Fox en France Ep.9: Bah, BAR, Black Sheep

Monday 25^th – Thursday 27^th Oct

Still not sure what it is or how we found it

This week began with a four hour coach to Barcelona, sweeping us out of one old Spanish city and into another – except this city had the fun, additional layer of Catalan. My bare-minimum Spanish suddenly seemed like native fluency in comparison to my comprehension of Catalan and as we’d left the actual Spanish speakers of our group behind in Valencia, I was withered down to a state of mild hysteria and shouting “¿Qué?” at anyone who approached me. I’d love to say I get by with a little help from my friends; in fact I get by ordering cafe con leche at every single place we stop because it’s the only thing I can say and my friends like to watch me suffer. And that’s not even Catalan.

Our hostel was great, and soon we had a recovered, fresh need for Spanish nightlife (that Enrique-and-reggaeton quota is never quite full. Once you've experienced it you need it like a drug). We were soon taken in like the weak tourists we are by a man in a pink shirt on La Rambla, with alluring promises of the magical “s” word (sangria, obviously). However, before I knew it, I was given a tequila shot, a wristband and was being herded like a small, confused sheep into a tavern (one ironically named The Black Sheep). Not long after, I found myself in a drinking game with a girl from LA and her hostel, we were led to a club like more livestock, Europop and reggaeton ensued, and I watched Matt dance to Tina Turner. Quite the evening.

this big Gaudi thing

The next day brought a stroll (crawl. We were crawling) to the Sagrada Familia, and then the market on La Rambla. Both impressive. Both, you know, kind of big. One full of cured meat and coconuts. One… Not. Thanks to a stunning recommendation from a friend, we found a backstreet tapas place for one euro per tapas that evening – but not before I had managed to get everyone lost and took the group on a slightly unnerving tour of the shifty neighbourhoods of Barca. I could pretend it was a purposeful and insightful anti-tourist exploration but my nervous laughter each time we hit yet another dimly lit street gave me away. Eventually we found the tapas restaurant and nothing mattered anymore. Tapas were worth it.

I managed to lead us astray yet again on Wednesday as we headed to El Raval – the “edgy” quarter (my words, not theirs). By (my) mistake we first walked through Chinatown instead and then accidentally skirted round the edge of the place I had meant to find instead of going through it, before finally stumbling across a record store, so I knew we’d hit the #edgy goal (you can take the students out of Leeds, but…). Then someone sold me a peanut butter doughnut and nothing mattered anymore. Doughnut was worth it (no theme here).

finally understood some Spanish :)

The last evening meant a trip to the Manchester Bar (travelling with Northerners, wasn’t I) and a relatively early night which still felt too late when I had to wake up at 9:00am for my flight home. I managed, somehow, and waved goodbye to the warm air, and the nachos, the tapas and Gaudi and jugs of sangria, the churros and high-rise buildings and city fumes and palm trees, understanding just one word in an entire sentence, hostels and tourists and pickpockets, ice creams and paella and my pals. ¡¡¡Hasta luega!!! (that could literally mean anything, I’m just guessing).

The strangest thing that really hit me, though, was when I stepped off the plane in Rennes. I smelled a bakery and saw a sign for galettes and other French words everywhere, and the cold but green, green landscapes and orange-red autumn trees. And I actually almost felt like being back in Brittany was home. How’s that for a revelation?

SO:

Clouds: I had to leave Espagna; cry with me. I speak even less Catalan than I do Spanish. And the bus I needed home from the airport doesn’t run in October (fun surprise after my flight landed). 

Silver linings: I didn’t get pickpocketed, I googled the term for Spanish speakers and it’s “hispanophone”, and I have laughed an almost unbearable amount in the past week. Thank you to the girls in Valencia for showing us round, and to Matt Stew James Josh and Johnnie in various combinations for being a reliably great-but-infuriating bunch to travel with (but call me Bindi again and it’s all over). 

Fox en France Ep.8: Seafood Paella (ella, ella, eh eh eh)

Thursday 20^th – Monday 24^th Oct

This might be a British thing, but stepping off a plane and wondering whether the heat is the plane engine or the actual climate is a beautiful moment. Getting to Valencia late at night, I was too giddy with joy to see the end of my ten-hour journey even to be annoyed when we got lost immediately on the way to the hostel. The air smelt of palm trees, sangria and the promise of trying to balance great nights out/actually sightseeing (it didn’t, it smelt of European cities, so bad sewage and cigarettes). I had that travel buzz – probably because I was constantly fretting about the fact that I am, while travelling, probably one of the easiest pickpocket targets in the world. Forgetful, easily-distracted and blessed with the attention span of a newt.

The stuff of nightmares

The first forty-eight hours, honestly, are a blur of food. I don’t know how many churros I inhaled on Friday morning but I’m ready for an official certificate of congratulations – and at some point we also tackled paella, tapas, sangria, more sangria, some more sangria, and then bookended more churros in at the end. Somewhere in amidst the ongoing feast I discovered that a Spanish exam in 2012 gets you 100% nowhere in actual Spain if you haven’t spoken it since, and so I was a helpless child in the midst of my Spanish-speaking friends (I planned to be slick while writing this and use the Spanish version of Anglophones. But all I can think of is “Spanglophones”. Spanielphones. Espagnaphonia? Just sounds like a fear of Spain). Luckily gin and tonic is almost the same in both languages, and gazing at big squares, high-ceiling markets and old buildings doesn’t require much Spanish GCSE vocabulary. The only time I actually struggled was when I headed out to the modern art gallery alone, trusted Google Maps way too much, and was too incompetent to realise I was in the wrong building. Yes, an entirely different building, no, I honestly didn’t realise, yes, I am that dense, no, I didn’t walk straight back out but instead endured a full forty minute tour because I didn’t want to be impolite. Classic. It was a large and seemingly never-ending food installation which featured everything from a mundane glass case of spatulas, to a surreal exhibit with a giant seven-eyed bull-creature and the word “tapas” everywhere. I am scarred and may be suing Google and their confusing maps.

Reunited with Millie

It didn’t take us long (two nights) to accidentally sniff out a huge group of Erasmus students from Leeds and we had one of those “such a small world” conversations that are much, much more boring

when you re-tell them, or even think about them the day after, so I’ll leave that gripping tale to the imagination. Spanish clubbing was the genuine Enrique-reggaeton-fest I’d originally imagined (but also originally berated myself for stereotyping). Cue more churros for morning-after recovery.

SO:

Clouds: I cannot in any way speak Spanish, and my stupid uni nickname came back to haunt me thanks to my travel pals.

Silver linings: My appalling lack of Spanish made me realise I actually really can speak French. And churros are absolute life.

Fox en France Ep.7: J & the Giant Beach

Week 10^th October

I write this with a slightly heavy heart, having just discovered that my flat’s electricity has failed in certain rooms. I had to shower with the door open just to let some natural light in, but then had an acute panic that the maintenance staff would choose this precise moment to do their scheduled check up and let themselves in with a master key. Thank goodness no such crisis occurred but I am a little on edge as I reflect upon the week.

It has been another marvellous blur, studded with little Inevitable Louisa What Are Even You Doing Moments. Examples from the past seven days include getting my key stuck in a classroom lock (until all thirty students waiting outside fell silent to watch me struggle) – proving you haven’t been laughed at until you have been laughed at by French teens, and walking straight into a kitchen cupboard I had briefly left open. Bump on my forehead to prove it.

not bad. so-so. average.

I had a part-time flatmate this week which was lovely and while the language barrier was moderate, we still managed to have a laugh as I hurriedly tried to explain that the twelve wine bottles on my terrace were from a party I had hosted and not in fact the messy residue of a particularly heavy night in by myself. I think he believed me.

Wednesday brought an exciting change of scene as myself and three fellow assistants passed a full day in the grown-up house & home wonderland that is IKEA. Was the thrill present because we are finally proper adults who are genuinely passionate about spatulas and potpourri? Or because we are socially-stunted language assistants from remote towns wherein the biggest shops are the local bakeries? We’ll never know, but the potpourri was nevertheless on a level of Christmas-come-early excitement (unlike the packets of tinsel which were on a level of Christmas-come-early absurdity). On the late bus ride home (yes, we really did make a whole day of it), I was the only passenger, and the sun was long, long gone. I didn’t have particular qualms about walking home from the station for all of two minutes, but after a chat with the friendliest bus driver I’ve possibly ever met (and I go to university in Yorkshire so that is perhaps saying something) I was dropped off directly outside my front door! Generosity at its best, so thanks, Monsieur Le Bus Driver.

I had astonishingly few classes this week as teacher after teacher informed me that for one reason or another I wasn’t needed (are they trying to tell me something?), so instead I had lots of time to do absolutely nothing and still feel completely shattered. IKEA clearly took it out of me. Consuming at least fourteen entire baguettes per day is the only obvious solution; I need energy.

Panorama setting well-used

Early on Saturday I hopped on yet another bus to head up to St Brieuc. Sam (the one you have to be nice to because he has a car) picked up a group of us and we headed over to Le Mont Saint-Michel. History, tides, architecture, beach, abbey, island, history, monks, stone, quicksand, views, history, stairs. Lots and lots of stairs. My thighs were more efficiently toned in a few hours in Normandy than my previous two decades of existence combined. The vast landscapes and Instagram-worthy snaps were worth the leg pain, though, and soon my pals were sick of hearing about my self-appointed “photographer” title (“look guys, sorry, but seriously how arty is this?!”). After making such a concentrated effort to BE A LOCAL while in and around work, it was refreshing to permit ourselves the liberty of complete, unhindered tourism. And it was certainly at its best: overpriced food, group selfies, long queues, panorama shots of the view, backpacks, and people actually speaking to us in English rather than French… All rather exciting, really.

The evening let us sample St Brieuc’s finest (erm) nightlife as a group of us went for drinks (“We’re in the bar by the square!” “Which square?” “The one with the um… bars?”) , and while I’m still not entirely sure why, we were kindly bought a round of drinks by some locals and then were told we spoke good French. I’ll take both the wine and the compliment.

... Just another gratuitous beach shot

Another weekend leaves me feeling absolutely shattered, but thanks to St Brieuc specialist Joel, we found a place open to buy food on Sunday and soothed our slightly fragile states. On to the next week… Not entirely sure how but I appear to be off to Spain tomorrow!

SO:

Clouds: If there was any doubt, I can confirm that showers in the dark are not fun. And if a man says “you listen me I very the English good” outside a bar, you can guarantee the following conversation is going to be utterly incomprehensible.

Silver linings: There is nothing quite like the sweet feeling of a group hangover stroll to find a perfect picnic hill on which to eat a croque monsieur. Am I in a black and white film?

Fox en France Ep.6: Turn around, bright (purple) eyes

Saturday 8^th Oct

Like a bad TV drama, we return to the scene of the morning after… A sluggish group trip to the boulangerie on my street started the official weekend and eventually my assistant pals returned back to their far flung corners of the côte d’armor. I was so overtired during breakfast that when presented with teaspoons next to our pastries, I absentmindedly used it. Ever eaten a muffin with a teaspoon? I advise against it completely.

Well-deserved boulangerie trip

Muffin debacle over, I jumped (crawled) onto a bus to get to Rennes for the weekend. Unfortunately, that very fact – that it was indeed the weekend – obviously made my life a little harder as I had to journey on a completely illogical route to get there. Public transport being my obvious Number One Nemesis (to the point where I’d definitely propose a bus timetable as the next Bond villain) meant that instead of sighing with relief as my train left the station (with me on it), I was filled with a creeping panic that I was being carted off somewhere else entirely. And knowing me I’d be half way to Amsterdam before clocking that something was really off. At least I knew I was going somewhere for the weekend (it was the right train).

American assistant Meghan (musical theatre graduate, a.k.a the dream), hosted me and uni friend Alistair for the weekend – an impromptu arrangement so I really can’t say how grateful I was for that – and an absolute highlight was their new kitten Whiskey. He was so small that I often lost sight of him completely, and there came an awful moment where I crossed my legs and heard an odd squeak as the little thing flew from under my chair. A sentence you never want to say is: “Oh my god I’m so sorry, I think I just kicked your cat!” Makin’ friends for life across France.

A trip to the ever-famous rue de la soif (literally speaking, ‘Thirsty Street’) ended a brilliant Saturday, and Meghan told me she was going to find me a “hashtag winabew”. And if you correctly guess what that means, I’ll get you one too.

SO:

Clouds: I am officially made of evil kitten-kicking atoms, and I ruined my own muffin experience by overdoing cutlery. Tragic, I know, lesson learned.

Silver linings: Kind strangers made wonderful hosts, I’ve had a taste of the French nightlife here, and I’ve heard that my wifi box has arrived and awaits me in the post office. Sweet.

Sunday 9^th Oct

Beautiful streets in Rennes (shame about the crane)

Another empty French Sunday sweeps past – helped a bit by the fact that I was still in Rennes. The MacDonalds drive through was the only thing open (what a country, what a culture) and it was a cold, cold day so the whole thing kind of blurred in one, long, semi-rank, semi-great McFeast until Alistair and I realised we should probably head back to our one-horse towns (and there’s not even a horse in mine).

Transport was non-existent so I booked a car share online to trek back; I can’t pretend I was at ease, per se, with going against every lesson I was ever taught as a child (strangers’ cars etc.) but I was delighted to find my car hosts were an incredibly friendly woman and her three year old daughter. The other paying passenger sat in the front so I spent an hour in the backseat practising a completely new French dialect: child speak. The little girl was so infectiously bonkers I was giggling with slight delirium whether I knew what she was saying or not (“Your French is good, don’t worry, she just makes up a lot of words”, her mother told me).

There was something deliciously surreal about driving through acres of countryside sunset, while it was explained to me, gently but gravely, that “the little pony’s name is Annalise and her eyes are bright pink and purple because she has met her husband”.

Once home I thought I might collapse on the spot from the lack of sleep, but my colleague Nadine invited me to have dinner with her family, and to be honest, cider, yet more crêpes and good company were potentially the only things that could have perked me up at that point. So in the end I started and ended the weekend the same way: happy, grateful and very well-fed.

Then, as four mammoth, juicy (albeit metaphorical) cherries-on-top, Nadine told me, while kindly driving me home, that she had a bike I could borrow, and gave me some traditional Réunion cooking from her daughter’s boyfriend’s mother (comically tenuous but so appreciated). Meanwhile, my stove has been fixed (haaaallelujah) and so has my kitchen light. I would have spent more time squealing ecstatically about everything if I hadn’t instantaneously dropped dead asleep.

SO:

Clouds: I kind of wish I had bright purple eyes too.

Silver linings: I have a potential bike, lovely neighbours and colleagues, I had live entertainment during the hour long car journey, and you can tell by the ridiculous nature of my ‘clouds’ that this weekend has been brilliant.

Fox en France Ep.5: I'm a crêpe, I'm a weirdo

Wednesday 5^th Oct

Enough choice for you?

It strikes me as odd that my day off has been so eventful but clearly I am making a good go at behaving like a local, as an elderly woman stopped me in the supermarket and requested I help her find the organic lemons (?). Unfortunately the poor old thing didn’t know what she was letting herself into – organic lemons were only the beginning of my cluelessness. I had to politely tell her I wasn’t the best person to ask. Frankly, I’m shocked that she hadn’t already clocked me walking in circles around the giant Intermarché, completely lost and unable to find anything I needed. Stick an indecisive person in Leeds’ Sainsbury’s Local and you’ve got a headache and a difficult job, but stick an indecisive person in a colossal French supermarket and that’s half the afternoon gone. And while I didn’t have time to verify it I would estimate that there were roughly seven or eight million varieties of wine, and about the same of cheese. I’d walked in so many circles I was worried I looked like a suspicious shoplifter type. Or perhaps like I was saving on the gym membership and getting my workout up and down the aisles instead.

I was quite the flustered mess once I hit the bakery, and turned round so quickly when leaving that I almost walked into the glass sliding door because it was really clean and I couldn’t tell which part was open. True highlight and will definitely help with my town reputation.  

SO:

Clouds: I lost at least two decades of my life in a supermarket; 40th birthday party invite to come.

Silver linings: Camouflaging with my surroundings well enough to be mistaken for a shop assistant.

Thursday 6^th Oct

"What can you do in Winter?"

The gold moments keep on coming, as this morning saw me briefly get attached to the whiteboard by my dungarees as I corrected a piece of homework. Luck was on my side, though, as they were all staring intently at their books instead of at me.

I particularly enjoyed helping to police a debate about Pokémon Go and Call of Duty (waste of time? Which is better? Is gaming really a sport?) – proving that should you find a subject that the students care about, you’re sorted. The same rule applied in my two seconde classes. Ask them about how many daughters the Wilson family has and you’re not too popular, but carve out some time to ask about music and you’ve got a fair bit of conversation about US rap flowing. …Obviously, I wasn’t a big part of this conversation.

SO:

Clouds: I keep getting attached to parts of the school by my clothing.

Silver linings: Still alive, the students are really nice (so far).

Friday 7^th Oct

Within half an hour of my third official lesson I must have subconsciously become bored of saying “well done” to every student, and so to my surprise I was asked, “Madame, what is ‘nailed it’?” Ha, ha, oh, it means you have done well, but it’s very informal and please don’t use it in your essays. (I can imagine a colleague approaching me in the staffroom: “Nicolas has written that XXX Historical Figure ‘nailed’ that war… You wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would you?”)

I then rushed home like a child to get my apartment ready for my guests. This involved doing precisely nothing except for finding all the glassware I could, and preparing to tell some of them that they were going to have to drink from empty jam jars. Classy. 

Paul Hollywood on a mad one (no, that's just sugar)

No one seemed to mind too much and taking into account some very intense conversations about Trump on the balcony (the conversations were on the balcony, not Donald himself), an impromptu round of crêpe-making in the early hours of the morning and more bottles of wine than I would ever openly reveal, I like to think it was a success. Everyone who came along – thank you for being part of a real-life textbook maths question (if you have eight language assistants and three spare bedrooms, how many single beds are in Bedroom B if three people had to sleep together in Bedroom A?). And no, sorry, I can’t pay for the medical bills of those of you on the floor, who now presumably have severe back problems.

SO:

Clouds: Post-2am-crêpe-situation my kitchen looks like the site of a heated argument between Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood (thanks a bunch, Joel). 

Silver linings: There was a 2am crêpe situation (no but seriously, thank you Joel), my balcony has been christened by heated political conversation (as all good balconies should be, no?), and everyone sneaked their cheese leftovers into my fridge. Angels.

Fox en France Ep.4: Breakfast at Tiphaine's

Monday 3^rd Oct

The first full day was, predictably, twice as mad as the half day last week (my body may be weak but my mathematics is still shipshape), as I finished yet more paperwork and attended five hours of lessons. A new tidal wave of Mannons and Julies and Melvins and Tiphaines (so many Tiphaines, all spelt differently) asking me about my favourite French city, favourite colour, favourite food and whether or not I know French music (sorry, no… Still no).

"Pride and Prejudice" chapter suggestions!

Overwhelmed, I sneaked home between the last two lessons and had a huge cup of tea in the sun on my balcony to calm my nerves before heading back into the wilderness of the terminales class, which was no less intimidating than I expected. Thirty students around my own age stared blankly at me, maintaining a whole ‘nother level of cool-and-unbothered as they told their teacher they couldn’t think of any questions.  The silence ached and it even made me wish briefly that I was back with the fifteen-year-olds, having details of my love life excruciatingly wheedled out of me (kidding, nothing was as bad as that). The pain was made up for later in a literature class, when a group of ten students acted out a page from Pride and Prejudice and had to give their own English titles to the chapter – briefly back in my comfort zone.

I soon returned to my standard state of utterly baffled in an international politics lesson – taught all in English – as the teens were asked about the US elections. “I vote for Trump because,” started one boy, “he want to build a wall for Mexico, and I want to catching Mexicans!” Needless to say my jaw promptly unhinged and fell to the floor, but after two seconds of utter silence and baited breath, the whole class burst into laughter as the boy cried, “No no, it’s a joke! It’s just a joke! Donald Trump is…” (cue the entire room making an array of rehearsed negative gestures, ranging from thumbs down to elaborately mimed gagging). Panic over. Not teaching Trump supporters.

SO:

Clouds: A group of French eighteen year olds have a better analytical understanding of Jane Austen than I ever will, and (had to happen) one teacher has blown my I-Don’t-Speak-French act.

Silver linings: Tea tastes better on a balcony, my students aren’t racist, and I made a kebab joke to a class and they actually laughed. …Okay, so you had to be there.

Tuesday 4^th Oct

While walking through town

Big day. Big, scary day as I headed on the bus for an hour to my training/induction day. After a slight (major) malfunction on one (all) of my bus routes, including a near miss involving a school bus heading in the opposite direction to my destination, I made it to the training centre… And met other people who are also assistants in small towns. Absolutely joyous. Almost on par with receiving my attestation.

We were taught some exercises to use with students (useful, definitely will employ) and given too much free coffee (not useful, buzzing and eye-twitching followed). One exercise involved making up a story to surround a song lyric – and don’t ask me how and it definitely was not my fault at all but ours ended up being about parallel universes, plagues and magical boats. The training leader told me I had “a child’s mind” but she was half smiling so I think it was a compliment about my ability to relate to students. Actually it might have been a grimace at my peculiarity but let’s just pretend it was a matter of cultural misunderstanding.

All the chat about Donald Trump in the politics class yesterday made me think about how much I hate cultural stereotypes about countries’ traditions. ... In other news, ahem, I may be hosting a wine and cheese night soon for all the other assistants I met today to celebrate our first week in France.

Party time! Just a mildly colossal shame that I’ve remembered I live directly above one of my fellow teachers.

SO:

Clouds: Abysmally late to training day: Lou fails at transport again, cheese/wine rave may lose me a colleague and friend, frightening (but comforting/necessary) terrorism drill at the college during training (Europeans panic significantly, Americans shrug and know what to do).

Silver linings: There are others out there like me! (profound), I may be living remotely but “at least it’s in the pretty countryside” (thanks for that suggestion Sam, this week’s Opinion Box is now open if anybody would like to make a cloud/silver lining contribution), and I have made comfortable peace with my lack of oven.

Fox en France Ep.3: Boulevard of Broken English

Friday 30th

PANIQUE! I am immediately eating my words – never should I have sneered at the idea of pretending I only speak English. For the sake of their English skills, it was requested I tell the students I am completely unable to speak French, and it turns out that thinking that would be easy was a silly, silly mistake.

have you ever realised how weird the word "pigeonhole" is?

Do you know how hard it is to pretend you understand nothing going on around you, after years of French lessons telling you to listen and understand and reply? When a girl asked me, “You don’t even speak one word?” I laughed and said a tentative, “Bonjour” and she fell into fits of giggles, saying to her friends in French: “Oh she’s so cute! Oh it’s too cute! Listen to her saying ‘bonjour’!” as if I were back in Year 2 in my first French lesson. And I have to smile blankly and pretend I can’t hear a thing. 

Later, a boy said in French, “Can you understand what I’m saying?” and I had to bite my tongue to keep from replying. His friends laughed, saying, “She doesn’t understand French so you can’t ask her in French if she understands French, you idiot.” The pinnacle of banter. Not to mention the: “You can ask her some questions about herself and England.” The selection of questions was as follows:

• -          “You like what star?” (Not the Kardashians) “Ian Somerhalder?” (Er, sure)
• -          “You watch Game of Thrones?” (Sorry, no…)
• -          “What music do you listen to?” (Anything... Probably more indie music than I naturally would because I do this thing called student radio? Because we have this playlist thing and oh my god there is way too much technical vocabulary in this answer so I’ll just say I like Beyoncé)
• -          “What do you study at university?” (I can’t say French or they’ll realise I can speak it – instead I say English)
• -          “So why are you in France?” (Very good question)

Very very hectic first day.

SO:
Clouds: I should have watched Game of Thrones, and I have no bowls in my cupboards.
Silver linings: The school food is incredible and I get it for cheaps, win.

Saturday 1st Oct

Celebratory croissant

NEVER in my life would I have thought that a slip of paper saying "attestation" could bring quite so much joy but such is French life - the magical signed form that lets me get a bank account. And a bank account means, admin-wise, that I can get wifi and a phone contract. I could have sworn angels appeared and started singing as the Headmaster's secretary handed me the file.

Navigation skills around town are improving a little. A.k.a I know where to buy bread (200m) and how to get to work (20m) so that's impressive from me.

First actual day working tomorrow...

SO:

Clouds: Still no oven, but you can’t have everything. I bid farewell to my father (sob, sob).

Silver linings: Temporary wifi situation SORTED, as well as a bank (Monsieur at the Bank you are the absolute dream & so helpful), and got bus tickets sorted for my induction day on Tuesday... Travel plans for October holidays may be underway.

Fox en France Ep.2: Rennes, Forrest, Rennes!

Wednesday 28th Sept

During the day time when we’re exploring nearby towns and sorting out paperwork or when I’m with my colleagues and being shown round the school, I feel almost calm and like this year is going to be weird, different, but really cool and quite special.

Brittany cider ain't bad

But then I get home... And I still have no oven, the kitchen light doesn’t work and I potentially may never have housemates – and after Leeds, which had one of the former and eight of the latter, this is taking some serious adaptation already. My solution is to get a radio hooked up ASAP and find the French equivalent of Capital. Or something.

The paperwork continues to be on top of me and I may in fact purchase an avalanche alarm for when the ever-growing pile inevitably topples over and buries me for days.

Shockingly, the language barrier is actually the easiest part of the culture shock so far, and as of this moment I’ve only once needed to actively stop someone talking and tell them I don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on.

SO:

Clouds: Kitchen lighting iffy, public transport a mystery, am potentially only 20 year old in Brittany, will have “ADMIN OVERLOAD” on gravestone.

Silver linings: Saw a beaut medieval town, am breathing, I found out my official address and I literally live on a “boulevard”. How’s that for a classy French year abroad?

Thursday 29th Sept

Place de la République, Rennes

Good day: drove over to Rennes (making the most of my dad’s car…) to meet a Leeds friend who goes to university there. It’s a gorgeous town with lots of old buildings and pretty streets, great shops and three/four universities so loads of young people (nearly fell over at the sight of people my age). It was great meeting some of the uni students there and knowing that I have people to see if I ever manage to sort transport from this little place.

The wifi/SIM card debacle ceases to end and I have now more confusing options, a SIM I may or may not be able to use, and dying hope for the future. Just kidding, that’s a bit pessimistic. My hope is not dying but rather just pretty seriously ill. Comatose. Very, dormant, like a volcano you let tourists potter around on because it hasn’t surfaced for literal millennia. Anyway.

I am trying to listen to French radio to feel all French and like a properly dedicated language student immersing herself in the target language but I’m very certain the station I found this morning just made a horrific joke about Syrian child refugees using a remix of the “Bear Necessities” from the Jungle Book. So I think I need a different station.

....Aaaand the song that just played on the new station is one I’ve already heard twice yesterday. I feel like French pop is even more limited than I thought.

SO:

Clouds: iii-soooo-laaaaa-tion, noticing the echoes in my apartment, French radio is like being submitted to a 24/7 special of Eurovision.

Silver linings: Rennes is lovely, my colleagues are so kind, and my balcony gets loads of sun during the day.

Fox en France Ep 1: It's Brittany, bitch.

Right well, here I am, overtired and baffled, sitting along in a big, big flat somewhere in France. It is a ridiculously big flat and I’m still a bit confused as to if/where other flatmates might appear from but at least it’s very very nice and brand new. Clothes away, diffuser out (rooms that smell good are A*) and I even have a microwave (this morning I had pretty much zero furniture). I even have two irons and a big sofa, a desk in my room and lots of chairs. Lots of chairs. I hope I make some friends to sit in them or I’ll be going all Marius-in-Les-Mis (“Empty Chairs at Empty Tables”, for those less in the know).

I met some of the other English teaching staff today, and had lunch with them – they all seem lovely. Some are even kind enough to speak to me in English a bit. Nadine said she could drive me to the shops every week, so she’s currently top of the bae list. They have also told me I am not allowed to speak French to any of the students, nor tell them I can speak French at all (ha - oh no, how terribly difficult that will be). 

Meanwhile, others only spoke French to me and I actually kept up (surprised). They chatted a lot about previous-assistant-Brian, who was American. He, and I quote, “had a very kamikaze approach. Oh he was such good fun! Didn’t speak a word of French”. This means I have such a lot, but also so very little, to live up to there – so thank you, Elusive Brian.

They all admit that public transport is genuinely a bit of an issue here, but a lot of them commute to other towns so hopefully I can nab a few rides. There was a bit of grimacing when I said I didn’t have a car (great) so that bodes well.

So I am here. Bit scared but hopefully tomorrow’s big admin day will help sort my main questions (am I seriously living alone in an apartment that the Von Trapps could comfortably inhabit? Where’s that pesky oven at? Etc)

Bring on da cheese.

Sobbing to my dentist & talking to cats

“Ooh, a year abroad! How exciting,” smiles the dental hygienist, putting on plastic gloves. “Where are you going?” 

There is a moment where I almost say Sydney. Toronto. Los Angeles. Heck, I almost say Melbourne, I even almost say Paris. Because then at least I haven’t lied about the country.

I swallow. “Brittany.” Silence. Does she need clarification? “Northern France.”

She is polite, and if surprised, she hides it well. “Lovely! You study French?” she coos, getting out the mini-mirror. I nod but say nothing. Mostly because there’s a mirror now wedged in my mouth.
“That must be beautiful! By the coast?” And it’s tempting to just murmur "mmmhmm" or some sort of affirmative, and be done with it. Because if I say no, she’ll look confused, and I’ll want to explain, and I’m worried it’ll all come out in one gushing torrent (tears and all) and she won’t be able to stop me even with a local anesthetic and dental drill:

No, not by the coast. Central Brittany – in what seems to be the only non-coastal town – and a tiny town at that. Smaller than Leeds by about six hundred thousand people, smaller than Guildford by about fifty thousand people. Tiny. An hour and a half from the capital city of Brittany. But you can get there by train? No, no train. But by bus? Nope. Two hours, sure, by getting a train north for an hour then southeast for an hour. The two longer sides of an isosceles. You see?! I'm so wound up and nervy I've managed to remember the word "isosceles"!

Didn't you pick where you were going? Only by vague region. But… there
will be another assistant, right? At your school? Apparently not. But there’ll be stuff going on in the town, right? All French towns have things going on! Well, a terrifying night using Google street view promised a few restaurants, a couple of banks and a MacDonalds. The height of French culture and cuisine, clearly. That night ended in sniffles, some hyperventilation and snapping my laptop shut so quickly in frustration I almost cracked the screen.

So all in all, it takes four hours to travel anywhere of note, I have hundreds of free hours per week but nothing to do with them, and am scared I’ll have fewer friends than when I was four years and old and went to nursery in Switzerland and everyone spoke French but me. Haha, oh wait, it's France, so it’s exactly like that time I went to nursery in Switzerland and everyone spoke French but me.

I can’t help but think it’s just another smidge of proof that if my life were transformed into a script and popped on Channel 4, it’d be the new farcical, Miranda-esque show for Britain to laugh at. "Rural" doesn’t even cover what’s happening to me. Come on, guys, show’s over, time to reveal the cameras. Nice prank! Where am I really going on my picturesque, romantic, chic French year abroad eh?
No?
For real?
Okay.

I'm worried I may devolve into a socially inept creature who scuttles around on all fours and speaks to cats. Or something. I’ll be rooting through people’s bins by fourth year!!! Look out, the Menace of Hyde Park strikes again!

That said, I know it's only daunting because it's a mystery. Certainly a mystery, but I’m sure I’ll live. It’ll be fun and great and I just need to have a lot of faith and hold tight, etc. etc. etc., thank you all for your advice and support. Expecting the worst means it must be better in comparison. It’ll be so different from anything else and today’s shudder-inducing nightmare is tomorrow’s hilarious blog post and so on. Yas yas.

...At the end of the day, in that dentist’s chair, I do just smile and nod ambiguously. Suuuure, it’s by the coast, why not? The woman isn’t a therapist so she doesn’t need me bursting into tears and sobbing until I choke to death on her dental implements. That’s not a fun day out for anybody.

I am so intrigued – perhaps almost excited? – to see how this year pans out. Expect blogs, maybe lots of them. Apart from that, expect absolutely nothing. Because I really, really don’t know what to expect myself.