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?