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!