud. We were on a train-- to Lille in fact-- when, after looking at me quite closely for a few moments (to the point that I was unsure whether I should be worried for her sanity or the state of my face), after what appeared to be some profound consideration, she said these exact words: 'The more I look at you, the more you look like a cat.'

...Make of that what you will. 

In an unrelated incident, I became known as Jess the Cat at work, purely because of the Postman Pat reference. Either way, the likeness has been remarked and the name used by various people, so why not endorse it...

Getting back to my visits to France: there really is nothing quite like visiting the country of the language you study to remind you why you're studying it. Or, more accurately in my case, to justify the rash decision to apply for a language course involving a year abroad in the first place. (I must say that it is in fact a small miracle I was even accepted onto a course that's 50% French, since my application was-- without exaggeration-- 99% about why I wanted to do English and 1% about why I was enjoying French, rather than why I would want to study it further. I kid you not. Since applications for English and French are processed by the French department it really is nothing short of wondrous that I was offered a place on both English and French courses I applied to, yet only accepted by one out of the three English courses I applied to.)

Preparing yourself for speaking a language to its natives-- and particularly trying to prepare yourself for what their responses might be-- is quite nerve wracking. On my visit to France last year, the first conversation I had was something as 'basic' as buying a métro ticket. It was quite simple to say 'Je voudrais deux allers simples à La Défense' (I'd like two singles to La Défense), but I was not prepared for the response which was mumbled from behind the glass ticket booth and sounded a lot like 'mmmvvsytfusjkdncuu?' Unfortunately, no amount of 'Répétez?' or 'Pardon?' could make it any clearer. I don't remember how I eventually bought the tickets-- I must have either stared blankly or nodded and smiled enough that the assistant just handed over what he thought I wanted.

Although difficult, it wasn't quite as deflating as calling up the hotel I was staying at this year to ask a couple of things about the reservation. I'd rehearsed what I was going to say a few times and even written down some of the words I needed, so when the hotel receptionist picked up and I said in my best French: 'Bonjour, j'ai cette reservation: QR23TZN1...' (alas, the alphabet is always a stumbling block...) it was more than a little discouraging to have the receptionist interrupt me and ask 'What is your name?' in perfect English. Considering at this point I'd been at uni for two years and in two months was going to start living in France, I thought that things weren't exactly boding well...

Thankfully, there were many occasions where I actually managed to have a pretty decent conversation with the locals, and I was in fact complimented on my French a few times, which put my mind at ease a little.

This all changed, however, when I went into a bank to ask about opening an account. To say that French banks are austere would be an understatement. You can't merely walk into a French bank. To get in with the least amount of difficulty, you need to have a card with the bank which you can put into a slot at the door which will then unlock the door.

Of course, I had no card to present, so a fair amount of time was spent between me and my friend Rebekah on the wrong side of the sliding doors wondering how on earth to get in. Eventually we realised that what we'd thought was just a disabled access button was also a bell to request the door to be opened. All quite simple really. Until we saw the next set of doors. We walked triumphantly towards them, knowing of course that we'd successfully got our way in-- that is, until we got so close to the doors our noses were all but touching the glass. The really embarrassing thing was that there was someone at a desk facing the doors who could see us. We thought he'd press a button that would open the doors, but after a minute or more of standing expectantly and a little awkwardly between these two sets of doors it became clear he wasn't going to do anything. It was at this point we noticed another little panel of buttons... silly us.

Inside, the bank was extremely corporate and we both wondered whether actually we'd made some awful mistake and had walked into a bank aimed at businesses, or a shares office, perhaps even the HQ of the French answer to MI5... More mortifying still was the fact that I actually felt the need to ask the man (yes, the one who had seen me and Rebekah standing dumbly between the two sets of doors) whether I was in fact in a bank. He must have thought I was an exceptional case of imbecile. This was evident in his sheer lack of will to assist me in any way, but he replied with a reproachful 'Oui'. After a less than eloquent attempt to explain my situation and that I wanted to know how to open an account, he delegated immediately to another colleague who was thankfully much more sympathetic and knew a woman who could help.

The said woman ushered us into her office and after I had re-explained my situation, she proceeded to reel off a vast amount of information about the bank account, what was needed and various other things that I couldn't begin to understand. I didn't know much (well, any) vocabulary related to banks or bank accounts and the adviser clearly couldn't speak a word of English. When eventually I realised she had asked me a question, I stammered a uncertain 'oui?' before trying to repeat what I thought she had said. I spent most of the conversation staring wide eyed at her as she spoke at me, watching her mouth in an attempt to work out what she was saying. After a while my brain was so overwhelmed with information it could only partly understand, instead of listening or even trying to work out what she was saying I merely gazed vacantly at the blue eye-shadow she was wearing, responding from time to time with a 'oui' or 'merci' and hoping that was enough. In the end it was fine, but I think rather than Jess the Cat Goes Franglais, the experience would be better summed up as Jess the Rabbit-Caught-in-Headlights.

We were quite relieved to be walking out of her office (helpful as she was) and towards the exit. We couldn't wait to get out and avoided even looking at or acknowledging the man at the desk opposite the doors. We sauntered up to the first set of doors seeing that freedom was here at last. That is until our noses were almost touching the doors... Yes, yes, as if it wasn't difficult enough to get in, we had to press the exit button at each set of doors before we could get out again. I don't think either of us has ever felt so traumatized by a bank.

Anyway, that's quite enough of my rambling and more than enough examples of my stupidity for one post, but don't worry, there'll be more to come...

What on Earth was I Thinking? Je ne sais pas quoi!

When I signed up for a language degree aged 18, I had several ideas in my head about the year abroad involved: either Erasmus would remain a novel idea that would never really need to happen; or time would stop somewhere between first and second year and that going abroad would always be something in the distant future; or finally that the 20 year old Jess would be fully prepared for the idea of moving to a foreign country with a completely different language...

The 20 year old Jess has since had various thoughts about the 18 year old who put her in this predicament. She has wondered how someone could be so hopelessly naïve, stupid, and blasé about such a huge decision. The application is time consuming, some of the bureaucracy is expensive and the time spent generally pondering all the uncertainties of the year to come, if considered while filling out UCAS, would more than likely have meant I would not be finding myself now sitting quite comfortably on my English bed feeling so unbearably excited about the future in Lille, France.

I took this photo of Centre Grand Place in Lille a year ago. I had this put onto a canvas which is above my bed having no idea I'd be applying to Lille for my year abroad, let alone actually calling this home for almost a year.

Whether or not the 18 year old me made a good decision, I don't yet know. I hope (and am growing more and more sure) that she did- and if you want to know, keep reading this blog!