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21st Century Fox
So... What DOES the fox say?
Friday, 25 November 2016
Thursday, 17 November 2016
I had to write this down: the Caterpillar Angel
The first ever night out of second
year should have been bloody fantastic. Finally back with university friends
and headed to the union, we had drinks at someone’s house beforehand and then set
off. Should have been fantastic: was horrendous.
It seems bizarre to me that the
mere beginning of the tale is that I
completely lost my debit card, ID and money (as well as the bag they were in) during the walk
from pre-drinks to the union. I later realised this had happened because I put
my purse in the pocket of my shorts; unfortunately for me, those shorts do not,
in fact, have pockets. A grand start to a grand night.
A kind (pragmatic) friend helped
retrace my steps in search of my valuables while the rest of the group went
into the club, but it turns out that streets are actually quite dark when it's dark. So I instead hoped my belongings might just be at her house from earlier – she went to the
club, and I set off in the opposite direction, to her house, mortified and
angry. I stropped back through the student living area of Hyde Park, grimacing
over “Where are you?!” texts from friends I’d promised to meet. This is a bad omen, I couldn’t help but
think as I trudged along, kicking at scraps of rubbish on the pavement in tipsy
annoyance. If I’m stupid enough to do
this on the first night, I’ll probably be dead before graduation. And someone’s
probably going to find my cards tonight and thieve my identity and join UKIP under my name or something equally distressing.
True disaster then hit. A good
fifteen minutes away from my house, and now aware of the considerable time that
had elapsed since we had first left pre-drinks, I realised I needed the toilet.
Quite an alarming and acute realisation, actually, and I had a desperate moment
of fervently wishing I were a man just so as to deal with the situation
efficiently there and then. But in this instance, #ThisGirlCannot, so I started to pick up speed a
little, half trotting down the hill. Of course this only worsened the situation
and so, to distract myself, I started humming quite loudly. At least their house is a lot closer than
mine, I told myself. Priorities
were clear at that moment: pee, then purse.
I was in physical pain and
humming very loudly before I finally reached
familiar streets and wound my way to the cluster of roads where pre-drinks had
taken place. Dozens of my friends lived in this area, I reflected, but at the start of the year nobody had directions by heart yet. And directions are not my
forte anyway. Earlier, I had in fact briefly already worried that one day I would get confused between
the roads and houses entirely and turn up at the wrong one.
…And just as my bladder was about
to pop like an over inflated birthday balloon (probably incurring shrieks of
terror in the same way), I realised this exact fate of street-confusion had
befallen me. I peered at the row of houses as if through a kaleidoscope, the
same black doors and identical living room windows over and over, and blinked. Confused and stranded,
I hopped around the darkened street humming louder and louder – and soon admitted
to myself that I had no way of identifying where they lived. And this really wasn’t
about my belongings. It was about my bladder.
Then, just when I had reached the
critical moment – having to decide whether to flat-out sprint for home (would I
even make it?) or literally wee on
someone’s door step (ah, the bright undergraduate lives we lead) – a giant caterpillar loomed in the window directly in
front of me.
It was a huge caterpillar, seemingly
orange-hued although unclear in the dim streetlight, standing upright. My tuneless
hum trailed off. I was not frightened, per se, but rather in awe: this caterpillar was
not just big, it was giant, floor
to ceiling it seemed to me, with wise eyes behind glasses. Good grief, was this
possible? Could a backed up bladder provoke miraculous hallucinations? Is this
the old wives’ tale I was never warned of: neglect your bathroom needs for long
enough and you’ll see enormous insects in spectacles?
My mouth dropped open and I stood,
transfixed on the pavement, still hopping a little from foot to foot, surveying
the great, shadowy beast silhouetted up against the glass. It calmly lifted its
hand, waved in slow motion and then beckoned. It appeared to be speaking. What messages did caterpillars generally have for university students
who need the bathroom so badly they’re getting vision impairment? As if stuck
in treacle, I took a sluggish (ha) step towards it, squinting slowly as I tried
to lip read through the double-glazing –
“LOUISA!” the caterpillar said, jolting me sharply from my hazy trance by rapping its knuckles on the window. “What are you doing?”
“I REALLY really need to use your toilet,” I told him straightforwardly, ignoring
that he knew my name (you can’t question miracles), and the caterpillar shuffled
backwards, out of sight. After a brief panic that my guardian angel had
disappeared, relief struck: the front door unlocked in front of me. Holding
back my tears of pain and hoping my body wasn’t about to collapse in on itself,
I focused my wearied eyes.
The human-sized caterpillar was actually
my human friend Oliver. He was standing upright inside a sleeping bag. “Heating’s
broken and I don’t have a duvet,” he informed me solemnly as I sprinted past
him in a blur of gratitude.
Afterwards, I sat down for a nap, fell off the sofa and then finally went home, but that isn’t entirely to the
point. That night made me question myself (if only it had taught me to look after
my valuables too. We’re still working on that).
Why was that the door in front of which I happened to stop, desolate and convinced that my time was up? Why was Oliver in his living room trying to snatch bits of
phone signal at that precise moment? Why
on earth is it my instinct to trust oversized larvae in the hope that they
can provide me a toilet?
One lesson learnt overall: go to
the toilet before you leave pre-drinks, alright? Promise me you’ll do that.
Because I was blessed, certainly – but we can’t all have gigantic pre-pubescent
butterflies coming to our rescue.
Monday, 14 November 2016
Fox en France Ep.11: Poutine on the Ritz
Friday 4th – Sunday 6th Nov
After an anticlimactic return to work after the holidays
(one hour of exam supervision then being told I was no longer needed for the
day), Friday meant back to Saint-Brieuc (home-from-home here. My
home-from-home-from-home?), and a night in with friends, wine and some chocolate. Reward after a long, hard, sixty minute week at work.
Joel samples the vino |
But the wine was just round the corner, it turned out, and
in no limited supply. Early on it dawned on us that traditional buckets in
which to pour excess drink were nowhere to be found, so our fate was sealed as
soon as the liquid hit our glasses. And stall-owners, rightfully guarding the
Divine Quality of their produce, completely refused to serve us at all until
the smallest drops of whatever we’d previously tasted were gone, so as not to
disrupt the flavour. More top quality advice: you have not been berated until
you’ve been berated by a small, angry, wine-selling Frenchman with a goatee
("No, drink it all!”). The group marching round together after
copious glasses of wine was enough to create a scene anyway, but shortly word
somehow “got out” (we were quite the celebrity buzz, within that marquee) that
we were “all foreign” and stallholders couldn’t believe (or understand why)
there were eight of us from across the world here to taste their wines. Then it
all got rather overwhelming as tumblers and shot glasses were thrown at us from
all angles by beaming stallholders: champagne, cognac, mushroom liqueur
(really), passionfruit-something-or-other, cured ham and lots of cheese. Would
rate the evening highly, although the stuffed wild boar on the sausage table could be
considered a little much.
Genuine shots of mushroom |
SO:
Clouds: If someone is friendly and convincing enough, they
can quite easily convince a group of tourists to buy two bottles of their
finest passionfruit-something-or-other.
Silver linings: It tasted very, very good.
Monday 7th – Monday 14th Nov
An entire week seems like quite a feat to write about, but
some of it is predictable and has been written thousands of times already by thousands of people so it won’t take long to read and absorb:
I watched the election results on Tuesday. I watched it with
American friends, and with baited breath. I do not support Donald Trump nor his
views nor his actions. He won. People handed him power. It sucked.
It really really,
really sucked and seemed to slow the world down a little for
the next few days. This, combined with the single hour of poor-quality sleep I managed to
steal that night, and the fact that I live alone and had no one to wail at in
person after Wednesday, meant the end of the week felt pretty
bleak. And then – call this either
bad luck, or perhaps rather a very clear cut consequence of the above
circumstances – two months’ worth of escaped homesickness rushed in at once and
hit me with force comparative to my kitchen cupboard the other week when I left
it open and then walked into it. With lessons cancelled left, right and centre
(more variation than Western politics, at least) I was beyond grateful when a
couple of pals pitched up on Saturday night and we repeated our
wine-chocolate-film ritual with marvelous healing effects. Who knew that living alone is actually not at all peachy when you feel like the end of the world is nigh?! Someone should note this stuff down.
The rank remains of our Democrat/Republican punch bowls. I remembered I'm allergic to ("Republican") grapefruit and my lips swelled up. Omen? |
I should have hung on, though, to the buried but significant
knowledge that teaching – talking to young people – can almost always perk you
up and haul you out of even the deepest, bleakest wallowing session. Today’s
lessons have made me laugh out loud until I couldn’t speak as the terminale class began their “Swinging
Sixties” topic. After a guessing game of sixties icons (and one absolutely unmentionable attempt at
pronouncing “Quant”), and the realisation that two of them had genuinely never
heard of JFK, we moved on to a “Guess who?” game. I sat on a chair in the
corner – I didn’t need to hover intimidatingly; how could it go wrong? – while they
took turns in guessing which ‘60s icon they had been assigned on the board
behind them by a peer. I settled in comfortably, feeling smugly
assured that this would be the lighthearted, calming end to the day we all
needed.
…Seven minutes passed. Madness descended. Hillary Clinton
had been mistakenly called a man, there seemed to be doubts that Clint Eastwood was human, Vladimir
Putin had been spelt “poutine” (as in the Canadian delicacy), someone had
written my name on the board… I don’t know quite when it went awry.
The moral of the story is - be prepared. One minute there’s blank silence and tentative squeaks of, “Errrrr… I am an actor?”,
and the next you’re having to request if we could possibly stop making each other fascist world leaders and/or Kardashians (the
original “sixties” theme completely dropped). As an awe-inspiring finale of
creativity, one girl even assigned a friend his
own name – cue confusion and partial philosophical meltdown at Monday’s
close: “I am human?!... Attend! Attend!
I am... ME?!” Good. Grief.
SO:
Clouds: A heavy, grey cloud this time, I feel, and one I can’t ignore:
I am worried about the USA.
Silver linings: Small scale remedies in the face of world-wide
tragedies: thankful for friends who are at the end of a Skype or phone call when a Trump-shaped shadow is looming, and those who drove for miles to harmonise and cry over Skylar Astin, huddled under a duvet on my sofa. Try to tell me your Saturday topped that. Plus some very successful lessons, much hilarity, and some real progress in learning the names of my 120 students. ...No longer having to shout "VALENTIN!" or "MANON!" just because it's likely there will be one in the vicinity.
Calm |
Sunday, 6 November 2016
Fox en France Ep.10: Stick it to Le Mans
Thursday 27th – Sunday 30th Oct
Les womans in Le Mans #grammar |
Recovery after Spain was moderately bleak, and merged into
one long house-cleaning, clothes-washing ritual of four days. Riveting stuff.
Monday 31st Oct – 1st Nov
The gentle pits of despair post-Spain were getting to me, so
another change of scene was required: I fled to Le Mans, a nearby(ish) town for
a stay with some other university friends. Yes, more of them. Who knew I had so
many? It was a random choice of location based on geographical convenience
between the three of us and so we had few expectations… Apart from someone
telling me to “look out for the big F1 track” (they know me well, clearly; sports
facilities are always my first go-to sightseeing priority!!!). This meant we were actively impressed on
arrival – possibly because of the crisp clear blue skies and the most welcome croque monsieur I’ve ever been served –
but I am yet to be bored by colossal town squares full of beautiful pale
buildings and friendly cafés.
The Pinterest House |
And then – and then – we
checked into our last-minute AirBnB choice and realised just how fortunate the
entire set up was. Vincent, possibly the friendliest man I have ever met, welcomed us into his (what can
only be described as) palace. I must apologise for the lengths at which I am
about to describe his rooftop apartment: an impressive array of plants tumbling
off shelving units, globes and a sculptures and a large map of early London
spread across a wall. We had no doubt that this man was our cup of tea (notre
tasse de thé?) – from the vintage mojito recipe placard behind a stash of
twenty-five special edition liquor bottles, to ‘60s records lining the walls, to
Jane Birkin posters and wall hangings (tastefully) propped up behind the sofa (“she
is just a goddess!” he informed us).
I genuinely felt like I had stepped inside
the Pinterest app itself as he showed us round the kitchen – low-hanging
lightbulbs on turquoise cords, and a small yellow bus that was actually a
charging station. Jars of farfalle and multi-coloured candy canes lining the
glass cabinet tipped us over from “woah” to a feverish “this is a potential
life goal standard of home”. Vincent, we will be returning. A* in interior
design for you, Glen Coco.
A slightly disturbing cold bolognaise put a dampener on the
evening meal excursion – and an even more disturbing array of costume-clad
French teenagers reminded us that it was in fact Halloween and this had
completely passed us by. So, for the first time since I can remember, I did not
dress up for, nor celebrate, Halloween in any form. We instead drank some wine,
shared our most disturbing stories from our time abroad so far (wouldn’t you
like to know) and went to bed. Quite early.
A rushed panic to catch my train home resulted in an
inevitable but nonetheless painful moment wherein I lost any capacity to speak
French under pressure (seat number confusion, obviously). To my dismay, just
before I dissolved in a pool of my own sweat in the aisle, the debacle ended
with an eight-year-old asking me (with remarkable complacency for someone who
looked young enough to be an extra on the Teletubbies),
“Oh… You’re English?” and then translating for me the confusion of
which-seat-is-mine. Not fun, very embarrassing, and not okay that such a young
child was so full of intimidating sass and eye-rolls. Just because you’ve clearly been conjugating
verbs since the the minute you were born. In, like, 2011. No grudges held here.
Gratuitous shots of Vincent's place (thanks Anna) |
There are leaves everywhere and it’s such an autumn cliché
but I’m becoming fixated with them, covering all the paths and roads in a fiery
red carpet. So in a moment of healthy November delirium I stopped on my way
back from the station and picked one up: it was perfectly intact and about
twice the size of my head (no, really). I then stood up and realised an old
lady was staring at me. My reputation continues to be on point – I think “Clumsy
British Leaf Girl” suits me well, personally. Does leaf-pressing work the same
way as flower-pressing? If not there is a leaf inside my teaching textbooks for
100% no reason and knowing me it’ll rot and crumble and then fall out of the
pages in the middle of a lesson in three months’ time. Good luck explaining
your way out of that one, Future Lou xoxo
SO:
Clouds: I want Vincent’s apartment to be my own but it isn’t
and never will be, I have started to stash bits of tree paraphernalia in my
apartment, and I got an accidental private translator but he’s barely out of
the womb and that feels demeaning.
Silver linings: Le Mans was another idyllic area I’ve been
lucky enough to see, and we booked an AirBnB palace by mistake.
Saturday, 29 October 2016
Fox en France Ep.9: Bah, BAR, Black Sheep
Monday 25th – Thursday 27th 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).
Friday, 28 October 2016
Fox en France Ep.8: Seafood Paella (ella, ella, eh eh eh)
Thursday 20th – Monday 24th 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.
Wednesday, 19 October 2016
Fox en France Ep.7: J & the Giant Beach
Week 10th 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. |
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 |
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.
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?
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