'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.

What happens in Caen, goes online (and my accidental visit to a burlesque circus)

‘Accidental?’ I hear you say. I see the raised eyebrows, the furrowed faces, the slightly parted mouths of incredulity. But yes. For weeks beforehand, I had been readily anticipating a cirque du soleil-style extravaganza; tightropes, fire-eating...heck, maybe even a cheval or two. And well, I did see a blindfolded rope-walker and many acrobatics, but I equally witnessed a joint-cracking contortionist, a corset-clad woman walking over a topless man’s body whilst wearing stilettos (ouch) and a nude man pulling red handkerchiefs from various censored areas. As one friend delighted in telling me; ‘it’s all about the small print Ella’. Still, it was an experience, and ‘one for the blog’, a catchphrase which has now been coined by almost all my fellow assistants.

              In fact, this weekend has yielded several ‘for the blog’ as the Disneyland crew headed for a hilarious Caen getaway. In two days, we squeezed in a remarkable amount of sightseeing, and an equally remarkable amount of pine-tree infused throat sweets which one member of the group unwittingly purchased whilst on the hunt for a plain bag of mints.

             Among our visits were Bayeux Cathedral, the ancient Caen château, and many tram journeys. I take back all I’ve previously said about the unnecessary nature of Le Havre’s road-works...trams ARE cool and I now realise it WILL be worth it (ignoring the fact I won’t even be in France by then). We also saw the astonishing Omaha Beach, the American D-Day landing place which has been turned into an incredibly moving memorial. Walking among the 9,000 graves was a truly emotional and humbling experience, particularly as so many of them are nameless, inscribed just with ‘Here Lies a Comrade in Arms, Known Only to God’.

               In comparison to Haute-Normandie (where Le Havre is), Basse-Normandie seems so friendly, most probably because they’re much more used to the presence of ‘us anglophones’...I’m not sure your typical Kentish family would select Le Havre as their holiday destination of choice. From the smiling waiters to the jovial taxi drivers who even asked if we’d prefer to speak in French or English, everyone greeted us with warmth and ‘Je vous en prie madame’s. Well, everyone apart from Francis, the bald hotel manager in Bayeux who yelled at me to ‘fermez la porte’ after grudgingly answering my query for directions to the Bayeux tapestry, deciding not to warn us of its annual closure, of which I’m positive he was fully aware....Note to self: never complain about such incidents of rudeness in a tiny village; the taxi driver WILL turn around proclaiming ‘Ahh, Francis! I’ll tell him you weren’t happy!’ Awkward.

             Apparently, this January ‘fermeture annuelle’ is common amongst tourist hotspots, a revelation which also hindered our visit to the much raved about Caen D-Day Memorial Museum. Disappointing, to say the least.

             But let’s stay focussed on the positives, shall we? Saturday night proved itself to be the best French nightlife I’ve experienced yet (and that’s including the time I met a man genuinely convinced he was Snoop-Dogg). Despite the distinctly un-catchy name, club ‘Le What’s Café’ proved a real success. For one thing, no-one was wearing a parka, and for another, we actually knew (and could dance to) the music, a real novelty when you live in a city where every other song is police-hatin’, curse-bellowin’ rap and you begin to feel like you’ve been dropped in the middle of a scene from La Haine.

              So, le prochain voyage? Next weekend I will be heading for a weekend in Paris with Southampton’s one and only FrenSoc, and after that, who knows. Stay tuned for ‘ladz on tour part 3’, coming soon to a blogspot near you.

Come Whine With Me

...and by ‘whine’, I mean something closer to ‘incessant-babble-in-less-than-adequate-French-whilst-helping-myself-to the-veal-casserole’.

           Being the first one to serve yourself from a communal dish is always awkward at a dinner party. The first person sets a fundamental benchmark; namely how much is socially acceptable to heap onto your plate without being labelled a glutton. Sure, you can usually avoid being assigned this role with a brief shoulder shrug and a ‘no no, YOU first, I insist’, feigning distinguished politeness. However, take out the spoken word and you’re left with what could easily be mistaken for pure and simple confusion. This is what happened to me on Saturday, with the school nurse urging me more than once to take the lead and help myself, a kindly yet impatient smile etched across her Oh-So-French face. Impatience or hunger, I wasn’t quite sure.

            This palaver continued for every single one of the four courses, and after an initial faux-pas with the salad (turns out for the Frenchies 3 measly lettuce leaves count as an entire course), I became somewhat wiser, so that by the time we came around to pudding, I found myself declaring ‘Mais non non, ça suffit’ after just half a satsuma.

              Small portions or not, I absolutely love French cuisine. In the past few days I’ve eaten individually foil-wrapped parcels of salmon baked in the oven with a creamy mushroom sauce, crab and beetroot salad, exotic fruit with cinnamon drizzle and tender veal casserole in a tomato and carrot sauce. Just two dinner parties have yielded over seven types of cheese in total, and I’ve sampled Beaujolais, orange and limoncello liquors, not to mention endless quantities of real Normandy cider.  Every day I eat in the school canteen, I’m treated to a gourmet four course meal, which has been known to include such luxuries as foie gras, rabbit, and even once a triple chocolate gateau (of which I got given seconds; a major perk of making friends with the chef).

               However, there are two sides to La Belle France’s culinary offerings. Of course, fast-food is prevalent everywhere these days, and it’s not abnormal to spy the odd McDonalds. But Quick, France’s slightly more upmarket answer to Burger King, has taken ‘cool’ junk to new heights by injecting black colouring (yes, BLACK!) into the buns of its Star Wars themed ‘Darth Vader Burger’. In Le Havre itself, one has the unique opportunity to sample such delectable outlets as Kebab Snack (catchy), Crunchy Food Chicken (otherwise known as the Oh So Original ‘CFC’), and my personal favourite, Bunny Kebab, who’s poster actually depicts a cute, if not slightly worried-looking pink rabbit....

                With all this luscious fodder around me 24/7, you can imagine the effect on my waistline (HIIIII MUMMAAAA DOVEEEEE). Luckily, I’ve joined the swimming pool, and another of my new year’s resolutions is to go there at least once a week, and actually SWIM, tempting as the Jacuzzi and waterslide are! So far, I’ve kept to it, and really enjoyed myself, although yesterday I arrived home with an incredibly chapped face and lips. It is worth noting at this point that the fitness pool is outside, which strikes me as bizarre for a town in the notoriously rainy North of France, not to mention wastes a lot of energy to heat it. The design is typically French; finicky and ultra-modern, all waterfalls and white décor. It’s all lovely; the only issue being how far away it is from chez moi, which does nothing for my ever-fluctuating motivation levels. Take today, for instance. Should I? Maybe?

       Nah. Think I'll order a Dominoes.

Bahhh ouaaaiii, j'habite euhhhhhhh....au Havre

Guess what folks…je suis BACK ! Yes, my French has suffered somewhat over the holidays; no doubt replaced by the excitement of home and FOOD, not to mention extreme concentration during several intense matches of Hungry Hungry Hippos (no family Christmas is complete without it). Regardless of the inevitable ‘let’s forget I live in France’ attitude, I had a wonderful, hectic two weeks spending much-needed quality time with both family and friends. I found a house in Southampton for next year, went on a Duck Tour in London (a tour bus which halfway through becomes a boat and launches you into the Thames!) and came to the astounding conclusion that Dancing on Ice will never be for me after a particularly painful coccyx injury caused ice skating in Winchester.

                   Mais bon, after an eight hour, gale force seven ferry journey which I’d rather not dwell on (safe to say if my friend hadn’t been upgraded to a four-bed cabin I would have ‘chundered everywahhhh’), here I am once again, ready and raring to tackle the next four months, although I had definitely forgotten how strange it is to be ‘that foreigner on the phone’ when talking in English on the bus!

              This week has been mostly spent teaching my students about New Year, specifically New Year’s Resolutions. I have already received some brilliant responses; the highlight of which was a greasy fifteen year old’s stuttered proclamation of ‘I will find a girlfriend’. Bless. Saying that, the atmosphere of both schools is distinctly more sexually-charged after the holidays, leading me to wonder what exactly French parents feed their adolescents at Christmas. In three days, I’ve encountered roughly five ‘couples’ smooching by the gates and no-one in the staffroom seems to bat an eyelid, their attitude being general recognition and even acceptance! Contrary to my previous misconceptions, the majority of teachers are incredibly relaxed, and it really is amazing what students can get away with in class. When asking a class I’d not met before about their hobbies, I actually reverted to open-mouthed shock at one boy’s casual comment ‘j’aime baiser’ (another boy ‘kindly’ decided to clarify the meaning of this to me, shouting ‘faire l’amour, faire l’amour!’ or for the  English, ‘making love, making love!’). Now, in England, this would be immediate detention, or even dismissal from the lesson. But no, in France it simply merited a small disapproving glance and slight smile of sympathy in my direction. To top it off, said child later decided to approach me at the end of the class and ask for my address so we could, and I quote, ‘chat a little’!  Looks like someone had too large a helping of testosterone pie....

               On a lighter note, my social life has started well this term. After the resounding success of my pre-Christmas dinner invitation (I knew the mince pies would work), I have since been asked to attend not only a follow-up soirée with a different teacher but also a Saturday luncheon at the school nurse’s house; a woman whom, incidentally, I have never met! However, she has some form of Colombian connection to my flatmate, and invited me along- who am I to resist a free meal?! Besides, now that they know about my recent Woman’s Weekly story (now on sale in the January Fiction Special), all the teachers are lovin’ my new status as a ‘published author’, and I can’t really blame them for wanting to mingle with the stars now can I....

             As of last night, things are even looking up for my resolution to find French friends! After chatting for a while with some students of Le Havre University at the weekly Language Café I attend, I managed to wangle myself an invite to a REAL French party with REAL French people of, and this is the key part, my OWN AGE! Don’t get me wrong though, that does not mean I’ve become too high and mighty for the over-forties polka evening at McDaid’s Irish pub (yes, that is really happening).

           All these upcoming social events mean my conversational ability is likely to be tested to the absolute max. Lucky I stumbled upon this then isn’t it...