Good Girls go to Heaven, Bad Girls go to Disneyland.

With a slogan like this scrawled across our homemade t-shirts, the Le Havre assistants trip to Disneyland this weekend (aka ‘Big Ladz on Tour’) was always going to be good. So good, in fact, that we are all currently suffering with an ever-worsening condition of ‘post-disney blues’. This is of course not helped by the fact that after two perfect days of blue sky amidst the magic, the weather outside is frightful and Le Havre is currently not so delightful. Bless ‘em though, they’ve tried to cheer up the place with a smattering of lights and a gallant attempt at a Christmas market consisting of about seven rain-sodden wooden huts, but it doesn’t change the fact that two days ago I was surrounded by festive music, waving princesses, and sparkling fake snow which appeared to actually be falling from the sky. So as I sit here clinging to my cuddly Pluto with the parade song on repeat and a tear running down my cheek (I’ll let you decide which part of that is a joke), allow me a few paragraphs of nostalgia to release the memories from my system....

             Disneyland was amazing. Just as good as I remembered it as a child, if not better as there was no restriction on bedtime. For 35 euros a night, we managed to bag ourselves the Hotel Elysée, an extremely luxurious establishment in Val d’Europe (a ‘town’ of sorts built especially for the staff and guests), with a hairdryer, free shuttle bus to the parks, and a king-sized bed all to myself. Bliss. The only downside was the 14 euro breakfast, though even that we pre-empted with value pain-au-chocolats and croissants.

               Highlights of the weekend included the parades, the gorgeously illuminated castle, and all the rollercoasters; a particularly notable moment being when we were evacuated from the Rock n’ Rollercoaster by two engineers after the music stopped and several large industrial working lights came on overhead. After a couple of ‘stay in your seats, and keep rocking’ type announcements, the entire train-full of us were then crocodiled back through the ride itself (the track looked terrifying) and into the staff area to calls of ‘no photos please’ as an eager group of Chinese tourists attempted to document the whole ordeal. When I asked what exactly the problem was (in my best French I’ll have you know), I was simply told in broken English that ‘the trains, they no move’...a logical explanation if ever I heard one. I also greatly enjoyed the Tower of Terror, though like how my Granny only told me afterwards that a boy had recently died on there after having his brain ‘shaken up too much’. I even bought an annual pass, my reasoning being that it’s cheaper than another 2 day 2 parks ticket, plus I will almost definitely be returning at some point before my year abroad is up; I’ve got the adrenaline bug so badly that I was half-expecting the metro home to suddenly drop or twist into a 360 loop as soon as it entered a tunnel.

                In other news, I received my first dinner invitation from a teacher last week, so tonight will be whipping out my best acknowledging smile in the hope that it will cover up what will no doubt become a multitude of conversational errors- I’m still never sure how to progress from calling someone ‘vous’ to ‘tu’ without causing offence somewhere along the line! But armed with a refined nodding ability and a box of mince pies, I’m sure the evening will prove a success.

               Well, it’s the last week of term, which means this is my final blog for a couple of weeks. I really cannot wait for England, family, food, and of course Christmas, but it’s been a fabulous two (and a bit) months, and no doubt I’ll return in January with many more failures and japes. But until then, I’ll leave you with this: never give a class of thirteen year olds an English menu with the starter ‘breaded camembert BITES’ (wordreference it). You will regret it.

Joyeux Noel à tous! J

The Dust of Humanity (or 'It's a Small World After All')

First things first. 'The Dust of Humanity' is what I told my good friend Sarah Cronk I’d call this blog, after last week’s ‘deep and meaningful’ thespian experience. Not much relevance to what I’m planning on writing about, but it sounds good right? And a promise is a promise.

           Now to the real meaty stuff.  Mincemeat, as it happens. My latest attempt to appear down with the kids by proved a spectacular failure this morning when I proudly offered up a tin of Mr Kipling’s finest mince pies at the end of my lesson, brought (again by Sarah Cronk) all the way from Tesco, England, and painstakingly cut into exact quarters so as to avoid disagreements on who had the biggest piece. This was far from my biggest problem. They say food is the way to the heart, however my faith in the truth of this theory was severely shaken when witnessing thirty fifteen year olds running to the bin and spitting ferociously...Merry Christmas guys...

             Despite this minor setback, I’m feeling rather festive. Having just packed for Disneyland Paris, I’m sitting with a hot chocolate bopping along to ‘It’s a Small World’ and trying to contain my excitement for the coming few days. The anticipation reached new levels yesterday when my fellow English assistants and I actually spent an entire evening making customised Disneyland t-shirts, complete with the slogan ‘Good Girls go to Heaven, Bad Girls go to Disneyland’ (I wonder who’s idea that was...) and individual nicknames. And so it is that tomorrow night; J-Dawg, Dino, Asen-tial, Ley-tex and Dove-step (tagline: ‘Call me CinderELLA, not CruELLA’) will be heading off on a magical journey to celebrate the Christmas season in style. If Asena’s ‘I’ll make dreams come true’ slogan doesn’t get us kicked out for inappropriate behaviour, that is.

            Last weekend, I headed to central Paris to visit some Southampton buds; Charlotte Osbourne, Ruth Walker and Sylvia Middup, and we had a fab time checking out the Christmas markets at La Défense and along the Champs-Elysees, spotting some bargain 1 euro chocolate-covered marshmallows as well as some extremely bizarre (but quite cool) gift ideas, such as a kit for making candles out of water, food colouring and cooking oil, an entire stall dedicated to amber-coloured jewellery, and a collection of cuddly toy gingerbread men. Despite missing my train and having to wait three hours for the next one, I had an absolutely lovely weekend. And I got to watch ‘Enchanted’ in bed on Saturday night. Who needs Parisian nightlife with a treat like that! 

J

               Following that theme, a friend of mine recently read the following quote in ‘Be’ magazine: ‘Que faire pour rigoler un samedi soir au Havre? Légalement? Pas grand-chose’. Or in other words, ‘what is there to do that’s fun on Saturday night in Le Havre? Legally? Not a lot’. As my previous blogs have shown, Le Havre is underestimated when it comes to the clubbing scene. Granted, it is a complete ghost town most nights (and days) of the week, but what it comes down to is knowing where to look. I’ll tell you where not to look- ‘Le Club’. Not that I’ve ever been there, but I pass it on the bus almost every day, and each time am notably thankful that my motivation for finding a good night out has not yet reached such dire levels. Not much is given away from the name, but all that needs to be seen are the blacked out windows and loopy white handwriting proclaiming  its dubious status as a ‘club privé’ for one to assess the nature of such an establishment. So ‘privé’, in fact, that I even failed to find a picture on Google Images. Think I’ll stick to faux-Edith Piaf and her belting karaoke.

            Le Havre really does have an appalling reputation. The town is permanently war torn in some way; whether from real war carnage or the not-so-simple construction of a tramway. The weather is consistently terrible, which leaves me to wonder whether the fact there is a beach there is some kind of other-worldly joke. The oldies hack up a phlegmy-sounding ‘bahhhh’ before every single sentence, and the youth are well-known as hoodie-wearing yobs (Kent, anyone?) whose idea of a merry night out is slashing the tyres of all the ‘midnight’ (alias, 22.15) buses or 3am moped drag-racing right outside my window. Rockers. And yet, rather like with an ugly child, I will defend Le Havre to the last. I’ve met some amazing people, the view from the cliffs at Sainte-Addresse is breathtaking when the sun sets, and the concrete giant which is the Hotel de Ville actually looks rather pretty all lit up at night.

Then again, ‘tis the season to be jolly.

All the world's a stage...or at least all of France

Okay, so first things first. French theatre is crazy. Now, I’m no stranger to non-naturalism. In fact, I’ve always thought of myself as a thespian type, often nipping up to the National with my under 25s discount card and booking myself in to the most bizarre production I can find. I’ve seen one man monologues and homo-erotic nudity and people making music by banging kitchen sinks. I’ve seen Helen Mirren ‘consumed with an uncontrollable passion’ for her twenty-something on-stage stepson (Phèdre at the National) and The Good Person of Szechwan tripping out on drugs as the company danced around her wearing creepily-painted smiling sacks over their heads. I’ve even seen Waiting for Godot, a play in which literally NOTHING happens, save a few carrots being thrown around and the odd snap appearance of a luminous little boy-come-angel.

             But nothing prepared me for Thursday’s performance of Insultes au Public at the Volcan, Le Havre, or indeed Friday night’s theatre extravaganza at the Malraux Museum, a production so ‘out there’ that I left without even knowing the name of it. Insultes au Public consisted of five actors, the audience seated on small red leather rotatable cubes actually ON the stage, frequent and unannounced blackouts and a whole lot of poetic verse which followed the format ‘nous (we).....blah blah blah’, ‘vous (you)....blah blah blah’. The language itself was surprisingly easy to follow, however not quite so clear was the exact reason why each audience member was given a radio and headphones upon entry. At various moments during the piece, we were all directed to put on said headphones, the idea being (or so I assumed) to give the feeling that the actors were speaking directly into their ears while fuzzy incongruous music played quietly in the background. 

               At the beginning, we were all required to hand over our coats and bags, which were hung on costume rails at the side of the stage, and as the actors introduced the main point of the production; namely that there was no difference between us and them, they each selected an audience member’s coat which they then wore for the duration as they circled us shouting insults at individuals. It was here that I slightly struggled with understanding due to the various slang words used, though I did pick up a spiteful cry of ‘mouton!’ (sheep)  at one point as well as the word ‘loserrrrrr’ said with a thick French accent, whilst my friend John heard a much more shocking bellow of ‘Nazi whore’. How he knows the French for this I’m still not sure....

              I was under the impression that this would be the extent of France’s  outlandish theatrical offerings, yet Friday’s ‘nameless’ show somehow managed to prove me wrong. I’d love to tell you what it was about, but the truth is to this day I have absolutely no idea. All I know is we, the audience, had to follow a group of actors around a museum as they posed as cleaners, performed a synchronised broom-sweeping dance, created a 3D house out of what looked like ‘Police Line Do Not Cross’ tape and contorted lengths of string into the various complex shapes. At the end, a few audience members were given headphones (clearly the French love to incorporate technology into theatre these days) and called forward to aid with some form of bowing routine, the idea being they could hear the instructions but for everyone else the room remained silent. Myself and one of my friends were among these ‘lucky few’, and, having previously been reassured that it was all ‘très facile’, headed sheepishly to the front. Turning on our radios, we awaited the first command, and as everyone took three steps to the left and raised their right arm in complete unison (a ‘heil Hitler’ pose possibly?), I realised with growing horror that my headphones weren’t working. Typical. However, drawing on all my previous (panto) expertise, I remained professional ‘dahhhhling’, and I’m fairly confident I pulled it off. I even left the building with a free packet of ‘poussières d’art’ in my pocket (literally, ‘arty dust’, i.e dust swept from the museum floor)....Your guess is as good as mine.

                Speaking of headphones, I’ll leave you with my latest technology-related anecdote. In England, people on buses largely ignore each other. Whether plugged into an ipod, calming a screaming child or simply staring out of the window, there is very little interaction. As I've previously noted, usually, the same applies in France. Save the odd bus driver ‘bonjour’ or exchange of sympathetic smile with an old lady, the normal etiquette is to mind one’s own business.

                However, on one evening last week, this was not the case. As I bopped along to Jason Derulo’s It Girl, I felt someone tap my arm. Obviously, it was a sleazy French man, who with what he clearly thought was a flirty smile (but which I interpreted as incredibly creepy), offered me one ear of his own headphones. At first, I played the friendly card, shaking my head with a cordial indifference. But he was insistent, and after several ‘non merci’s, I dubiously accepted the earphone. Although I don’t remember the exact song lyrics, they went along the lines of ‘you’re the one I’ve waited for/now that I’ve found you I know it’s meant to be/stay with me baby’....you know the type; the crooning English love ballad. Unfortunately (or fortunately in my case), we then reached the charmer’s bus stop and he was forced to leave this beautiful slow-motion moment with the girl of his dreams *cough*, and return to bleak reality, but not before he blew me a kiss, clarifying ‘c’est moi et toi ma chèrie’.

 Only in France. 

'Shrek....c'est toi!'

Picture the scene. A 4e (year 9) lesson on Thanksgiving (yes, I know, I’m not American). A youtube video of the 2010 Macy’s annual thanksgiving parade. There is an assortment of floats, marching bands and giant balloons depicting well-known animated characters, leading to a roomful of awe-struck thirteen year olds. All appears to be going well, until an enormous Shrek floats across the screen. What does one student call out? You’ve got it. ‘Ahaha, Matthias, c’est toi c’est toi!’ (Translation: ‘Ahaha, Matthias, it’s you it’s you!) The brief spell of attentiveness is immediately broken. Unruly laughter ensues, as a riled Matthias turns red and begins to holler his defence. ‘NON C’EST PAS MOI C’EST PAS MOI!!!!’ Brilliant.

              It certainly brings a sense of relief knowing some things never change. No matter which side of the pond, it seems kids will be kids, and the facebook group ‘Looking through a textbook and pointing at pictures going ‘that’s you’’ holds relevence for brits and frenchies alike. Sadly, ‘backchat’ is equally universal. However funny a fifteen year old boy asking if he can write ‘wtf’ in his mobile phone texting conversation may be, the humour remains minimal at 8am on a Wednesday morning when the students delight in informing you that they were taught the exact same lesson last year, exercise sheets and all. ‘On l’a déjà fait’ is the fatal phrase no assistant wants to hear, as with these words every chance of concentration instantly evaporates. Definitely the last time I use the British Council website for lesson plan inspiration!

                Still, you learn from your mistakes, and when a class does prove successful there is no greater feeling of achievement. Although I have the rebels who think that drawing around their shoe and presenting it in front of the class as a school uniform ‘idea’ will win them more friends, I also have some darling children who are a joy to teach, constantly asking ‘can I clean the whiteboard?’, ‘can I read please?’ and possibly my favourite as it just sounds so hilariously formal: ‘can I distribute the papers?’ Watching one enthusiastic little girl wave her ‘I Love London’ pencil case at me with a huge smile this morning reassured me of my own suck-up school days: teacher’s pets CAN be cool after all....

             Speaking of which, my own friendships with members of staff are finally beginning to develop. Last week, I went along to a music evening with one of my Dixieland-lovin’ teachers and her husband, who are part of a jazz concerts organisation group in the posh area of Sainte-Addresse. When we reached the village hall and both of them whipped off their coats to reveal matching candyfloss pink t-shirts with ‘Dixie Days’ printed across the back, I began to question my originally keen invitation acceptance. Having been explicitly forewarned that the vast majority of people would ‘have white hair’, I wasn’t expecting much, but a free charcuterie, pudding, cheese and several glasses of Beaujolais later I was tapping my foot with the best of them whilst admiring one man’s enormous shiny tuba (100% not a euphemism). However, ignorant though it may seem, I’m still not utterly convinced that the band played any more than two different songs throughout the entire evening...clearly I’m not cut out to be a Dixie lover.

              The year abroad makes people do strange things; that particular evening being a prime example. You become so desperate for true cultural involvement that you will resort to almost any form of native immersion in order to ‘fit in’. It was with this sense of determination that my fellow English assistants and I keenly offered to put on an ‘English Literature’ evening at a local charity bookshop-come-café towards the end of December. After a chance €2 chocolat chaud and a Twix, we got chatting with the owner; a cheery French lady with an enthusiasm for cultural diversity, et voila. The week before the Christmas holidays, we will be gracing café ‘Les Yeux d’Elsa’ with a range of English, Irish and American poetry and drama readings, along with initial French summaries, which could go one of two ways.

              My French life has suddenly become extremely theatrical, or so it seems. Not only have I volunteered to host this English extravaganza, we also watched two French men perform some improvisational comedy sketches at the same café the other day. Admittedly, I spent the majority of the jokes convulsed with fake laughter in a desperate attempt to feign understanding, yet the occasional genuine chuckle did escape from time to time- it seems a lanky balding man and a pair of strapped on breasts complete with plastic nipples holds cross-cultural comedy value. Tonight however, I’ll be swapping the makeshift café stage for the ‘Volcan’ theatre, (a building which has the appearance of a massive white volcano) for a ‘proper good’ cultural immersion and what promises to be a non-naturalistic, audience-inclusive production called ‘Insultes au Public’ (insults to the public). If the name is anything to go by, I’m going to need my dictionary. 

'Near, far, whereeeeeeeeeeeeeever you are'

I have a question...is the phrase ‘Mary Poppins’ have some form of double meaning amongst the youth of France? Bizarre, granted, but when asked during a standard initial question and answer session: ‘you like errrrr, zee Walt Disney et zee Mary Poppins non?’ I remained utterly clueless when my enthusiastic nod forced the entirety of my troisième (year ten) class into hysterical convulsions. Sadly, all google.fr could offer me was a variety of predictable film reviews and a forum called ‘Egg’ for pregnant women searching bilingual babysitters, neither of which struck me as particularly side-splitting...though admittedly the second one was a bit of a yoke (couldn’t resist).

              It is interesting the hold students have over teachers. One cunning boy today managed to get my supervising member of staff to swear when he caught her off guard and asked for the origins of the word ‘putain’ (which literally means ‘whore’), and I recently spent half an hour in a state of paranoia after two giggling girls requested the English for ‘crotte’, which turned out to mean ‘bogey’....

            As my self-respect steadily decreases, my vocabulary is widening. I no longer stutter or pretend not to have heard when a fellow bus passenger passes comment on the driver’s rudeness or how dogs shouldn’t be allowed on board. Instead, I have developed a new technique; a sympathetic ‘oui c’est vrai’ followed by a swift ipod song change et voila, I may aswell be French. However, I still fail to fully comprehend the bus system in Le Havre, where it is assumed everyone has a monthly pass meaning you are able to hop on and off without any form of ticket buying or checking taking place. Yes, there is the occasional sneakily plain-clothed inspector, but in almost two months (crikey!) I have so far only encountered one such man, meaning effectively I could have ridden the buses free of charge since October 1^st (which, I hasten to add, I have not resorted to yet). My boyfriend Huw came to stay for three nights this weekend, and I am sure he only purchased a maximum of four bus tickets which ended up covering at least ten journeys- wouldn’t get that with Arriva or UniLink that’s for sure.

             Busses aside, we had a brilliant time together. Saturday was spent with the other English assistants in the picturesque coastal village of Etretat, where we braved the steep mountainside stairs and walked along the cliff-tops, followed by an amazing meal in Le Havre centre where I devoured a starter of whelks and main of mussels....no such thing as a seafood overload clearly. Sunday was more relaxed (as it has to be in France as literally EVERYTHING is closed), with a trip to church and a stroll along the beach where we watched the sunset, which was beautiful, if a bit of a romantic cliché! The next day I had classes to teach, but we cooked an epic rump steak and potato wedges in the evening, and after another laid back morning on Tuesday he headed back to Angleterre.

            Since then, it’s been all go. I’ve had my fluency-assessing visit from the research team at Southampton which went well aside from my less than sheepish admission that my number one ‘most contacted person whilst in France’ was in fact still my mum. Yesterday, us assistants discovered a quaint little charity bookshop-come-café which lends itself to various soirées. Now, those of you who know me well will realise just how much I relish being constantly busy, so it will come as no surprise that I offered to write some form of drama piece to put on there, possibly even a traditional English pantomime if I can find a sufficient cast. Tomorrow we have another ‘invigorating’ training day in Rouen, aka a day off school (I feel about seven writing that). Oh yes, and I went to karaoke again, where there were far too many slow and sloppy love ballads for my liking. ‘Titanic’, stairs and outstretched arms- you get the picture. Luckily, we jazzed up the dirge with our second performance of ‘Barbie Girl’. The French really do have such bizarre ideas of what comprises suitable music for karaoke. I’ll leave you with this:

The Beauty of Language, innit.

I don’t shout out ‘bonjour j’habite à Paris’ whenever a Frenchy happens to walk past in England, so it really is a mystery to me why people are so keen on sarcastically proclaiming ‘Oh, hello, I is English’ from all angles almost every time I use my native tongue in a public place. Granted, a larger proportion of them are able to communicate (Note- I use that word incredibly loosely) more effectively in English than us Brits can in French, yet I have never encountered a nation quite so eager to recap their obligatory school-day English lessons.

             There are two types of interruption. The first is a mélange of astonishment and rapture. ‘You are ENGLISH? I never meet English person in Le Havre before!’ followed by a hankering onslaught of ‘what’syournamewheredoyoulivedoyouhaveanypets?’

            The second greeting is considerably less endearing. These are no doubt the ones who frittered away their school days giggling under the desk at a French-English dictionary and scrawling profanities across each other’s arms with chewed Bic biros. Nowadays, they slouch in their Adidas at the back of Le Havre buses wielding Blackberrys and jammin’ to distorted Jason Derulo tunes while they lay in wait for an unsuspecting English tourist who they can plague with their extensive (and admittedly impressive) range of vulgar phrases involving mothers, grandmothers and every familial relation in between.

              That said, it is definitely an achievement when you are able to make ‘what’s your favourite colour’ sound like the most lewd of insults; something which my friends and I experienced when queuing for a club on Saturday night. Yes, Le Havre has nightlife! Shocking though it may seem, we managed to have a considerable night out at an underground club in the centre of town called ‘Del Rio’, which, despite its eight euro drinks proved to be pretty popular with the Frenchies and played more than just Euro pop and electro remixes. Now, I had been forewarned about the dress code of French clubs so as a result had made a conscious effort to tone down my usual bodycon skirt and tights to a bodycon skirt and leggings. I was almost prepared for the amount of girls wearing jeans, however what I had not accounted for were the winter coats. I’m not just talking about a woollier cardigan than usual; I’m referring to those Eskimo style full-length puffy parkas with fur hoods. On top of this, there was no cloakroom. You can imagine the men’s reactions when my American friend took off her jacket revealing a completely backless top. It seems the French still have a lot to learn when it comes to clubbing attire. Still, at least we all got a free ‘shooter’.

                Every week, I have been attending a Tuesday night ‘Languages Café’. It takes place in a local bar, and each table is labelled with a specific country’s flag, the idea being that people turn up, choose a language, and have a bit of a natter. Often, I end up speaking English, but this week I managed to survive a whole three hours on the French table, which proved really useful for learning a bit of practical slang. I’d already picked up ‘quoi de neuf’ (‘what’s new’) from my newly developed obsession with the French O.C (they call it ‘Newport Beach’ for some reason), but now I also know that ‘pre-drinks’ are ‘le before’ and ‘avoir craquer à quelqu’un’ is to have a crush on someone, both of which I’m sure I’ll be able to proudly slip in at some point when I’m trying to be cool in front of my students. However, pride comes before a fall, and Tuesday was no exception. After telling my new French buds all about my exciting English existence, I then proceeded to explain my excitement that my boyfriend was going to visit me at the weekend. French speakers among you may see what’s coming....I forgot to use ‘rendre visite’ and well, let’s just say ‘he will visit me’ has a rather more physical meaning when used in reference to a person rather than a location. What followed was two gruelling hours of franter (French banter....), suggestions of me as some sort of sexual demon, and several middle aged French ladies declaring how utterly ‘mignon’ (cute) I was. Not quite the means of making friends I’d originally planned, though entertaining nonetheless.

‘La bave du crapaud n'atteint pas la blanche colombe !’ (Or in other words, sticks and stones…)

Back to réalité

To my loyal blog followers (all five or so of you): never fret. After a blog-less week in England, I have now returned to the land of astonishingly clean trains, strange sweet cheese yoghurts and amazingly long school holidays ready and waiting with more French adventures to captivate and delight your attentive ears.

             Firstly, it must be said that half term was glorious. It was such a novelty being able to walk down the streets and fully understand every passing conversation that at times I had to consciously rein myself in so as to avoid nodding in rapt agreement at the various musings of complete strangers, thereby proclaiming my Englishness to the world. Saying that, I had something of a shock yesterday in Rouen, (where I visited what has to be the biggest travelling funfair I’ve ever seen; it even had rollercoasters!) when an elderly man at the café table next to me leant over and bantered as only the English can that: ‘you better watch what you say now!’ whilst his wife chuckled cheekily into her chocolat chaud.

            But I digress. Initially, the thought of a five and a half hour ferry crossing from Le Havre to Portsmouth seemed positively nauseating. However, I happened to bump into a couple of familiar faces which made for a much more pleasant journey. That, and the accidental booking of a ‘club class’ seat, which I unwittingly paid an extra five pounds for, thinking (albeit naively) that if I didn’t reserve a place, I would have to spend the entire five hours standing up....not my cleverest moment, and a decision which meant I duly left my friends in the bar for at least an hour in order to ‘get my money’s worth’.  As if that wasn’t segregation enough, I also received a green ‘club class’ sticker, which I wore with pride until I realised that not one of my fellow luxury lounge occupants appeared to share the same sense of belonging, probably having realised the error of their ways long before I did.

             My time in England was spent half catching up with people in Southampton, and half with family in Kent. Over the course of eight days, I managed to fit in three visits to London (one being to the Dr Who Experience which I would massively recommend to any Who-vians out there), an interview for the BBC Breakfast Show (not as grand as it sounds; we were simply stopped in the street), several episodes of Strictly Come Dancing and a roast duck. A rather exhausting list, I’m sure you’ll agree. I even attempted some reading for my ‘dissertation’; the dreaded Year Abroad Research Project, or YARP, to make it sound slightly friendlier.

             And now I’m back, after a speedy Eurostar trip to Paris and a particularly embarrassing moment in the women’s toilets at Gare St Lazare where my cubicle door was opened in front of a ten-strong queue of staring French women. Still, never mind. ‘We all look the same’, as my Auntie would say....

             Moving on, something else which must be mentioned is my pre-half term trip to a French karaoke bar. In England, the concept of a karaoke night is usually associated with cheesy pop songs, wannabe X-factor auditionees who are not quite up to scratch, and hoards of ‘boozed up’ students, office workers and stag parties. In France, it seems this is not the case. For a start, contrary to the misleading (though clearly effective) flyer I had received in the street, this particular bar was largely empty. I would estimate the average age of the punters at around 56, and every single person could actually sing, to the point where one woman actually called herself Edith Piaf. Three rowdy English assistants did not fit in with such an ambiance whatsoever, and so, naturally, we decided to ironically illustrate this with our first song choice: the all-time school disco classic, Aqua’s ‘Barbie Girl’. After the initial surprise, I think the Frenchies enjoyed our rendition; a couple clapped along, and Edith Piaf and her friends then proceeded to cheer ‘allez les anglaises’ whenever we approached the DJ booth for our next performance. In total, we sang four times, following Aqua with Robbie Williams ‘Feel’, Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ and Michael Jackon’s ‘Thriller’, complete with monster hand gestures which my friend filmed for future comedy gold. Needless to say, it was hilarious (but will not be shared on YouTube or Facebook anytime soon).

             So now it is ‘back to réalité’, and my life as an English assistant continues. On the cards for this week is several lessons on Bonfire Night (‘how many times does Katy Perry say the word firework in her song? Answer: six), a trip to nearby village Etretat and Le Havre nightlife: Round 2 where I will once again embark upon the quest to find ‘proper’ French friends. Wish me luck!

'Nicholas Sarkozy is very 'petit' in England?'

Ask any English person and they’d be able to spot a group of francophone tourists from a mile off. The backwards caps, colourful rucksacks only suitable in the U.K for eager year sevens or quirky backpackers, the thick-rimmed glasses....I could go on. But one French trend I have only recently discovered is the undying love of the tracksuit. Now I’ll be the first one to admit that we all love a good pair of ‘Tracky B’s’ from time to time. Perfect for recuperation purposes, all-nighters in the university library, perhaps even a comfy evening in with a film and a Dominoes pizza. But there can be too much of a good thing, something which French schoolchildren have not yet picked up.

             Walking into either of my school playgrounds is like being the odd one out in an Adidas advert. Both boys and girls flaunt a variety of tracksuit styles, often a different brand for each day of the week. And I’m not just talking bottom half. I mean matching jacket, cap, trainers, the works. All that’s missing is several metres of bling and perhaps a stud or two. As a result, I’m half expecting my students to communicate through the medium of rap....perhaps there is a legitimate reason for Britain’s school uniforms after all.

            Whilst I’m on the subject of fashion, NO-ONE wears leggings here. Ever. Considering how nine times out of ten, they’re my garment of choice, I probably could not look more foreign if I stapled Yorkshire puddings to my legs. But I’m hoping this will change, and if I have it my way, by the end of April I’ll have become a style icon in Le Havre, instead of a ‘comedy act’  (as my own mother frequently likes to tell me). C’est la vie.

               I am starting to wonder if I’ll ever achieve the year abroad student’s ultimate dream and be mistaken as a French person, but if the leggings are anything to go by, it currently looks doubtful. When I visited Rouen yesterday for instance, the 50 cent public toilets confused me so much that when I finally escaped after several minutes of fumbling with the lock, the woman on duty immediately headed into my cubicle armed with rubber gloves, bleach and several types of air freshener....Sadly, my French was not good enough to explain the real reason for my prolonged length of time in the toilet, so, flustered and embarrassed, I scuttled off in search of some form of home comfort, which in this case happened to be a nearby New Look store (yes, they have New Look in Rouen! Amazing).

             Fortunately, my first week of teaching has been a lot more successful than the aforementioned incident. My students have largely been very attentive, and seemed to enjoy my powerpoint presentation about England and fact file game about myself, particularly when I challenged them to come up with the most bizarre question they could think of, the goal being I wouldn’t be able to answer. Such an activity was always going to be risky, but I’m glad I took the chance as it prompted some absolute gems, such as ‘did you die and be reborn?’ (no), ‘are you the mother of your boyfriend?’ (no) and, slightly morbidly, ‘when is your death date?’

               Of course, there will always be some words they are unsure of. One such case today was the word ‘famous’. Seeing me floundering in my role as a walking thesaurus, the class teacher thankfully intervened. However, perhaps unwisely, the example she chose to use was ‘it’s like Nicholas Sarkozy is very _____ in England’. Oh dear. As you would expect, there were some incredibly imaginative responses, including my absolute favourite; ‘is very.....petit?’ (small?).

             So all-in-all, my lessons have run fairly smoothly, the only hiccup being on Monday, my first day, when I accidentally made a year seven child cry. Wait. It sounds worse than it is. We were working on a simple dialogue, asking about mobile phone numbers and e-mail addresses, and after several rounds of choral repetition and partner work, I decided to spice it up a bit. I told the children to choose a location within which to base the dialogue, such as in a café, a restaurant, in the park, etc, and gave them ten minutes to turn the conversation into a little roleplay. Of course, as year sevens generally are when confronted with the prospect of performance, they were enthralled by this idea. Two boys chose a Chinese restaurant, complete with hilariously accurate voices and even a little tai-chi style bow to each other at the end- for the record; a French person doing a Chinese accent is pretty impressive.

              However, in the third and final group, I received an altogether different reaction from one boy. Whilst his classmates rejoiced in the thrill of imagination, this child proceeded to burst into tears. And I’m not talking a little sniffle, I’m talking full on water works- runny nose, red face, sobs, everything. Carefully following my Language Assistant Training, I took care not to alienate him, and while the other students began to prepare, I asked Pierre what was wrong. My Sympathetic French not being particularly well-tuned, what I actually said was ‘qu’est-ce que c’est le problème’ (what’s the problem?), but I said it in as soothing and reassuring a voice as possible, and it just about did the trick. Anyway, the ‘problème’ was simply that Pierre did not want to do drama, nothing more. I’d just like to add at this point that I was by no means physically forcing the children to perform (dance monkey, dance!), nor was I suggesting they all go and enrol at RADA. It was merely an idea to try and animate what was otherwise a ridiculously dull dialogue.....but hey, at least Pierre provided me with a moderately amusing story to tell!

                First full teaching week over, on Saturday I will endure a five and a half hour ferry trip back to England for half term, scoff my fill on roast dinners and salt and vinegar crisps and attempt (though no doubt fail) to work on my year abroad project, before returning to La Belle France refreshed, rejuvenated and full of amazing lesson ideas. Oh, and try not to make any more children cry. À la rentrée mes amies!

J'ai un grand jus d'orange dans mon sac.....

............has to be by far the strangest (though miraculously grammatically correct) sentence I’ve said so far this week. It happened during my Colombian flatmate and I’s first expedition to the local hypermarket, a twenty-five minute walk away from my apartment. ‘Pas loin’ (not far), my tutor had previously assured me. Knowing the French’s obscure reluctance to provide any form of carrier bag in their supermarkets, I’d planned ahead, though unfortunately not far enough ahead to anticipate just how much cheese and pain-au-chocolats I would end up purchasing. Hence, wheezing and panting, I arrived back at the apartment almost two hours later. ‘Pas loin’, it seems, does not account for a Quasimodo-style walk, bright red fingers and a grumpy Colombian with absolutely no sense of direction.

           This week has certainly been all about finding my feet. With the exception of several anonymous insect bites and an onslaught of what I like to call ‘Frenchers’ Flu’, it has been a largely successful few days. I just about know my way around both schools, have been made to feel extremely welcome by all staff (their hellos became even warmer when I produced a tin of cakes from my bag), and have even prepared some lessons ready for the commencement of my teaching next week....so keen.

            My lesson observations have consisted of a variety of different subjects, the eventual goal being to give me a true taste of the French schooling system, which, to continue the culinary analogy, I would perhaps compare to a slightly over-matured Saint Agur on the cheeseboard of education; not something I would personally choose, yet once you’ve got used to it, it doesn’t seem quite so bad. That is to say that slowly but surely, I’m getting used to my 7am alarms, despite my envious knowledge that just across the water, the vast majority of my fellow Southampton students (with the exception of the nurses!) are still tucked up at 6am, no doubt dreaming of late night curry or cheesy chips if they’ve recently returned from an ‘epic night out’.

The lessons themselves have been a mixture. In 6e (year 7) music for instance, I felt for all the world like an extra in Les Choristes, and really relished the teacher’s offer for me to come along to the school lunchtime choir and help out with the pronunciation of the trickier words in Dirty Dancing’s Time of my Life. 3e (year 10, the final year of the French collège) however, was a different kettle of fish entirely. Coupled with my awkward fumbling French when I was made to stand at the front of the class and announce who I was and why I was there (believe me, I’d much rather have been in ANY other subject), was the fact that I spent the whole lesson completely and utterly lost. I’d love to blame it on the language barrier, though I fear that in all honesty it was more my total lack of mathematical know-how which proved the more difficult obstacle. I had no chance of helping poor textbook Sandrien and Julien find out the price of one lemonade if five lemonades and two orange juices equalled fourteen euros. That said, I did learn what ‘x squared’ is in French.

           As for the English students, they are a mixed bunch. Questions have ranged from ‘how your favourite colour?’ to ‘do you know Kate Middleton?’ and from one particularly bold lad; ‘do you like Nicholas Sarkozy?’ My tactile (and admittedly true) answer to this last one of ‘je n’ai pas beaucoup d’avis politiques’ seemed to satisfy both pupils and teacher, who, incidentally, then gave me a sneaky thumbs-up when the children weren’t looking.

           I’ve also had many a meal in the school canteens, and one thing is immediately clear; the French definitely don’t need Jamie Oliver. Both of my schools serve three course meals every day, including a cheese and biscuit course, and enough baguettes to fill the arms of at least fifty French men. Certainly a far cry from turkey twizzlers and powdered chocolate custard. Last Friday for instance, I turned up wondering what would be the French replacement for traditional English fish and chips. Their equivalent consisted of vegetable quiche, ‘lapin à la moutarde’ (rabbit with a mustard sauce), crème brûlée and finally brie, grapes and biscuits; all of which I devoured with vigour, much to the amazement of an elderly maths teacher, who told me later that I was the first English person he’d ever come across who would eat rabbit. In case you wondered, I’d now like to report in a standard English manner that yes, yes it did taste like chicken. While I’m on the subject of food, I found (and sampled) a ten euro all you can eat Chinese buffet in Le Havre today. And as a little aside from my ravings of France’s culinary genius, it was not as good as England.

           So, the plan from now on? Tomorrow I have another training day in Rouen, and then next week will be let loose in the classroom, armed so far with a ‘find someone who....’ icebreaker game and my entire country summed up in a five-slide Powerpoint presentation. Given that in one of my classes, only around seven out of twenty children raised their hands when I jokingly enquired ‘levez la main if you like English’, I think I’m going to have my work cut out. 

Cars, keyboards and milk....my first week in Le Havre

 A week of being in la Belle France, and I’ve already managed to sum up in three succinct words exactly where it is the French repeatedly go wrong. Firstly, driving on the right is unnatural, not to mention confusing, and as a result every time I cross a road I automatically place myself into situations of mild peril. My mum’s answer? ‘Well I shouldn’t turn left out of here, but I’m going to do it anyway’. A plausible, if somewhat dangerous solution, which, after following this maternal wisdom, has so far led to two ‘accidentally’ free bus journeys and several plees of ‘je ne comprends pas, je suis anglaise’...Always a classic line if in doubt, and one which the teachers at my schools absolutely loved when used it with reference to a lonely Martinique man at the bus stop offering me his number so that I could go back to his flat and ‘manger un peu de gateau’. Still wondering whether that was a euphemism.

Secondly, computer keyboards. What is the logic in having to press shift for numbers; some of the most commonly used keys, when the pointless symbols such as ^ (which I can only assume is some form of French beret emoticon) are readily available! I was actually laughed at in the library when trying to type an answer to a facebook message as it definitely appeared as though I’d never seen a computer before.  And milk? Well, that needs no explanation. Yes, UHT is long life. But frankly I think I’d rather take my chances with a day out of date pint of Asda semi-skimmed. 

       Aside from that, my first week in Le Havre has, all-in-all, been good. Of course, there have been ups and downs, a particular down being the faces of my eleven year old boy students when I announced during a class interview session that I didn’t play video games or have a pet snake in my house. The assistant training on Monday in Rouen proved semi-useful, although the staff insisted on welcoming us in all fifteen languages. The atmosphere created was thus not unlike a Eurovision song contest; with less dodgy jokes and sequins yet equally long-winded. One thing which struck me was the (very French) attention to detail. Each and every nationality representative who spoke at the front of the lecture theatre had their own cardboard desk label, which resulted in fifteen lots of faffing around to find and construct the appropriate name, something which to my mind was both incredibly farcical and largely pointless as only the front few rows had the privilege of even attempting to read said labels. This, coupled with a ridiculously friendly Mexican on my left (who could described to some of you as a Mexican Chris Harper- no offence Chris ;)) consistently trying to exchange looks of camaraderie did not do an awful lot to make my morning enjoyable. However, the afternoon was a lot more useful, and the free lunch and opportunity to actually find some friends made for a largely worthwhile day out.

          My schools are very different in terms of area and capability of the students, yet both are full of lovely, welcoming staff, who are thankfully patient with my often slow-moving French and frequent errors. I’ve had lunch with them in the canteens, and even managed to hold conversations for more than five minutes, something which I never thought I was capable of (in a foreign language anyway). Their encouragement that I ‘parle très bien’ has boosted my confidence no end, meaning I am no longer scared of making mistakes, definite progress I think. I was worried my personality wouldn’t show through in a foreign language, but my tutor Céline has already started to form the French equivalent of ‘banter’ (le banterrrrrr possibly?!) with me regarding the amount of time I spend on the phone and internet and how often I’m out when she rings me, so probably nothing to concern myself with on that front. For the next two weeks, I will simply be observing lessons, learning how the system works before I then begin teaching the little darlings what it means to Be Oh So British, Yah, which currently for them seems to be the odd ‘allo’ in the corridor and an intense love of Britain’s Got Talent. Sounds about right.

If tomorrow never comes....

....But it will. Tomorrow is when it all begins. The elusive ‘year abroad’, that seemingly mythical third year which almost every language student assumes will never actually arrive when they first embark upon their degree. Yet tomorrow at 7am, I will have left my Kentish roots for seven months In Le Havre; where I will no doubt be greeted with an endless supply of pharmacies, many fruitless Hypermarket searches for salt and vinegar crisps and countless attempts to become best buds with ‘Real French People’.

So far, my family’s insistence that I ‘travel lighter than usual’ has resulted in two car loads booked onto the 07.50 Eurotunnel, five relatives and a shoe rack. Personally, I thought I’d done well, and it still remains beyond me how fellow students have managed to travel across the globe with only a couple of cases and a rucksack...I mean, how will I cope without my giant M&S teddy bear every night? What if my furnished flat doesn’t have any mugs or a Tesco mug holder? And how can I possibly clean the place up without the loan of my uncle’s mum’s special hoover? So you see, I’m only taking the essentials.

Having not spoken French since my brief visit to Le Havre in August (see previous blog entry), when it comes to my linguistic capability, I am more than a little concerned. However, I’ve been assured that I’ll soon get used to French life, and nodding along intellectually without a clue what’s going on will become second nature, although when teaching my 11-15 year olds I’m pretty certain they’re soon going to cotton on to this originally flawless system of conversation. All I can hope is that they’ll be kind to me, so that I can hopefully avoid agreeing enthusiastically to the fact that I smell, or something along those lines. Maybe they’ll teach me some ‘super-cool’ slang which will help me make friends instead....let’s hope so.

On Monday, there is a training day in Rouen for all English assistants, which I’m really hoping will be useful, or at least more useful than my second year TEFL module (Teaching English as a Foreign Language, for the non-abbreviation savvy of you). Although I was thoroughly enriched by the entirely futile observation that in order to improve our language skills, my peers and I needed to speak up more in oral classes, this is an altogether different situation. No longer will I simply be picking holes in the current language teaching methods; I will actually be the one implementing them. I have not yet been told my exact duties, but I know it is my role to bring authenticity and vigour to the English language, enhancing the learning experience with a variety of exciting and engaging activities.

....Or in the words of one wise friend; ‘just knock up some flash cards and blag it’.

 See you on the other side!

Preparation, preparation, preparation.

Wednesday 31^st August. A month (and a day) until I move to Le Havre, France (admittedly not Rouen itself, but I couldn’t resist the pun, courtesy of the ingenious Charlotte Campbell). As part of my university course, I’ll be spending 7 months there, attempting to teach English by cajoling a bunch of unsuspecting French teenagers into copious amounts of over the top role-play  and renditions of ‘Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes’.

          When I first decided to start a blog in order to document my time abroad, I was met with a variety of responses. Most were predictable; the candid encouragement from my parents, the ‘oh-great-but-I-bet-you-won’t-actually –do-it’ smiles from acquaintances, the miscellaneous comments about boosting up my CV. But from one particular friend (who shall remain anonymous), I received the following gem of camaraderie: ‘You’re not gonna start one of those gay blogs when you go abroad are you?’ Followed by the equally supportive: ‘I KNEW you would’ when I assented that yes, yes I did intend on becoming one of ‘those’ people.

           Scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, it is amazing to see just how many of my peers have jumped on the blogging bandwagon. I hasten to add that I have not started mine because it is the ‘done thing’, nor to discover my ‘inner emotional self’, neither indeed as an outlet to experiment with just how pretentiously one person can write, as some people seem to do. This blog is primarily for entertainment purposes; for those who wish to be updated on my inevitably hilarious (/mortifying) French frolics in an upbeat and light-hearted manner.

          Those who know me (and indeed anyone who has moved abroad!) will understand just how terrifying the prospect of life in a foreign country is. In fact, with only a month to go, I’m only just pushing myself out of the denial stage; a phase which incidentally I’m told is completely natural and expected. So far, in my career as a French student at university, I’ve managed to become French Society president and organise a social to Brussels, only to then win the trip award for ‘Worst French’ after my gloriously embarrassing utterances of ‘où est l’hostal’ (‘hostal’, to all you non-francophonies, is by no means a French word and what’s known as ‘franglais’) and ‘est-ce-que je peux avoir some ketchup’, which lead to a bemused Belgian taxi driver whipping out his phrase book and a considerably diminished reputation amongst the society members.

However, when l visited Le Havre with my family last week for a pre-year abroad look around, things seemed to be looking up. I’m by the coast, my two schools are only a 20 minute walk apart, and the worst phrase I came up with was ‘j’ai oublié le fromage’. Admittedly, this remark was slightly out of context when I announced it to a vacant French waitress when she brought a platter of cheese over to our table....but at least grammatically it couldn’t have been sounder! Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

‘Gay blog’ entry number one: Complete.