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.