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!