The End of the Road (to Rouen)

Newsflash folks: ELLA IS BACK IN THE COUNTRY! After a horrendous car journey to Calais through torrential rain (apparently France was crying at my departure) and a typical Dove family mad dash for the Eurotunnel, here I am safe and sound, back in the Garden of England. Giant French dictionary, cuddly toys, shoe rack, the lot. In fact, I’m sitting exactly where I sat 7 months ago (7 MONTHS?!)  when I first decided to start a ‘gay’ year abroad blog (see entry 1).

                            How time has flown. I don’t have to tell you whether I’ve enjoyed my time in France or not, as I think spending almost 60 euros in the Le Havre tourist office the other day says it all. My entire family are now kitted out with postcards, pens and mugs with genius slogans. ‘100% Havrais’, ‘HAVRE nice day/night/week’, ‘I HAVRE dream’...sheer brilliance. I’ve always been a sucker for a bit of wordplay. I even bought an ‘I Love Le Havre’ t-shirt, something I never thought I’d own when I first set eyes upon the monstrous Hotel de Ville (Google it). But as one friend recently commented, despite its greyness and excessive usage of concrete, Le Havre DOES have charm. The food is good (with the exception of the dyed-black Darth Vador burgers in Quick), the people are lovely, and it does have everything you need shop and entertainment-wise. I’ve joined exercise classes, I swim, I go to languages café every week. My friends and I even have a ‘regular’ salon de thé (aka café) which serves THE best hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted, and the crepes and maxi-banana splits aren’t half bad either! Incidentally, quick shout out here to my fellow Le Havre English assistant ladzz, who I’m going to miss an awful lot, but I know we’ll all stay in touch and maybe it will even lead to some American/Australian holidays in future! (hint hint...) I’ve even managed to make a few French friends (teachers included!), although admittedly not many are my own age....Still, you win some you lose some, and I know I’d be welcomed back to many of their houses with open arms should I ever fancy popping over on the ferry for a weekend in the big LH.

                         As far as travelling is concerned, I’ve also done pretty well. As well as touring all around Haute-Normandie, I’ve visited Rouen, Caen (where we also went to Bayeux and Omaha Beach), Paris, Disneyland (twice!), Lille, Reims, Versailles, and most recently, Nice and Monaco, both of which were absolutely gorgeous and made me realise just how much of a wuss I was only choosing places in the North so as to be ‘closer to home’. During all of these trips (with the possible exception of Disneyland), I’ve attempted to speak French at least a little. Gone are the days of ‘est-ce que je peux avoir SOME ketchup’ and ‘où est l’HOSTAL PLEASE?’, although of course there are still occasional slips (dinner party incidents spring to mind...see previous entries). However, I’ve managed to laugh off the majority of these faux-pas, and I’ve had a significant amount of Facebook friend requests from my students, though this is probably due to the fact that I bought them sweets as a goodbye present. Unfortunately though, this didn’t work with one class who actually CHEERED when I told them it was our last lesson and then proceeded to complain that the lollies were ‘too small’ before grabbing about five each and running away whooping. Brats.

                        Élèves from hell aside, I really was quite sad to leave the large majority of my classes, though I was pleased to see that since my departure, two eager beavers have written heartfelt (aka suck-up) messages of thanks and appreciation on my wall IN ENGLISH! Definitely not the type of thing I did at school.... *cough cough*. Naturally, I replied to each in a suitably formal teacher-style fashion. I believe I even told one of them to ‘keep working hard with English’. Too cool.

                So. What exactly have I learnt from this experience? Well, here’s a list of my top ten discoveries:

1)      Tracksuits by day, parkas by night: the dress-code of a French teen.

2)      Speculoos (basically Nutella except it tastes of crushed biscuits) is the most amazing thing on the planet. And it seemingly only exists in the North. Crazy.

3)      Colombians like carbs. My flatmate thought plain pasta with plain rice constituted a proper meal...how wrong she was.

4)      Fifteen year old boys DO like Taylor Swift. Even if they pretend not to, the truth will be revealed the minute ‘Love Story’ is played during a Valentine’s Day lesson.

5)      If you speak English on the bus you either look like or attract a weirdo.

6)      French food is the best.

7)      French milk is the worst.

8)      The English lunchtime should be made longer. 4 course meals are definitely the way forward.

9)      The Channel is too cold for swimming in early April.

10)   The SNCF station announcement noise makes everything better. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bobmqeNirU).

               Oh, and one final thing? After a surprising amount of positive feedback, I’ve come to the conclusion that year abroad blogs (or mine at least...) are not ‘gay’ after all. Thank you to my lovely readers for sticking with me; it’s been faaabulous daaaahlings, and with a little bit of luck, I’ve even managed to entertain you!

The Road to Rouen: Complete. 

Versailles, Einaudi and Englishness: my plee to be bourgeosie....

Typical French saying #346: ‘Ah, it eez because of zee change in zee wezzzzerrrrr’ (weather, for those of you not au-fait with this advanced French pronunciation). No-where else would you hear such a ridiculously nonsensical statement. A stifled cough and you’re an immediate victim of this imaginary temperature alteration syndrome. A yawn and you must be tired because it rained yesterday and today it’s sunny.  God forbid you develop a cold, as I learnt last week the somewhat hard way. ‘Oh yes, Ella ‘as lost ‘er voice today...it must be because of zee wezzzzerrrr’. What utter nonsense. For a start, I’m English. One of those hardy creatures who persists in wearing t-shirts in February (shocker) instead of the thick winter woollies sported by a large proportion of French population. Sometimes, I even go out to a nightclub not just without a full-length parka, but often without a jacket of ANY description! Talk about crazy rosbifs.

                 However, having now recovered from my illness, the French finale fun (lovin’ the alliteration) continues. Highlights this week include hearing a weird French cover of Leona Lewis’ ‘Bleeding Love’ during my weekly Carrefour shop, watching a group of excitable teens (and a couple of teachers!) try on my Primark bunny onesie during today’s English Club before labelling me as ‘trop cool’ (which, of course, I am), and a few more daytrips, which I will now proceed to tell you about.

               Well, last weekend was pretty packed. On Saturday, I went to a prof’s (‘cool’ onesie-wearing English slang for professeurs, aka teachers) house for lunch with her and her two sons, which was lovely, apart from the eldest’s deliberate attempts to test my language level by using what was probably the largest amount of slang I’ve ever encountered. Most of the time, my nods and nervous giggles seemed to suffice, and I thoroughly enjoyed the display of a 23 year old man being disciplined by his mum for talking ‘trop vite’ with Ella. Unfortunately, he noticed my wry smile, and got me back later on during discussions about basketball players, most specifically the name ‘John Cox’. ‘Cock’ is an English word, no Ella? Can you explain what it means? I do not know....’ As you can imagine, I was mortified. Bien joué lad, bien joué (yes, that does mean ‘well played’, for those of you poised over Google Translate). Suffice to say, I didn’t oblige, simply telling his curious mother that it was in fact ‘quite rude’ and thus earning him another telling off. Ella: 1, Frenchy: 0.

                Sunday involved a trip to the Versailles Palace with the Le Havre assistants gang, which aside from being absolutely freezing (even for an English girl WITH a coat), was a fab place to visit. As under 26’s who’d been residing in France for at least 6 months, we also managed to wangle free entry and a free audio guide, both of which were added bonuses to the day. We even ate lunch in the Chateau gardens (Oh So Posh), and it was all going well until I stood up and pushed my chair back, knocking over an entire metal stand and (thankfully plastic) plant pot. It caused an incredible clang, not to mention several dirty looks from fellow customers and soil and miscellaneous flowers strewn all across the path. My second embarrassment of the weekend, and naturally, I did what any sensible wannabe high-class English girl would do....I ran.

         

                  After braving the cold to stroll around the beautiful gardens some more (and avoiding conviction in my case), we headed into Paris for the evening’s planned entertainment: tickets for a Ludovico Einaudi concert. For those of you who don’t know who he is, firstly, you’re not as cultured as me. Secondly, he’s the one of the most amazing pianists I’ve ever encountered. He wrote the music for the recent popular French film ‘Les Intouchables’, has been played on Radio 1 quite a bit, and there’s a link to his most well-known piece à la fin of this post, should you wish to up your classic music knowledge and be worthy of my upper-class friendship (ps, excuse the hippo). The concert itself was breathtaking, and there was a real hushed and reverent ambience in the auditorium during every piece, no thanks to the ‘warm-up’ act, which was hilariously awful. Picture this: a seemingly-mute man with his guitar, an irritating singer woman with a clear crush on 60-something Einaudi, and an incredibly loose grasp of the English language. Songs included ‘je suis dans no-man’s land’, and ‘Cabinet of Curiosities’- my personal favourite as it was effectively a list of household appliances put to warbling music which went something like this: ‘computer, digital camera, fridge, television....’ and so on. Someone clearly had the Oxford English dictionary for breakfast....and lunch, and dinner.

                    Tomorrow night, a group of teachers are hosting a ‘surprise’ party for me, made distinctly less of a surprise today when one asked me what time we were going to the restaurant (bless...), and then at the weekend I will be heading to Nice to visit a Southampton friend (hey Kasia :p), so as you can see, my life remains as busy as ever here in Le ‘aaaaavre. It must be said though (or rather, shouted from the rooftops) that this week is my last week of teaching, which will be celebrated this evening (after zumba) with a group of friends and a bottle of Madame Pommery Champagne, bought in Reims for this very purpose (told you I was posh). I’ve already said goodbye to a few of my classes, and received lots of cards with brilliantly ego-inflating messages, such as ‘English is better with you’, ‘your lessons are cool’ and the what I believe to be the truest and most relevant statement (‘from the mouths of babes’ as some may say): ‘you are very funny’. 

Finally, recognition.

Rabbiting on about an egg-citing Easter

Don’t worry; omlette-ing you groan at these puns....Tim Vine (and Uncle Tom-hello!) would be proud. So. It’s Friday. This is new. I usually write my blogs on Thursdays and I feel all out of synch right now...but you know what? It’s okay, because I have a handful of Lindt teddies and a wind-up bunny on my desk. All a girl needs for journalistic success.

            On the subject of chocolate, we may as well start with Easter. First of all, Lent is finally over, which means back to the Nutella and banana crepes at our favourite local café, and no more misleading orders of a coffee ice-cream sundae only to be presented with what can more accurately be described as mocha with extra chocolate chips and sauce (I ate it anyway...accidents happen). It also means I am again allowed excessive amounts of mayonnaise with almost every meal, and can technically continue my previous habit of scoffing a Camembert a week. However, this last realisation is one I’m aiming to avoid as much as possible, especially after the unheard of family remarks that I’d lost weight ‘around my face’ during a recent Skype conversation. My insistence that my face is round and not chubby clearly never washed with Mumma Dove, nor in fact my primary school classmates after an unfortunate incident involving the creation of Roman armour-style face masks. You try living down being the only one out of thirty who’s face mould comes out as more of a podgy orange than pointy lemon-shape....I’ve had a fear of modroc ever since!

                        Weight loss or not, I spent Easter weekend in much the usual fashion as I would in England. A trip to church, a yummy Easter brunch, a lot of private parading in my rabbit onesie pretending to be the Easter bunny (originally I had thought this would be cool to do in front of my students, especially the little ones; but in retrospect...it’s not. And I didn’t). We even had an egg hunt on the Sunday, although lack of space in her apartment meant our hostess had to be extremely imaginative, hiding chocolates behind curtains, inside hung-up coats and inside lampshades. Impressively though, she managed to disguise the whereabouts of around 22 eggs, and it was more of a challenge than expected!

                              However, I must now go back to the morning’s church service. After a couple of previous bad experiences of French churches (including the time when as a ‘new person’ I was forced to stand up and awkwardly announce my name and ‘je suis anglaise’ in front of EVERYONE while the vicar proclaimed ‘welcome sisterrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr’), I must admit I was apprehensive. Following said occasion, I was expecting a similar greeting, a similar length service (2 and a half hours...don’t even go there), or at least some form of embarrassment. Luckily for me, it was a collective rather than solo ‘cringe’, as the organist appeared to have never taken a piano lesson in her life, resulting in a lot of confusion at almost every hymn, not to mention an entire congregation’s worth of tuneless warbling. At one point, she even told the vicar ‘I can’t play that one’, forcing an immediate (and literal) change of tune, which definitely kept us all on our toes. As if that wasn’t enough, to take communion everyone formed a huge circle around the room reminiscent of a giant okey-cokey game (I wish), and we had to pass around a plate of brioche and a tray of what can only be described as grape juice-filled shot glasses. Unfortunately, halfway through there was an almighty crash....and yes, you guessed it, an old lady had dropped an entire platter. Grape juice, mops and awkwardly-maintained reverence EVERYWHERE. An Easter to remember.

                            One question I do have though: the French don’t have Good Friday off...why? As a predominantly Catholic country (if you ignore all this secular school business), this really surprised me, particularly as they’re usually all up for any reason for a day off. But why Monday rather than Friday...what happened then?! Of course, there was the crucifixion, and resurrection, but after that? As I recently (and of course as sensibly as usual) suggested to my friends, maybe it was just a day for clearing up the party....but in all seriousness, any light people could shed on this would be really useful! Anyway, due to this bank holiday Monday plus one of my schools organising a trip to Ireland (I wasn’t invited...), I’ve had large proportion of the week off. I’ve definitely ‘profited bien’, with a lovely trip to Giverny to visit Monet’s house and gardens, a slightly less cultural but equally amazing excursion to Disneyland (just as magical as ever in case you were wondering), and the long-awaited Assistants au Havre ‘Soirée Anglaise’ production! Despite having never run-through it before, the evening was a great success, and involved a huge variety of performances, from Shakespeare to singing to clarinet to hula-hooping. In a shameless act of self-promotion, we even performed one of my own pieces. There were several laughs which I’m hoping were of enjoyment rather than pity.....and two of my teachers turned up, something which although daunting did make me really happy- it was lovely to feel so supported.

                             As you can imagine, all this activity has taken its toll, and I am currently extremely fatiguée. Therefore, instead of go on a date with a short Frenchman (he literally comes up to my waist...Tina Wilkinson here is your shout-out as I'm sure you lol'd at this) and avoid copious Miranda Hart-style forward knee bends to hide my own height, I’ve decided to ditch free food and awkward company with a man I’m highly unlikely to ever see again (though if it was the yoga instructor, that would be a wholeeee different story) in favour of soup, chocolate and countless New Girl episodes. In fact, I just heard the microwave ping. Laters.

The Show Must Go On (and other news)

You may have heard tell of the ‘Soirée Anglaise’  which will be taking place in a little Le Havre café next Thursday (19h30 should you bizarrely happen to be around my neck of the French woods). A cultural (we hope) evening celebrating the diversity of the English language, with English, Irish and American input, featuring various drama, poetry, music and at one point hula-hooping performances from all us English assistants ici. Allow me to explain.

              At the beginning of my year abroad, a group of us stumbled upon ‘Les Yeux d’Elsa’, a charity bookshop-come-ethnic-café which, as an English student, instantly fascinated me. Sipping my 2 euro hot chocolate amongst antique French Bibles and dusty Beatles cassettes and flicking through that month’s ‘what’s on’ programme, it dawned on me. Why not host our own soirée? After a one-year string of incessant bad luck auditioning for university productions, I know I’ll never be Kiera Knightley (arguably a good thing...not sure I could pull off the corsets), but my inner thespian itched for another performance opportunity, and well...when in France! Anyway, several pleas and a cajoling facebook group later, we’d signed up, and our English extravaganza is now awaited ‘avec impatience’ from many an eager Frenchy (aka the overjoyed café owner desperate to fill up her programme and a couple of dears from my Tuesday night Languages Cafe).  We even have flyers.

                Now, this all sounds good and dandy, except for one slight problem. Preparation. So far, our rehearsals (all three of them) have consisted of chatter, panic, and a lot of food, be it pizza, fajitas, or crepes. However, we have had the odd brainwave between mouthfuls, meaning somehow a mish-mash show has been slotted together. Acts include a take on Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’, various American poems, and even some of my own work! I’m hoping we’ll be able to pull it out of the bag, so watch this space. As they say, it’ll be alright on the night!

             Of course, all this planning means a lot of paper, which in turn involves endless trips to the Bibliothèque Municipale for use of my daily 5 page printing allowance. It has recently come to my attention just how fruitful a location this local library is for blog material, most notably last week when I spotted a woman bawling her eyes out at the computer workstation opposite me. Now I know what you’re thinking.... ‘Crying....not the greatest form of comedy Ella...’, but we’re not talking normal ‘I’m-crying-in-a-library-so-must-be-subtle’ style behaviour. Oh no. This lady was really taking measures to ensure everyone was aware of her distress, from intakes of breath so loud and sharp they were reminiscent of a near-drowning dog, to over-exaggerated wails which quite frankly were almost ghoulish! Many a comradely glance was shared between those around me, yet a couple of kindly attempts to pacify said woman only resulted in worsening the situation and the emission of a fire-alarm pitched yelp. However, the most common reaction seemed to be a simple feigned deafness (incredibly difficult given the ever-rising sob volume), yet even I couldn’t help but smile when I witnessed the next move...namely the removal and steady munching and crackling of a packet of peanuts from her handbag. Clearly the best way to deal with overwhelming grief in France is by whipping out a hearty snack, perhaps something I should bear in mind. Next time a class gets that little bit too much for me....out with the Pringles. Sorted.

                        Speaking of food, my current health kick continues. I am now taking exercise classes up to three times a week, and salad is my new best friend (albeit with oodles of Caesar dressing). The most recent addition to my regime is BodyBalance, or as most of us like to call it...yoga. Unfortunately, I took the regrettable decision of a morning session, meaning I was one of just seven people; the other six all well within the over 60 age-bracket, despite their slinky tops and (too) tight leggings. Whilst I was left pondering whether lycra and retirement are a socially acceptable combination, the coach walked in, and well...attractive does not even cover it. I’m not often one for schoolgirl crushes, and in fact haven’t been since the photo of Gareth Gates in my school locker aged eleven (in an inflatable heart-shaped photo frame may I add), but in the words of ‘Mean Girls’, ‘this one hit me like a big yellow school bus’. I’m not sure if it was the fact he teaches yoga (sensitive side), his drawling French voice reminding me to ‘inspirerrrrrr’ or sheer good looks, but it’s safe to say my fellow assistants and I are smitten. So here’s hoping he doesn’t speak English and/or come across this declaration (although just in case- marry me...?)

                              Moving on before I start to swoon.....I even went for a run along the beach on Sunday! As the girl who only went running twice in two years with her housemate and complained the whole way each time, I feel this is immense progress for me, and despite my dodgy hip flaring up after BodyBalance (oh the irony) I managed a pretty decent distance. So decent, in fact, that my friend and I decided to reward ourselves with a cooling and celebratory dip in the sea to finish off. In my last blog, you will have noticed my insistence I swim (in) the Channel before leaving Le Havre, however the deed itself lasted no longer than five minutes and involved me and my sports bra, a stunned crowd, a lot of numbness, and a very wet seat on the bus ride home. Still, it’s ticked off the list, but I think I’ll wait for the French Riviera before my next dip!

                             In other (completely unrelated) news, I’d forgotten how funny this sketch is (Thanks again Leyla!!). Enjoy. 

Reims...say the first syllable of 'rancid' and you're pretty much there.

So apparently, a bunch of French profs in the staff room don’t understand when a bold English lass (hello) decides to explain her weekend plan of a trip to ‘Reeeeeeeeeeeems’ (and it has nothing to do with TOWIE, fyi). Last week, after copious blank faces and repetition, it was finally established that the place of which I attempted to speak is in fact pronounced more like ‘Ranz’, something which to me is more reminiscent of a phelgmy cough than a beautiful city in the famous Champagne region of France. Why the Frenchies insist upon such grotesque-sounding names is beyond me, with other examples including Grenoble (‘Grrrruhhhhhhnoble’) and the hilarious town of ‘Kodo’ which is in actual fact spelt ‘Condom’, I kid you not.

              Dubious pronunciation aside, Reims is a lovely place, and the first time I’ve properly felt that holiday feeling whilst on my year abroad. It is surprisingly easy to get to as well; only 48 minutes from Paris on the TGV from Gare de l’Est. The one drawback of this is the treacherous walk between stations from Gare du Nord, which I’m sure you’ve already gathered is perhaps my least favourite area in the whole of France. Last weekend for instance, we witnessed someone get hit by a taxi (albeit at around 5mph...his body still moved from the impact), a full-on fist fight (standard), and the red neon sign of ‘Hotel Kuntz’, which I can only hope is the surname of a German family. However, somehow, we arrived in Reims in one piece, and the rest of the weekend passed without incident, unless of course you count the tram-obsessed weirdo who kept gesturing the exact time the doors would open at each stop and for how long....To be fair though, there is a strong possibility that would’ve been me in Le Havre if the tram had already been built, as this weekend did make me realise just how ridiculously happy every ride made me....TRAMS ARE JUST TOO COOL!

                  Moving on before I start to have excitement-induced spasms....We certainly ‘profited bien’, and crammed an insane amount of touristy activities into one weekend. Reims cathedral was truly spectacular; big enough inside to fit a rugby pitch, and definitely rivalling Notre Dame in Paris in terms of grandeur and magnificence. The ancient artefacts displayed next door in the Palais de Tau provided us with a further splash of culture, although admittedly we did get a little side-tracked by the feel and describe 3D tapestry models which were there to mark some form of disability awareness day. Of course (according to a Telegraph article my Granny posted me), no trip to Reims would be complete without a champagne tour, so a large proportion of Saturday afternoon was spent trawling the streets in search of a particular cellar which had been highly recommended by my wine-lovin’ Uncle. Sadly, all we managed to find instead was a suspiciously new-looking apartment block, and a somewhat embarrassing Q&A session with the receptionist woman in a different cellar led us to discover that what had apparently been ‘the best introduction to a champagne tour’ had in fact been demolished five years ago in favour of pillared modern housing. However, trying to ignore the awkwardness, we swallowed our pride and instead bought tickets for her champagne cellar...Champagne Pommery, in case anyone out there is wine-buff enough to be interested (Andy). Besides, 12 euros for a half an hour tour plus a free glass of champers (‘Brut Royale’) ain’t ‘alf a bad deal, especially seeing as Verve Cliquot next door were charging 39 euros, although perhaps the price is automatically put up for a man wearing a Mario t-shirt (as one of our group was) instead of cords and a cardigan draped around the shoulders.

          The ‘caves’ themselves were far more interesting than I anticipated. Every country which exports Pommery Champagne had its own cavern, and there were bottles there dating back as far as 1929. Despite the tour being led in French by a man who openly admitted he was only going to give us ‘the basic facts and nothing more’ and who became visibly irritated at the over-talkative guide in front of him who clearly didn’t share this philosophy, I did pick up a few facts. Did you know, for instance, that every five seconds, somewhere in the world a bottle of Pommery is opened? Crazy. And ‘Pommery’ comes from ‘Madame Pommery’, a lady who, originally named ‘Madame Banane’, changed her name in admiration for her favourite fruit? (pomme=apple). Okay, so that second one was made up, but when you’re the only three English people in a cellar full of incessantly nodding Frenchies, whatcha gonna do....gotta stay amused somehow.

                  Swapping the champers for ‘sex on the beach’ (cocktails), our evening was spent in a slightly less cultural manner. After a dinner of undoubtedly the best moules I’ve ever tasted, we strolled along the main restaurant strip, soaking up the atmosphere and relishing not just the fact that people were eating outside, but also the very presence OF people, as the emptiness of Le Havre after around 7pm often makes me feel as if there is a town curfew. By sheer pot luck (climbing into a taxi and asking the driver to take us to the best place there was), we also found an incredibly cool nightclub. Smoke, lasers, strobe lighting and even a giant bubble cannon all provided us with a fab night out. Fab, that is, once we’d managed to establish to a large group of Frenchies giving us odd looks in the queue that YES, we were English, YES, we did use a different language to them, and YES, we could also speak French, so they better watch it alrighttttttt? (Okay, so that last bit was more thought than speech).

                   All in all, an amazing weekend was had, and not one of us wanted to return to the real world of roadworks and stroppy children. But here we are, and there is still so much I want to do before I leave. I haven’t even been in the sea yet, something which as a Kentish girl used to Easter holiday sea temperatures, I feel is an absolute must. For now though, it’s back to teaching, and I’m attempting to make the last few weeks as animated as possible.  With songs, Simon Says, and French-subtitled Fawlty Towers, I should be able to stay sane.  Besides, we brought back a bottle of Pommery to toast the end with...if that’s not an incentive, I don’t know what is!

Guinness, mad-hatters and a whole lot of pelvic thrusting.

So my exercise regime, or attempt to not look like a beached whale on the Côte d’Azur, continues. This evening will be my second zumba class, an experience which last week caused much hilarity among the female assistants of Le Havre. For a start, the instructor thought it was really cool to continually shout out ‘Letzzzz go’ in a far-from-English accent during overly energetic shimmies, and some of the noises she made mid-pelvic thrust were far beyond the watershed. Her hips certainly didn’t lie. Mine, on the other hand, resembled those of a semi-arthritic pensioner desperate for the chance of a saucy salsa with Brendan Cole on Strictly Come Dancing. The only thing missing was a tiny tasselled mini-dress.

            To add to my exercise embarrassments, last night a friend and I bravely attempted a ‘body sculpting’ class. We should have known really. After walking in late, we spent at least five minutes trying frantically to assemble all the apparatus needed (mats, steps, hand weights, poles...the list goes on), much to the irritation of Zumba Lady, who’s previous ‘let-loose’ attitude seemed to have taken on a distinctly more military approach as she surveyed the hoard of sweating Frenchies. Alas, hiding at the back was not an option. For the girl who used to deliberately deep field in the area only left-handed rounders batters could hit, the instructor’s eagle eyes immediately invoked the suppressed fear of sporting humiliation, which of course only made my performance worse as a result. Whether those around me thought I was foreign or stupid, I cannot say, but each time ‘les filles’ boomed from the loudspeakers, I wished fervently to be back at my local ‘Legs Bums & Tums’ class with jolly working mums and an ever-gentle instructor. Will I be returning there? Of course!

           The other great excitement of the week was a visit from Ruth; fellow French sotoner and future housemate. Whilst there was no exaggerated perspiration and groaning of lycra-clad fitness freaks, we had a lovely jolly time together and packed in a lot; from shoe shopping to beach walking, market visiting to crepe eating. It was also, of course, St Patrick’s Day. Now, for a town which is usually completely ‘mort’ past 7pm, Le Havre really did go all out. Any excuse for a fête, the (only) Irish pub was full to the brim of reluctant Guinness drinkers, most no doubt pretending they liked it, the less daring settling for an alternative beverage and a ciggie. Free mad hatter-style hats were tossed out, and ironically, all but the one Irish member of our group managed to nab one. However, soon tiring of the boozy crowd and chaleur, we headed to ‘Magic Mirrors’, a bizarre concert venue resembling a temporarily-erected wooden hut, which was putting on a ‘traditional’ Irish evening, complete with music, dancing, and....a screamo rock band. The latter of these was apparently added to the evening’s programme for the benefit of the youth, yet didn’t prove to be quite as successful as anticipated when the dance floor cleared, but for the presence of five pierced guys and gals wielding lighters and attempting to start a mosh pit in the completely empty space. Luckily, just as we were contemplating leaving for the safety of our eardrums, the traditional instruments recommenced, and I was amazed just how many of the Frenchies knew how to Irish dance. I can only assume that Fnac recently had a ‘learn to Irish dance’ DVD sale, which clearly was a roaring success.

          Bon. Je pense que c’est tout ! I will leave you this week with a classic school anecdote. While working on a song with the English Club today, I explained the meaning of the word ‘Blue’, in the sad and lonely sense. However, after the session had finished, one teacher beckoned me, proceeding to whisper in a confidential manner that ‘Blue’ could also be used in a different context. ‘Oh really?’ I said, genuinely interested. ‘Yes’, came the response. ‘Blue...like a ‘blue movie’....or, how you say...a porno?’

 She’s sixty-five. 

Holiday Round-Up

Now that blogging has become so much a part of my routine, it feels strange taking two weeks out....almost like neglecting a baby. So to all three (or perhaps five these days...hello Susan and Richard!!) of my readers, I apologise little ones. Mumma’s home now. And what a two weeks she’s had! Waiting by the Eurostar doors as it approached Ebbsfleet station and trying not to react to an Italian mother and daughter thoroughly comparing finger sizes (maybe some sort of custom upon arrival in a new country), I realised just how happy I was to be home. The best way by far to properly bring in one’s 21^st birthday is with family, friends and in my case, a trip to the local wildlife park for llama-feeding, a champagne picnic and countless desperate attempts at coaxing several pregnant lemurs to jump on my head.

                   That’s not to say I didn’t also profite-bien en France. The day before leaving Le Havre, I celebrated en avance with a traditional French meal and not-so-traditional club night, which was apparently 90’s themed. When my (only) French friend excitedly reported her plans to dress up as the Spice Girls with a group of chums, at first things seemed promising. There’s nothing I like more than fancy dress, and if anything, my limited costume resources only inspired me further to produce a masterpiece. Having previously created outfits such as Cruella De Vil where I sprayed half my backcombed curls white, a flamingo (including pink feather-boa wings), and a Halloween spider with 4 pairs of newspaper and wire-stuffed tights sewn to my torso, I was sure I could manage the 90’s. However, from my extensive observation (/friendly mocking) of French youth culture, one thing I had learnt: clubbing attire is never what you think. With this in mind, I dug out a leopard print top, and decided to settle for that; if necessary, I could label myself ‘Scary Spice’, whilst still maintaining a reasonably normal appearance. And believe me; I am so glad I did. The enthusiasm of my French friend turned out to be nothing more than an equally understated animal-print vest, and aside from the odd Macarena or Ketchup Song, there was absolutely nothing to suggest the club night even had a theme. Even so, a good time was had by most. All, that is, except one poor Frenchman, who hopefully bought my entire friendship group 10 euro-a-glass champagne all night long, only to end the night in a drunken brawl with the bouncer after several attempts to steal one of the bar’s decorative top-hats as a birthday crown for me.

                 Anyway, reality has once again settled in, and I find myself once again in teaching mode, where one school’s idea of naughtiness is shouting English obscenities mid-class and the other’s stops largely at the sneaky placing of knives into the designated fork box whilst clearing their plates in the canteen. The problem I now have, aside from sleeping students at the back of the classroom, is a distinct lack of motivation. I don’t want to teach, nor do I want to lesson plan, nor, in fact, ever have to do TEFL ever again (unless it’s in the form of an easy Southampton languages content module). Okay, so maybe this is a slight exaggeration. I do enjoy it sometimes. Yesterday, I entered into a gruelling debate about the advantages and disadvantages of using Photoshop on models, and this morning became just as vocal as my competitive eleven year olds, shouting ‘ELMININÉ ELIMINÉ!’ during a heated game of ‘Simon Says’. I enjoy the opportunities France gives me to travel, food-related banter with the school chef, and I love the fact the teachers are always cold even when beautiful sunshine streams through the school windows and I sit roasting in a three-quarter length sleeved dress. Such weather definitely makes negativity difficult.

Onwards and upwards mes amies!

Time for a 'Lille' holiday!

It is currently ski-season in France. The mountains are snowy, the gear is ready and surprise surprise, there are significantly more absent children than usual in both schools. Of course, as the girl-with-teacher-for-mother, I’m bound to be bitter about this last observation, having never been allowed a day off except in cases of violent vomiting, uncontrollable diarrhoea, or on one occasion, hospital admittance for a bladder scan...though even that was ‘pushing it’, apparently. How I longed for ‘cool’ (and hypochondriac- the two at that time seemed to go hand in hand) parents; the sort that prioritised off-peak holidays and routinely decided that one sneeze merited a day away from the ‘hothouse of germs’ (aka school) snuggled up with Tom and Jerry and blackcurrant Calpol because after all, the ‘poor mite’ was inevitably ‘coming down with something’. But no. Unfortunately for my sister and I, our parents believed firmly in the hale-and-hearty method, selfishly putting our education above sun, sea and sniffles. How could they. I did win the attendance prize every year without fail though, so it wasn’t all doom and gloom...something for the CV.

               So the holidays are nearly upon us, and needless to say I’ve decided against the whole skiing thing. Those of you who know me will remember my ineptness at almost every form of sport. There was the spectacular Christmas ice-skating fall which still occasionally brings a twinge to my coccyx, the Freshers’ Week dry ski slope incident where my skis got caught under a barbed wire fence and I had to be rescued by the instructor, and of course not forgetting the summer rounders games of ’02-’06, where I devised the ingenious strategy of fielding out deep in a space where only left-handed batters could reach, only for my reveries to be rudely interrupted by the odd flying ball which, despite the urgent cries of my teammates, I usually ignored. No, whilst numerous French families bed down in their cosy log cabins and rub after-sun into their wind-burnt, goggle marked faces, by tomorrow evening I will be back home, snuggled on the sofa with my family, all of us undoubtedly wearing matching bunny onesies.

                  The past weeks have flown by. Just after Christmas, I was sitting in the Portsmouth ferry port with a fellow assistant Nadine, both of us desperately trying to remember what it was we liked most about Le Havre in an attempt to rid ourselves of the utter despondence we felt at the prospect of returning. Our eventual response? The people we’d met. ‘Oh, and the beach, I guess’, Nadine added with a sigh. We weren’t convincing anyone.

               Yet here I am again, now with only seven teaching weeks until the very end of my year abroad, and there is still so much I want to do. On the cards after the holidays is an assistants’ trip to Bruges, a potential visit to Angers, and Disneyland round two (round three in August with my sister). Last weekend, I went to Lille, where I stayed with a couple of Southampton friends; Jen and Harriet. It was really lovely to see them both, and I thoroughly enjoyed the city itself, despite a morbid (and slightly ridiculous) tale I’d previously heard about a girl who developed foot problems from too many strolls along the cobbled streets. Luckily, my tootsies survived the weekend unscathed, and highlights of the trip included lots of shopping, a sample of Lille nightlife and a man on the metro whose bodily aromas were so pungent that we were forced to disembark before our stop and wait for the next one to avoid publicly gagging. A good time had by all.

                  This Saturday is my twenty-first birthday, another reason for my ever-building excitement at returning to England. Yesterday evening was spent making skittle vodka and vodka jelly (NB: jelly doesn’t seem to exist in France...luckily a friend had some on hand) in preparation for tonight’s pre-birthday festivities, namely a meal out followed by what promises to be an incredibly amusing club night. The theme is ‘90s’; something which in England is a fairly common occurrence and a more than valid excuse for me to openly display my unceasing love for S Club 7, not to mention proudly showcase the dance I choreographed to ‘Don’t Stop Movin’ in primary school at the talented age of eleven. The Facebook  page declares the event to be ‘fancy dress’, however for a country whose usual club attire is composed of UGG boots and full-length parkas, I’m not sure what to make of this. There will certainly be no tiny union-jack dresses or pink PVC skirts, so as you can imagine, I was more than a little confused when my (only) French friend ecstatically told me of how she and her gang would be dressing up as the Spice Girls....I’ve decided to play it safe with a leopard-print top. If worst comes to worst, I can label myself ‘Scary’, whilst still wearing what is a fairly normal outfit, unlike my famous Halloween ‘spider’ costume last year in Southampton, where I had four pairs of newspaper-stuffed black tights sewed to my fake cobweb-sprayed dress and the taxi driver had to do up my seatbelt. Full details of this upcoming evening and all other birthday antics to be reported after the two week half term.

                    So for now lovely readers, all that remains is for me to wish you bonnes vacances, or in the words of my students: beautiful/good/bonnes holidays!

I have been living in France since the five months...a week of flirtation and faux-pas

Another week of amazing linguistic errors; provided this time not only by my ever-amusing students, but by a couple of well-established English teachers who quite frankly, should know better. Allow me to elaborate. Last Thursday for instance, it was decided that the topic of the lunchtime English club would be ‘Groundhog Day’. Now, I recognise it as a film title (which incidentally I’ve never actually seen), but aside from that my knowledge of the concept is very limited. What I’m fairly certain of however, is that when printing out a themed wordsearch from apples4theteacher.com or some such lesson plan-cheating website, it is normally a good idea to double check the vocab list before dolling it out to unsuspecting eleven year olds who, bless their hearts, have no idea whatsoever of the meaning of half the words anyway. ‘Gobbler’s Knob’ for example, had me in silent stitches for a good ten minutes before one teacher noticed and asked for an explanation. ‘Knob....means....willy’ I managed to chortle, all professional etiquette instantly vanishing. My fellow staff member’s response to this mature utterance? None other than this: ‘I am very happy to know this word’. I’m not quite sure what she meant by this, but needless to say, it nearly finished me off. Those poor clueless children.

                    Now, I've always scoffed at those over-confident year abroad students who brag about how they’re SO enriched in foreign culture now that sometimes they just CANNOT remember a word in English....anyone remember the Armstrong and Miller sketch? (See previous blog entries). ‘What are you calling yourself to yourself’, ‘My head is so much in the France now that my English is very very tiny’, etc. I never in a million years thought I could ever become that much of a ponce. Yet, after asking if English has a subjunctive (true story) and announcing to my bemused assistant friends how I planned to ‘mount’ the midnight bus, think I’m going to have to reconsider my stance. Whilst of course some people (namely lecturers and Oxbridge graduates) may see these faux-pas as significant linguistic leaps in the direction of full fluency, I tend to just loathe myself that little bit more each fois (oh, sorry, I mean time) it happens. Why in order to reach native level, every languages student seemingly has to go through this phase of sounding like a complete fool, I’ll never understand. ‘Galerie Nationale, Galerie Nationale, Galerie Nationale.....ahhh yes, the National Gallery!’ (Another classic Armstrong and Miller gem there).

                    However French I may think I’ve become, it was all taken away from me last week with the arrival of two Canadian exchange students. For some reason, they found my British accent a never-ending source of amusement regardless of which language I was speaking. Constant demands that I repeat such phrases as ‘Harry Potter’, ‘Expelliaramus’ and ‘More crumpets please guv’nor made for an incredibly unproductive lesson, particularly when my compliance led to fits of convulsive laughter, and one boy rolling on the floor clutching his stomach in a mildly alarming manner. Don’t worry though, he wasn’t in pain, it was simply all down to his ‘ADD’ (Attention Deficit Disorder?) apparently, something which he delighted in explaining  to me at least fourteen times during the 30 minute class, to the point where I began questioning if he was using it as an excuse to behave like a total moron (he definitely was).

                    This particular class was certainly one of many ‘interesting’ characters. Another fourteen year old boy spent the entire session (in between the Canadians’ cries of ‘God Save the Queen’ that is) desperately attempting to accquire my address, my phone number, or, failing that, a date. Now, I’ve encountered flirtatiousness before, as is only natural when a twenty year old female comes across a group of testosterone-fuelled adolescent lads, but never had I seen this level of persistence. After the old ‘is not for me, is for my brother, he 20’ (classic), this ingenious child then moved to new heights, telling me in French how my eyes sparkle like the sun (can’t deny it) and even requesting ‘bisous please’ (kisses) when leaving the classroom, pointing to his cheek and giving me what can only be described as puppy-dog eyes. A definite charmer in the making....I just hope it wasn’t truly for his brother otherwise I may have made a terrible mistake....

                   One-liners and language barrier aside, I’ve recently derived a seamless technique for quietening the most raucous of classes. Simple yet effective, it is simply this: a sudden outburst of garbled and rapid English forcing attitude-infused French faces to drain of all confidence as previously-gabby mouths to widen in genuine fear....still think you’re ‘trop fort’ to listen in my classes little boy? Think encore. You’ll have to try a lot harder to outsmart this tough teacher. Wait, what’s that you say? My eyes sparkle like the sun....?

Buses in France: 'Enough of this gay banter'

More bus antics for you this week. Amazing how much mockery can be made of the French public transport system....just you wait til I move onto the 40 cent funicular railway. Anyway. I know I’ve mentioned it before, but this ‘being bezzie mates with the bus driver’ craze really is becoming more and more of a regular occurrence. I would now say that at some point during nine journeys out of ten, there will be at least one over-friendly Frenchy leaning into the driver’s area (no euphemism intended) and engrossed in persistent chat. As John Cleese would say; ‘enough of this gay banter’ (‘Vocational Guidance Councillor’ sketch, see below).

               In almost four months, I’ve heard the most bizarre of exchanges, from a primary school child’s detailed account of his day at school (no, the driver wasn’t his dad) to a dead-pan serious man solemnly discussing, or rather lecturing on, the various flavours and re-brands of Coca-Cola through the ages....I think I hear Mastermind calling. A few weeks ago, I also saw one eager woman up the front proudly whip out a selection of photos from her oversized Tote bag, which appeared from a distance to be her holiday snaps. At any rate, there was definitely sand and sun involved, neither of which, may I add, are typical Le Havre features. Beaches...bikinis...safe to say the male driver’s eyes were anywhere BUT the road, leaving me and my fellow passengers to simply cross our fingers and fervently hope that this woman was not a topless sunbather. As if that wasn’t enough, when getting on the bus, many of ‘these’ people even do the ‘bises’ (the standard French kissing on each cheek), which leads me to two possible conclusions. One: ‘Havrais’ bus drivers are incredibly popular, or two: the French are insane. Answers on a postcard.

                Perhaps I don’t get out enough (or arguably I get out too much!), but for me foreign public transport is a never-ending source of entertainment. I realised on the bus yesterday for instance how long it had been since I last saw a man in a suit. Small pleasures, possibly, but Le Havre in general is definitely more of a ‘dress down’ city. Of course, this is great for me, for as is well known, students love the odd ‘slob day’; any excuse to don the University-inscribed trackies and society hoody with self-thought witty slogan scrawled across it (or in my case, French society: ‘get an Eiffel of my tower’), and slouch down to the corner shop for a Fanta and a packet of post-revision Hob-Nobs. So here in the big LH (abbreviations are cool), we’re in our element. But formal attire...now THAT is rare, possibly even frowned upon, particularly on the buses. The man in question received many sniffing mate-stop-trying-to-be-alternative –type glances from the other ‘voyageurs’ as he stood nervously clutching his shiny leather briefcase. The sort of looks in fact, which some of us (me) would potentially direct at a wannabe ‘Urban Outfitters’-style teen here in England as she brushed down her Oh So Vintage patterned jumper and swung her deliberately-distressed military boots up onto the seat opposite. Sigh.

                  However, it seems the drivers are beginning to tire of this continuous stream of new ‘friend’s (cue InBetweeners quote). As I’ve no doubt previously told you, Le Havre is currently under construction. The eagerly-anticipated 395 million euro tramway is due to open in December 2012, and according to its enthusiastic website will apparently be ‘ideal for going to work, shopping, leisure, or a simple family outing’. Yet what it fails to document, and what I like to think of as inevitable small print, is the fact that each driver will be in a completely separate compartment to the public, thereby killing two proverbial birds with one (very expensive- potentially a diamond?) stone.

              But for now, my tip of the day is this. If you’re ever bored (or lonely) in a foreign country, just hop on a bus. You won’t regret it, and who knows, you might even end the journey with a new best bud. 

'There are two types of people in the world: Algerians, and those who want to be'. Oh Paris, je t'aime.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Lads of France, take note: I don’t care how phlegmy you are, spitting on the street is not acceptable. You really think revving your moped and letting an enormous globule fly from your mouth just as your potential ‘copine’ strolls past is going to impress her?  Think again. Handkerchiefs were invented for a reason, loves.

              Even in Paris, home of the bourgeoisie, the haute-couture, and other such over-used terms to mean ‘rich people’, hygiene is not necessarily at its best. Gare du Nord, my now least-favourite place in Paris, boasts what I would estimate to be a 6:1 homeless to home-owning ratio, and such tramps apparently see it as perfectly normal to ask an unsuspecting female tourist for coffee, an experience which I endured at least three times whilst sheltering in a café this weekend awaiting the arrival of my Southampton friends. Needless to say, I didn’t hang around long enough to find out whether it was actually the delight of my company they craved, or just a caffeine-laden beverage. After the thousandth creepy glance and twenty-sixth sniff of my legs from a near-feral whippet, I’d had enough, and dived into the nearest ‘Replay’ magazine store as if my life was dependent on the immediate purchase of Bonjour Magazine (doesn’t actually exist, I was trying to be funny.)

                At this point I must also mention the enormous flea market at Porte de Clignancourt. The last stop on the metro line, it is what was described to me as ‘proper banlieue’ territory. And ghetto it was. One thing that did impress me though, was the stallholders’ enthusiasm to practice their English....you could not walk past a market stand without a chorus of we’ve-just-looked-up-rude-words-in-the-dictionary-style phrases, the most common being ‘I love you I LOVE YOU’ on repeat (‘course you do mate), and rather disturbing bellows of ‘yessssyessyesssss VERY NICE VERY NICE!’ However, it was soon evident that none of these people had learnt the importance of pronunciation when one friend was told ‘very nice BABY’ when clearly what was actually meant was ‘very niiiiiiiice baby’. Just to clarify, she is not with child.

                Our funniest finding was an array of coloured t-shirts, all bearing the slightly dubious logo: ‘There are two types of people in the world: Algerians and those who want to be Algerian’...But tucked away behind the one euro Eiffel tower key rings and cow-scented leather belts, we did discover a true gem. A proper vintage market, complete with beautiful antique furniture, old-style Louis Vuitton suitcases and a dead snake in a jar (not quite sure what that was all about). Instead of hastily-erected tents, the stalls here are permanent, more like a tiny village of boutique shops than a ‘tat market’ (A Dove family expression). Each little alleyway has a street name sign, and it really was a fascinating area to wander around, with some of our group even declaring that they would go back there with a lorry one day to furnish their future houses!

               It has been an eye-opening week. In addition to these Parisian adventures and catching up with my fellow year abroad-ers, I have attended my first ever Irish dancing soirée (an evening which in fact turned out to be a few dudes with instruments and ONE eccentric French woman practicing her moves which she learnt from an Irish dancing DVD), and experienced some ever-funnier moments with my students. It would be a shame to waste such golden quotations, so I leave you this week with the following:

·         * 11 year old boy when asked about his wishes for the future: ‘Je voudrais une femme gentile comme vous Madame’ (I would like a nice wife like you Madame)

·        *  The same boy, later: ‘You know Rihanna?’ Me: ‘Ermmm..yes?’ Boy: ‘Elle est ma femme’ (she is my wife..disputable..)

·         * Once again, this brilliantly hilarious boy: ‘And Michael Jackson...eee izzz my father... we avvv the same hands’ (He proceeds to show me his palms whilst I wonder whether he’s had a translation problem....)

·         * 13 year old (whilst looking at a photo of my boyfriend) ‘Eeee izzz, errrr, bad boy?’

Oh, and I was greeted with ‘Whassssssuppppp’ this morning. My work here is done.