Post-Feck Off Part 3: Is it soir yet?

Is it soir yet?

The first fundamental difference between French and English culture I noticed was because of the astonishing amount of time I spend in lifts (I live on the 6th floor). In Britain, the protocol whilst sharing enclosed spaces is, in my experience, to look down, keep your mouth shut and try not to think about anything funny (smirking is not looked well upon) and only at the point of leaving or entry can you risk a polite- but not overly friendly- smile.

In France, this is just not on. You greet and are greeted with a bonjour/ bonsoir- according to the time of day, of course- and then wish and are wished a bonne journée/ bonne soirée- again, according to the time of day. Where it gets interesting/ complicated is where people’s perception of afternoon/ evening differs.

I’ve been wished bonsoir in Supermarché Simply at 17H30 and I’ve been wished bonjour in the lift at 21H (that’s half five and nine o’clock for those uncomfortable with the 24-hour clock- you know who you are- and that H instead of the typically British colon can be explained only, I think, by the layout of a French keyboard- you’d probably have to press precisely seven buttons at the same time to get a colon). Personally, I follow a simplistic thought process. If it’s dark, it’s soir. If it’s not quite dark, but I’ve eaten, it’s soir. If I’m just back from a 16H-18H lecture, it’s definitely bloody soir.

It definitely was soir, however, when, after drinking a bottle of red wine with Kettle, I swayed out of the lift and wished the random French person within it a “bonne journée”. At half past midnight.

Have a Bonne Soirée, Bilinguals!

There’s a lot to be said for finding comfort in others when you find yourself feeling a bit lost in a new country. EIMA provided that team spirit that I was really craving. Here was a society that wanted to make me part of something beautiful and international and crazy and fun and I clung to that. Briefly.

Just as Freshers’ Week got off to a pretty crazy start in the first few days, with everyone clinging to anyone and everyone- and trying and failing to remember hundreds of new faces and names with alcohol thrown into the mix- the evening EIMA welcome events had much the same effect. This time with language barriers and the sheer exhaustion that this causes to contend with also. However, being much older and wiser than I was as a Fresher, I was much better prepared and spent a fair proportion of the evening talking to like-minded Erasmus students. And then hung out with Palm Tree and Trop Bien.

Gravitating towards French people on a night out (as well as always inviting Token French Person to predominantly “English” nights out) frequently has hilarious consequences, as the quality of French I speak and am taught declines suddenly after a certain point in the evening. Allow me to explain.

Until this point, my alco-ego gives me the confidence I need to speak without thinking, naturally, using words and phrases I’ve just learnt, which are therefore current and useful. This has a similar effect to throwing the textbook out the window and gives me the best chance of passing for a native- hilariously Anglo-Saxon hair colour aside.

Suddenly, however, I’ll pass the point of bilingual competency and will have a much more fluid concept of which language should be used with whom. I call this the Mrs Doubtfire Bilingualism Phenomenon. You know the bit where Daniel/Mrs Doubtfire is attempting to simultaneously attend a family dinner and a job interview? And inevitably sits down at his potential boss’ table dressed as Mrs Doubtfire? Imagine the effects of attempting to pass equal amounts of time with a group of English speakers who I wouldn’t normally speak to in French and a group of French speakers who I would never speak to in English, or who simply don’t understand English…

Or worse, I’ll be oblivious to the fact that French words are creeping into my English vocabulary and vice versa- “En fait, it’s been like that for a while, tu vois, so it’s not… it’s not… c’est pas pour ça, hein?” I therefore come across as, at best, a bad bilingual piss artist, or at worst, the sort of bilingual that loves to forget that everyone else is not bilingual and to remind everyone that they are so… In short, I come across as a bit of an arse.

As for being taught French, I’ll begin the evening by learning really useful things, like names of cocktails, alternative words for stuff I talk about all the time- like the verb “charier” (to mock)- or dozens of adjectives to describe how awful assignments, lectures and my workload are. And then past a certain point in the evening, I’ll learn 17 alternative ways of calling someone a slut.

Occasionally though, my French company and I stumble across a cross-linguistic gem. The crème de la crème being when I was introduced to a friend of Palm Tree and Trop Bien, whose name was Fanny.

Being rather tipsy, I admit that I was polite for all of about four seconds before I burst out laughing. I quickly apologised and explained that Fanny meant something potentially rather amusing in English. I even had the vocabulary to translate it, having spent my first year of university living with Allstar (who I’ve briefly mentioned before), a French-Moroccan with a hilariously immature sense of humour. Then it was Trop Bien’s turn to burst out laughing. She explained that Fanny’s surname meant “golden”. I turned to my new acquaintance and quipped, “Nice to meet you, Golden Fanny.” I fear the nickname may have stuck. She is an excellent sport however, Golden Fanny.

A couple of days later, I was introduced to two of Token French Person’s French friends and, having been kicked out of a beer garden for BYOB (Bringing Your Own Booze)- beer is not cheap in bars- we were milling around across the street commenting on various aspects of English and French culture (and hardly being complimentary about either). The rest of the group consisted mainly of English folk, two guys sharing the name Edward and both preferring to be called Ed. After a lull in our conversation, one of my new acquaintances turned to me pensively and after a brief pause, asked “The two guys called Ed? Ça veut dire “tête”, non ?” I have since nicknamed both Edwards “Ed the Head”. I treated my new acquaintances to a quick explanation of how “h” is a bloody awful sound for most non-natives speakers of English to pick up and we returned to our musings of France vs. England.

During this same soirée, Token French Person got so hilariously plastered that she found unprecedented confidence in speaking English. So much so, that she wanted to shout about her newfound confidence on the bus, the metro, in the street… and when speaking to French people. Much to the confusion and entertainment of my French acquaintances, I found myself acting as a Drunken English to Tipsy French interpreter.

I never get tired of finding gems like this in French supermarkets.

The Worst English Stereotypes

On my second night in France, I found myself in a typically British pub, called the Frog et Rosbif (Frogs, sorry, French people, call English folk “rosbif” because we apparently turn pink in the sun- it’s particularly true of me, sadly). The pub was a cliché of the worst English stereotypes- football, daft headgear and not glasses but pitchers of beer (unfortunately not at English but French prices- ouch). I loved it. Not because I felt particularly comfortable, but because when I spoke to what turned out to be an English waiter, I clocked on to his accent straight away and he continued to speak to me in French. Score one for the Rosbif.

You can’t take the Blighty out the Rosbif though. The following evening, I was having drinks at an EIMA organised meet and greet with a group of English, French and Finnish students. My Finnish friend, whom I have nicknamed Nemo (for she is a ginger Fin) proposed a toast and as the glasses clinked, called “Kippis!” My English brain immediately tuned in and I replied, “Haha, yes! Get pissed!” I had completely failed to comprehend that she had attempted to teach me the Finnish word for “Cheers!” (which I will now never forget). Then, as if I hadn’t already made it abundantly clear that there is at least some truth to some English stereotypes, I began granting. That is to say,I reverted to the most stereotypically English persona one can invoke. The Hugh Grant. “Oh my word, I’m so sorry…”

Once the week was out, some of us (slightly less of the English) decided to take things a little more steadily. Which of course means replacing beer and wine with tea. This is how Kettle earned his nickname. Rather proud of the Keep Calm and Carry On teabags my dear mother, The Coordinator had slipped into my suitcase when I wasn’t looking, I invited Kettle and Nemo over for tea.

A sight for sore, British eyes…

“You have a kettle?!”, he cried.

“No”, I replied, “but I have a pan, water and a hob…”

“Oh my God, I can make tea!”, Kettle exclaimed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

After a reasonable amount of ridicule, I put the casserole (pan) on.

Unconventional, but once I’d dropped the teabag into the pan, I went with it…

Post-Feck Off Part 2: Rosbif dans la Ville Rose

So, let’s revisit Day 2 in a little more detail. A recap:

• I’ve slept fitfully with no pillow or curtains.
• I’ve woken up in a strange country.
• I have, however, started several bureaucratic processes. And finished one.

Part 2: Rosbif dans la Ville Rose

Am I “inscrite” yet?

My first task on Day 2 was to “make myself known to the University”, to register. This involves tree murder extraordinaire and an inexplicable red pen obsession. As well as a baffling number of codes, details, documents… and without the help of three separate organisations (Erasmus International Mirail Association [EIMA], Division de la Vie Etudiante [DIVE] and Pole des Etudiants Etrangers), I would have had no hope completing any of it. Best of it was, after all that to-ing and fro-ing, the conclusion was basically “come back in a week and we’ll pick it up from there.” Excellent. To put this into perspective, no registration means no student card, which means no internet, no laundry, no bank account, which means no French mobile contract, which again means no internet and a terrifying phone bill.

It’s not so much a vicious circle as a vicious web of paperwork and high blood pressure. A web you can do nothing but to sit and look at, just dying to take your duster to it…

I’ll briefly fast-forward a week here. I’m back at Relations Intérnationales for my rendezvous to finalise my inscription. I’ve paid for assurance civile, I have all conceivable paperwork and my EHIC card at the ready. I’m offered a seat and I hope, naively, that this is not necessarily a sign that I will be here long…

“Vous avez un nom francais.” This will be the first of countless times that I will hear that, yes, by some coincidence, I am in France,  with a French name and I’m not French. I know right? Impossible to imagine how that might have happened… Anyway, we establish I am indeed in the right place (I try to give the woman the benefit of the doubt and imagine that this question is not in fact intended to get rid of me as effectively as possible so she can return to her game of Solitaire) and she begins going over my paperwork.

“Veuillez écrire l’adresse de vos parents.” So I write down my parents’ address and offer it back to her. She looks at me as if I have used this vital document to clean up a dog’s particularly nasty morning sit-down. “Ca veut dire quoi, meadow?” She wasn’t familiar with the word “meadow” and this greatly irritated her, evidently. I replied with the French word for “field”. Close enough.

“So how do I pronounce this?” Seriously, lady, you don’t need to know how to say it, just write it down, before my parents move out of this address and into a retirement home.

Next: email address. “Ah yes, this is not going to be easy, we don’t say this in French either…” I made a gallant effort not to point out that I wouldn’t expect either my email or residential address to be something a French person would say, since they are both in fact British addresses. And for your information, my email address consists of a combination of words I would rarely use in my own English conversation anyway.

Then we come to my telephone number. And I just know the dog’s morning sit-down is going to hit the proverbial fan now, because my (including international code) 14-digit British phone number is not going to fit into her 10 pretty boxes intended for French mobile numbers (for this precise reason, I hadn’t dared fill it in). Why don’t I have a French contact number? Because I don’t have a French bank account. And why don’t I have a French bank account? Because I don’t have my student card. And why don’t I have my student card? Because I’m still here and I’m still not “inscrite”.

Remember that this is after I’ve been attempting to attend lessons for five days. And even after Madame What-Is-A-Meadow is content that my paperwork is in order, I still have to go to the other side of campus to hand in another piece of paper and request and collect my student card.

This will surely require a photograph. And this time I’m ready. I have spare photographs I had taken when I applied for my travel pass. And to say I had them taken on my first day, they’re a pretty good shot.

“Look into the webcam please.” Oh for crying out loud. My hair is in a lazy ponytail and I’ve had four hours sleep, since I went out the night before. “With or without smile?”, I ask. “Either.”

So I may not look amazing, but the hilarity of the moment, combined with the stark realisation that I’m in for one hell of a year is plastered across my face. And I look truly ecstatic about it.

IKEIMA for “curtains”, “a pillow”- and internet

Back to Day 2 then- and I’m heading to register at the International Erasmus International Association, or EIMA, as originally briefly mentioned. For 3 euros, I was welcomed to a society of friendly (and some confused and lost-looking) faces, promising many exciting events and a hangout with every inch of wall and ceiling covered in international flags, heartfelt messages from Erasmus veterans and posters poking fun at national stereotypes.

Just to make it quite clear I’m a foreigner…

I left some time later with a wristband (which I have barely taken off since), a few new friends and two old friends (I will explain). Most importantly though, I came away with “curtains” and “a pillow”. Fine, I came away with a bedsheet and a cushion.

My “curtains”, “pillow” and (due to the lack of working fridge and kitchen equipment) a pizza…

With the bedsheet, when it starts to get dark, I trap it in the window and let it hang down, blocking most of the light. If, however, I wait until it is already dark (which I like to do, because my view of Toulouse is pretty at all times of day), I have to open it and trap it really quickly, lest all the insects in France collect in the corner of my room, spend the night buzzing away and then promptly die all over my desk come the morning.

View from Chapou

And by night…

The cushion (intended for a deckchair, I think) I have since replaced (more to come on the shape of French pillows- and French homeware in general), but for a few days, I coped quite well with it wrapped in a pillow case.

As for internet, I managed to acquire a password from a lovely ginger German, who I will call Streetcar, as his surname is somewhat un-pronounceable for anglophones.  In the two and a bit weeks it took me to get my student card, he had a very predictable internet regime, which allowed me to be online until 11pm every night. I will never quite be able to repay him.

But yes, going back to my “old friends”. Once enjoying a coffee, in the comfort of EIMA HQ, I was greeted with a sudden “Steph ! Mais qu’est-ce que tu fais ici ?!” Turns out that two Erasmus students (who I’m going to call Trop Bien and Palm Tree) who had spent their Erasmus year in The Shire were now volunteering with EIMA at The Destination, to help Erasmus Generation 25 to settle in.

Erasmus Generation 25

La bonne cuisine française

Trop Bien is so named because everything, in her way of seeing the world, is literally too good- just so entertaining. It was over lunch with Trop Bien and Palm Tree that I learnt the phrase “oh mais c’est trop bien” (said whilst stifling a giggle) and have positively overused it since.

It came about after some playful banter about the quality of cafeteria food (we were eating at Resto U) and after Trop Bien spotted a couple that, frankly, delighted her. He was comically tall, she was comically short. And they were apparently in a romantic relationship. “Oh mais c’est trop bien !”, she declared.

Trop Bien and Palm Tree are between them a comedy duo. A real Laurel and Hardy set-up, although I doubt they’ve even noticed. While Trop Bien and I were crying with laughter into our steak haché, Palm Tree was attempting to be the voice of reason, to prevent us making a scene. And in doing so made the situation even more comical. Palm Tree is Trop Bien’s balancing force. She’s also full of Year Abroad and Mirail advice for me (it was she who put me onto “Impossible n’est pas Mirail”) and shares my delight in the chaos that is La Feck.

The pair of them were the making of my second day. They stabilised my fairly bi-polar mood and I had my first of many belly laughs in their company (as well as that of another new friend, whose nickname I’m not going to reveal just yet, as the story behind this is the best I’ve got so far).

Trop Bien seems to share my ability to spot hilarious things a mile off and my love of finding the ridiculous and the amusing in everything we do. It’s because of this ability that I’m doing so okay here. I can’t help but appreciate the hilarity in this chaos and confusion.

For some examples of my hobby (read obsession) for collecting humorous tidbits, check out the new page that will be appearing in a couple of days.

Post-Feck Off- Part 1: La Feck and Le Met’

It’s been some time since my First Day update. For this I apologise, but understandably my first week after Feck Off was somewhat manic. So manic, that I intend to tell you the story in installments.

Part 1: La Feck and Le Met’

Achievement unlocked: Use Toulousian transport

The morning of day 2, Token French Person helped me discover Toulousian transport, which, it has to be said, is impeccable. Efficient, easy-to-use, comfortable (unless you find yourself in a face-to-armpit situation) and excellent value for money (for under 26’s, unlimited travel is just 9 euros a month- at least getting lost isn’t expensive). And some of the stops have hilarious names, for your entertainment.

“Fetchez la vache” (Spamalot)
Also used instead of expletives to express displeasure.

Translates as “the three cheated-on people”. Also sounds a bit rude.

I bought myself a 10-journey ticket to tide me over until I could get my hands on my unlimited travel pass (prospective Third-Year-Abroaders- take photos with you, trust me, you’re welcome) which I later sold on to my new friend Kettle (the story behind this nickname to come). Buying my travel pass was one of the first “important” French conversations I had, after I’d visited my host university in order to begin the (lengthy and as yet unfinished) registration process (details to follow). It’s important to (try) not to make a tit of yourself in all conversations, but even more so when money is changing hands, I find.

I chuffedly left the Tisseo office, proudly holding my ticket to Toulousian transport and looking forward to trying it out. The pass must be scanned before you pass through the gates to the mét’ and as you get on a bus. Faced with a scanner for the first time, however, I was like a small child trying to fit a square brick into a star-shaped hole. I tried to insert it into a gap at the top (intended for paper tickets). I waved it. I looked for buttons. The bus driver explained that I needed to plant it “sur le nez”- that basically my image on the card had to Eskimo kiss the front of the scanner. She thankfully didn’t realise that I am in fact an Idiot Abroad and assumed that the card was being awkward.

Conquer La Feck: Challenge Accepted

Google my Uni.

Managing to get up after my curtainless, pillowless first night, I was escorted as far as the University by Token French Person, whose help was indispensable in getting my Year Abroad out of the gate running (the idea that I might turn up without a plan suddenly seemed ridiculous).

We’d taken a bus and the metro and I’d taken copious notes by the time we got to the University. Or “la fac”, as it is usually referred to. This makes me chuckle, because it sounds a bit like “feck”. And this is wholly appropriate.

You have to love La Feck. It is a place of mystery and wonder. Will I ever find my class? Is graffiti art a discipline here? Will the new Resto U (cafeteria) ever be finished? And why is there a horse on campus?

From “Impossible n’est pas Mirail”- a group for those who appreciate UTM’s… individuality…

La Feck is also, however, the source of much stress and discomfort. When I’m not admiring the anti-facho slogans daubed on the walls, or enjoying (in a broad sense of the word) a three-course lunch for 3€10, I’m wondering if I will ever be a fully-registered student (after a week of classes, I’m as of today ¾ of the way through the process) or if the teacher will attend my next class, or what kind of obscure route I might have to take. The corridors, for at least half an hour after the start of classes, are home to lost-looking would-be-students-if-they-could-just-navigate-Bâtiment-13. Home and Erasmus students alike. I’ve even been asked directions a few times, which is comforting and would be a source of much pride, if I could reply with more than just, “I have no idea, I’m sorry- I think I passed it about an hour ago.”

Bâtiment 13 (the irony is clear for those who are superstitious) is deceivingly not just one building, but a maze of small buildings, some with several floors, some not, all interconnected with what I call “conservatory doors”- glass pane doors which lead you outside, across a path and then back inside through a similar door. It all looks the same. And you can go round in circles for hours. You might come across a room number which is one higher or lower than your room number and yet you might have to search for it in an entirely separate building. If there is any order or logic to the system, I haven’t yet noticed.

X marks anything but the fecking spot, I’m telling you.

As you’re navigating this hell-hole of interconnecting greenhouses, as if undertaking a warped initiation test (is it any wonder there is such a high first-year drop-out rate in France?) you come face-to-face with additional obstacles. And they always crop up at the most devastatingly crucial moment.

Like Crystal Maze without a camp guy in a purple suit to point you in the right direction.

After twenty minutes of frantic searching, I found my Sémantique et Sémiotique class. I could see it through the “conservatory door” in front of me. A door which was locked.

There was a moment when I lifted my hands up to the glass pane, leaving steamy prints as I tried to subdue my frustration. I was so close. It was right there. Then, to the left of me I spotted an opening in the wall of glass. A window. Almost a door. It opened sideways and as such, anyone with a BMI under 25 would probably fit through. And that, kids, is how I broke into my host university in order to honour my Learning Agreement.

The Devil’s Bâtiment was on a separate occasion responsible for me being half an hour late to a Modern Greek class. You can’t exactly make a subtle entrance when the class is only 6-strong anyway… It was not, however, responsible for me missing two classes due to lack of teacher and, well, lack of class.

The silver lining of all of this, however, is that through these experiences I have grasped a vital concept within French society: vouvoiement. Imagine two students, only one managing to not look so desperately lost and confused. Under normal circumstances, using the vous form is reserved for addressing superiors, elders, strangers or those you wish to show particular respect to. “Tu” is perfectly acceptable amongst young people, whether they know each other or not. Unless, you want something. And at Le Mirail, the thing you are most likely to want is to know where the hell you are and where the hell you are going.

Classes successfully attended: 3/5

Appropriate.

Houston, We Have Feck Off (Day 1)

The poster (kindly gifted by The Voice) currently cheering up my (grey) walls and décor

This is a true account of my first day in France. Although the story begins, not in Toulouse, but at Manchester Airport…

How I internally slagged off everyone who shows up late at the gate and then was that person

The Bank, The Coordinator (collectively known as The Folks), along with The Wife, had accompanied me as far as the airport. We’d left at 5am and as of 8:30am I was alone in the departures lounge.  Having had to unpack my carry-on case (see Gravatar) to reach the laptop so wisely left at the bottom (and in the meantime showing the whole of Manchester Airport my Keep Calm and Carry On teddy bear), I’d spent a while re-packing and re-dressing whilst chatting to a very nice old couple from Cork. Although that’s hardly relevant. Point is, I was quite chilled out. Glancing at the departure boards, I noticed a trend: green for “meander on over to your gate, please”, orange for “get ready to meander on over to your gate” and red for “RUUUUUNNNN!”… So when the orange message displaying my gate number showed up, I duly noted it, gave it ten minutes since I was comfy and then began meandering over to my gate (approximately 3,000 light years away)  assuming that in the process, it would turn green and all would be well. As I reached gate 28, I glanced again at the boards to find that the standby orange had been replaced with run-like-feck red. As I approached my gate, trying to keep the world’s most violent adrenaline rush at bay, an announcement rang through the entire terminal, announcing that it was I and two others who had failed to arrive alongside our flying companions. And after judging the subjects of the previous announcement for “no doubt getting too carried away in the Duty Free”, I felt a bit of a tit.

How I was tempted to do a “Terminal”

The flight went expectedly without a hitch. My baggage being too big to go through ordinary check-in however, I was somewhat concerned that I may never see it again. However when it came to picking it back up, I was reluctant for it to come, because that would mean that it would be time to leave the security of the airport and the plane-load of English people milling around it and go outside into real France, talk to real French people and get myself into a taxi.

How I nearly literally left my (permanent) mark on Chapou

After more French bureaucracy and handing over 340 euros (where are you, Erasmus grant?!) and going to the wrong floor after reading my room number wrongly, I finally got as far as my room and spent some time unpacking since there was precisely no sign of life. I’d said a few awkward bonjours to people I’d passed on the way up, but that was it for human contact. It wasn’t until I was feeling a bit sad and lonely and had texted The Folks and The Wife to tell them so that I decided to go look out the window in the corridor. From behind me, a voice said “bonjour!”

My room for the year still looking a bit sad at this point…

LIFE ON MARS.

The voice belonged to a very sweet Réunionaise, who I will call Token French Person, because when I find myself in English-speaking company, she is there to save me from temptation.

Token French Person and I chatted for a while and swapped numbers. I politely declined her invite to go jogging around the canal and decided instead to meander towards a supermarket (wherever that might be).

Disaster struck at this point.

My residence is under construction. Not that in my sleep deprived and starving state I had noticed. I came out of the lift not realising that someone had clearly spent a long time laying concrete and ignored the metal plank on the floor that to me seemed to be awkwardly, even irritatingly, blocking my path. As my foot sank into grey sludge, I realised my mistake. I stared in horror as I lifted it back out and reflected upon my own footprint. “SHIT SHIT SHIT,” was all I managed to declare.

After washing my trainer, sending some frantic texts home for advice and deciding to pretend it never happened, I descended once more, only to find that my mark would not be forever left at Chapou. I later found out from Token French Person that an angry member of the maintenance team had covered it over, with love, care and a million French obscenities.

How I proved that at least some French stereotypes are bang on

My first trip out proved exciting and profitable. I live a stone’s throw from a beautiful canal and the city really is very picturesque. I bought breakfast, toothpaste and toilet paper from Supermarché Simply and was infinitely proud of myself. I successfully asked directions. I was asked directions and completely failed to be of any use.

On my travels, I spotted a real day-maker. I’d been in France a matter of hours before I came across a Frenchman wearing an almost-beret and a stripy top. I wanted so desperately to take his picture, for having the audacity to be so painfully stereotypically French, but couldn’t manage it with any degree of subtlety.

I stopped for lunch/dinner/who even knows- I was dying of hunger- at what turned out to be a reggae bar. I popped in for a sandwich and ended up listening to Bob Marley and the Wailers and watching a hilarious French sketch show called Lol!. Another brilliant French stereotype come to life: there was garlic and olive oil in my ham and crudités sandwich. How beautifully Mediterranean.

How I didn’t manage to sleep with no pillow or curtains/ shutters

No pillow for me…

I spent the evening chatting to Token French Person. She kindly made me some pasta and promised to show me how to get to the University using the bus and metro the following day. We watched two American films dubbed in French, including Eh mec, où est ma caisse? (Dude, Where’s My Car?) All was going well and I felt comfortable and happy, which is more than I expected for a first night.

Keep Calm and make yourself a makeshift pillow!

In much need of some rest, I went to bed early, determined to get some shut-eye despite the lack of curtains/blind/shutters and pillow. I threw some dirty clothes in a canvas bag and proceeded to make myself as comfy as possible with my makeshift pillow. Deciding the smell was not worth the added neck support, I promptly abandoned that plan and did without. I wouldn’t call what I had sleep as much as a series of power naps. Toulouse waits for no one and come sunrise, the light was streaming through my apparently east-facing window and soon after I was greeted with the sound of drilling and hammering from somewhere within my as yet unfinished residence.

Details of day 2 to follow…

This Will be Brief

So this is it. My last day in Blighty. Tomorrow I begin my journey. Pastures unknown. Experiences as yet un-experienced. Friends yet to have made my acquaintance. I’ll leave it there, shall I?

I leave you this side of the Channel with a video. I feel it sums up my sentiments quite poignantly. It tells the tale of a soon-to-be traveller, about to embark on a year of freedom…

Friends, relatives, strangers- keep checking in, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride. Academia, I’ll take you seriously again in a year.

I’M GOING ON A PERMANENT HOLIDAY.

T Minus One Month- Stay Stressed Then Give Up

Resistance is useless. It is happening. And it is happening in precisely one month.

And I’m running out of time to sort out inordinate piles of bureaucratic merde, but by doing things at the last available moment and calling it punctual, I’m actually keeping excellent French time.

I’m reassured by the fact that I received an email from UTM (my soon-to-be host institution) earlier this month, setting a date for our compulsory Erasmus welcome meeting with *almost a whole month’s notice*.  The welcome date being a whole week before my arrival date. The email was signed off, “It is hoped that this early message gives you plenty of time to organise your trip.”

And I thought I was laidback.

Laidback but visibly stressed. Last week I woke up in a cold sweat and had to root through my floordrobe to find my handy and all-important Year Abroad Folder (Thankyou Study Abroad team) to check when my passport expires. It turned out (at 2am) that I’ll be nearly thirty by the time it does.

The next minor Year Abroad hiccup came with trying to organise some insurance. The University of York kindly and helpfully provides free insurance to its students and staff. Good news everyone!

Not.

Turns out that accessing the file off-campus requires installation of a “VPN” (Virtually (Im)Possible to Navigate, anyone?) a Java update and a piece of your soul. So I promptly gave up and made myself a brew instead. I would therefore like it to be known that should I die or be near-mortally wounded in France, I wish for my body to be thrown in the Mediterranean to avoid flight costs and for there to be a small whip-round so my parents can buy something nice to console themselves with.

I would like to thank my friend Nursie for agreeing to implement this whip-round should this be the case (he seems worryingly keen) and my friend Funny Finny for suggesting “a nice houseplant to remember you by”.

By means of stress-relief, I am therefore embracing Anglo-French culture  by drinking my good (French) coffee, out of a (nostalgically British) Keep Calm* mug whilst eating teacakes (decidedly British) and listening to Paris S’Eveille (pretty damn French). And if this is the way my life is to be from now on (once I’ve organised inordinate piles of merde, of course), then I’m pretty damn okay with that.

*Appropriately, this Keep Calm mug is in fact a Stay Stressed Then Give Up one. Which I personally feel is more accurately British.

Life in a Cité Universitaire- The Post-Feckup Plan

Before I came to university, I was faced with the prospect of living with 11 complete strangers. Cooking, cleaning, sleeping, studying, watching crap TV and playing time-wasting games on my iPod, all under the same roof. Not in that order.

Now I’m looking at sharing, not a flat, but a university city, with over a thousand other students from various corners of the globe. All under one (very high) roof.

But what if the other kids don’t like me?

When I first came to university, I was terrified that I was too much of an acquired taste to cope in as social a setting as first-year flat-sharing. It went okay in the end. And yet the prospect of Freshers’ Take Two terrifies me. I don’t even know why the change in location should matter. But will my particular brand of humour translate? There are only so many awkward situations you can laugh your way out of.

On day one of Freshers’ Week The First, I found myself amongst a very friendly, if somewhat motley crew. The Wife was one of them. So was The Voice (who on good days would sing in the kitchen when she thought no one was around) and The Strange Bean (who has always been a strange bean, but is often lovable with it- and makes up for it with cake). There was also The Big Kid (who was possibly the only (semi-) responsible adult for miles around), Allstar (so named for being an all-rounder cleverdick-sorry, academic- sports enthusiast and party animal), The Alarm (who had trouble getting up in the morning), Sportee (whose unique way of spelling her name and love of exercise both baffled me for some time), Omelette (whose reputation for coming out with howlers such as “What is tuna made of?” and “What happens if you put more egg in an omelette?” was both endearing and legendary) and finally Apple MacG (whom I habitually greeted in a Scottish accent, despite the fact he is not in fact Scottish- and loves Apple… secretly). Those who can count may realise that I have in fact left one out. This is because there was (occasionally) one who will be known as The Absent.

There were of course occasions when all was not well in Block M. There was Kitchen-gate, which got pretty ugly, when supporters and critics of the Sin Cupboard (where dirty and neglected plates go to die) were at loggerheads (via Facebook or otherwise). There was the Disappearing Bathroom Door Incident- a vengeful act in return for nobody-remembers-what. And the Case of the Stolen Mattress Turned Bouncy Castle. The most fun you can have with your clothes on. On a mattress.

My point being, we all left that flat (I like to think) pretty good mates. We may have been childish enough to host Wheelie Chair Olympics in the corridor and partake in a Where’s Wok? event (ever had to follow a series of hilarious photographic clues in order to be reacquainted with your own wok?), but we were grown-up enough to lay our issues on the kitchen table (along with the stack of pizza menus and edible peace offerings), say sorry (for puking in the kitchen sink, for example) and get on with it.

I have taken many life lessons from that flat. And I’m sure many more await me, when I inevitably commit an almighty faux-pas, some Boris-worthy social gaffe… For I have perhaps equal talent for making a tit of myself.

I have exceptional talent for making a tit of myself.

But I have a tri-partite remedy to fix any wrong-doing.

1)      Admit you messed up, fool.

2)      Suck it up and say sorry.

3)      Say sorry with sweets, cake, or something equally nom. Peace-offerings should always be edible.

With this in mind, I’d like to take this moment to address my dear friend and flatmate, The Wife, publicly.

Dear Wife,

I stole approximately 1.5 Mini Eggs. I hope that, in time, you will find it in you to forgive me. In the meantime, please accept these delicious (insert whatever goodies I picked up from the Spar here).

Warm regards and ashamed bowing of heads,

Wife

It’s an infallible fast-track back into the good books. Let’s just hope the French are as fond of bon-bons as they are their children.

Are the French fond of their children?

Are You Ready for Toulouse? Less Than Two Months to Go!

This was the message that dropped into my inbox today. I was already aware of the two-month countdown having begun, but thankyou for reminding me (enter generic budget airline here)…

The message filled me with terror, it’s true, but comparatively, this minor gut-wrenching panic was surprisingly short-lived.

My current living arrangements are turning out to be quite the metaphor for my mental transformation over the last 20-something days.

The house has had the odd day when it’s decided not to function as a house- springing leaks, refusing water- just as I’ve had the odd Premature Alice Moment (“I’m just going to want to come home!”)

I stuffed my fears into an old filing cabinet in an abandoned office guarded by a dragon in the back of my brain and re-discovered and brought back with me my Positive Mental Attitude, which had been mistakenly filed under ‘X’, while the house was relieved of its old joker of a boiler and was given a shiny new one.

Although I privately nicknamed the old boiler “Jigsaw”, for I felt every morning shower was a game, a game of how fast you can shower before you are scalded/frozen to death, I’m not convinced the new one isn’t just as evil.

The new boiler, by way of telling you it’s waiting patiently in the dark, unfinished bathroom to do its job, lights up with a creepy, electric blue glow. The blue light is ring-shaped: a perfect, robotic, Portal-esque eye, that stares at me through the dark (there is not, as yet, a functioning landing light) as I emerge from the existing bathroom wrapped in a towel and jet down the stairs to avoid its gaze…

Lovingly and respectfully borrowed from dj-corny.deviantart.com

It’s okay to be scared of the shiny new things, especially when you’d got quite comfortable with the old ones (even if you did get occasionally burned). But change can be good. And I’m telling myself that my year in Toulouse, like the house, will eventually be beautiful, even if it’s messy at first. And I’ll get used to the scary bits.

So yes, just like the house, I’m slowly throwing away the old to make way for the new. Although in my case what’s being thrown away is every negative thought and nerve-induced vom-fest, to leave more room for excitement and rational thinking.

I’ve gone from denial that the Year Abroad is even happening, to voicing rational fears (and many irrational ones), to nearly chickening out, to booking flights, to pretending I’m just going on holiday, to securing accommodation, to distracting myself with work, back to denial, to finally feeling the slightest glimmer of excitement. Which was promptly extinguished. Then reignited.

I’m there. I’m finally there. I’m ready to go. And it’s going to be terrifying. And amazing. And memorable. And fun. And full of firsts. And when I come back I’m going to want to do it all over again. And maybe I will. If The Wife will let me.*

*The Wife, although it is her that is behind the almost two-year- running gag that I am in fact leaving for France because I am a bad friend, will surely support further travel and exciting things, because she is in fact a good friend. She** may even want come with me as long as she is at no point forced to speak French.

** Further participants welcome.

Introductions

Hello and welcome. You can call me Larousse. I will call you Reader. If I really like you, I might invent a nickname for you, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

I live in a beautiful and historic UK city, which, for the purposes of creating mystery and excitement (anonymity makes things mysterious and exciting), I will call The Shire. However, I am originally from a much less pretty, although equally historic city, which, for the purposes of continuing this reference, I will call Mordor.

I have chosen (because, among other reasons, I am a bad friend) to spend the next academic year in, I am told, a very busy but beautiful French city. For now, I will call this The Destination. The decision to spend the third year of my degree abroad was made by a rebellious and unruly 17 year-old, whose knowledge of space, the world and everything was obviously flawless. This same 17 year-old also figured that moving as far away as possible from Mordor, given the slightest sniff of freedom, was an excellent idea. As it happens,18-year-old Larousse ended up in The Shire, which is really quite a short train ride from Mordor (one does not simply walk into Mordor, of course) and really quite enjoyed that fact. Now aged 20 (just), I suddenly have lots of grown-up (and otherwise) worries about packing up and fecking off to The Destination, which just did not compute in my all-knowing, utterly invincible 17 year-old brain. My appalling sense of direction for one. My uncanny ability to accidentally offend for another. And the fact that a mere lick of a peanut makes things quite interesting (and very swollen) very quickly- as I rediscovered last Curry Night. This is all stuff I can just about cope with in Blighty, but throw new places, new people, new experiences and a different language into the equation and suddenly I’ve got a lot more of Real Life to contend with. That or I’ve just got a bit wimpy in my old age.

I’ve become really quite settled in my university bubble. I have good friends, here and nearby. Some I live with (for a few more days at least), like The Wife, The Strange Bean and The Voice. Some are never far away, like Chunk and Columbo. Others I see less often, but do just excellently from the  sidelines, like Porridge and Mutley. And not forgetting my selection of academic/careers advisors/ life gurus (whom I also might refer to, somewhat tentatively, as friends). Here, I’m thinking of The Tweed and The Un-Frenchman. And all of whom had better have downloaded Whatsapp by September so I can continue to bombard them with random thoughts without having to take out a mortgage in the absence of unlimited free texts.

I will properly introduce these (mostly) fine specimens of humanity later, along with some yet to be mentioned, as this is but an introduction.

I felt today was the day to begin documenting my Year Abroad, from start to finish. Today I booked flights. No chickening out now. 2 months, 18 days and counting.