The Christmas Market - Grenoble, France

Snowing in the French Alps! Feels like Christmas has come early :) Grenoble, France

trip to tignes

Having joined the Ecole de Glisse who decided that the dates for ski season (mid december - march) aren’t worth following anyway, I went on the first ski trip a month early. Waking up at 4:30am for a two and a half hour coach journey was horrific, but when we arrived at Tignes it all seemed worth it. It was bizarre going from a rainy city to snow covered mountains, but the views were incredible! The last (and only time) that I went skiing was five or six years ago, so when we arrived at the foot of the mountain I struggled to even fit my boots into the skis without sliding backwards into an unfortunate French man. After said French man had to literally push me up the slope, I made it onto the chair lift trusting that I would arrive at a pleasant, practically horizontal slope. As per, this was not the case. Most of the other assistants are practically pro skiiers, so mixing this with the fact that before ski season only the slopes at the top of the mountains are open due to snow coverage, I was screwed.



After reaching heights I never knew possible, I was faced with a red slope. For non-skiiers, the baby colour system is as follows: green, blue, red, black (practically vertical). Therefore, considering I have only skiied once before, when I was a foot smaller and the risk of dying didn’t even occur to me, a red slope on one of the most difficult resorts in the Alps probably wasn’t such a good idea. I forgot how to stop, so when I moved an inch down the mountain I was all screams and bambi legs, ending up on my arse. However, some of the assistants were kind enough to stay with me, tutoring me while I plummeted own a mountain, crying.



Ten, twenty or maybe even thirty minutes later (there’s no sense of time on a mountain), I finally remembered how to ski. I did continue to fall over four or five times more, but when I made it to the bottom of the red slope I almost cried, but with relief and happiness this time. I was now all adrenaline-pumped rather than bambi legs, so we went on a search for a nice blue slope after the most expensive plate of chips anyone’s ever bought. The blue slope made me so happy; I was completely bombing it round the trail, hardly able to believe that I was skiing.. in the Alps.. as part of my degree. This is why everyone should do languages. However, the blue slope eventually lead onto the same red that I did earlier that morning, only this time so many people had been on it that it was practically ice. With it being the only route back to the bottom of the mountain, I used my new found skills and confidence and just went for it. This soon failed as I then slipped on the ice, and with my skis buckling one another, I faceplanted the mountain. Cassie found this hugely entertaining, while I spat out ice and cried at the freezing snow that was melting down my back. HOWEVER, I made it. And quite frankly, I can’t wait to do it all over again next weekend, hopefully minus the faceplant.

                                   

To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.

- Oscar Wilde

trip to the north

Northern England feels foreign to a southerner like me, and northern France doesn’t feel much different. I mean, my ears even popped about 5 times on my way up to York in the summer; clearly the only explanation is that it’s so far up north (forget logic). Last Monday I took a 7 hour train to Calais, meeting my family. My Auntie has a house in a tiny town (although I wouldn’t even call it a village, there’s no public transport?!) called Auchy-Les-Hesdin and it’s oh so French. Cute little boulangeries and patisseries and a tacky Thursday market to match. I’d begged my family to bring over some Robinsons orange squash and cadburys so I spent most of the 5 days munching on foods I missed, feeling patriotic.

Besides stuffing my face with British food, we travelled to Lille for a day. I don’t mean to sound ignorant, but there wasn’t much there. A few cool buildings, a fountain or two, and a courtyard outlined with cute stalls selling one hundred year old novels. Maybe I needed to do more research on the city to know where to go, but I kinda hoped it would be like Grenoble where you can just come across cool things during an afternoon stroll…

My obstacle of the week was having to explain to my Aunt’s French handyman that he didn’t do a good enough job on the kitchen - awkward. He managed to understand due to my excellent pointing skills and use of ‘ahh bof, je sais pas le mot…’ Nevertheless, he finished by telling me ‘Aahh Ev, tu parles très bien français!’ - okay, if that’s what good French is, then I’m going to frantically point more often. I almost cried with happiness; the assistantship clearly is as good an option for a year abroad than any other. Take that skeptics!

SNOW! Grenoble. France

My own Hogwarts! Lycée Champollion, Grenoble

stereotypes and clichés

I swear I arrived in Grenoble last week, and now I have a two week holiday. I’m certainly not complaining, a few weeks without the bratty secondes suits me just fine! I decided to use the same lesson activity that I pinched from the assistant’s Dropbox folder most of the week - it seems as though I haven’t got the hang of lesson planning as of yet. I got them talking about stereotypes, which everyone (including me) seemed to find hilarious… I showed the students a video about the stereotypes that foreigners have of the French, and got them to discuss it; the usual baguette eating, wine drinking, french kissing assumptions. Then, I asked them to come up with stereotypes that they had of the British, subtly reminding them that I am of course British and will take offense to anything negative that they say.

Here’s what they came up with:

1) Ginger - apparently all Irish people are red heads, and ginger is a hilarious word?!

2) Eat bad food - if you think eating baguettes and cheese for breakfast/lunch/dinner is a balanced diet, then you have much to learn frenchies.

3) Roast beef - “we call zee british roast beeffff bcoz zhey go on zee ‘olidays without zee suncream, and zhey are alwayz burnt" fair comment.

4) Every teenager frequently takes drugs - apparently Skins is to blame.

5) Royal family - “zee Queen and ‘er corgiez! love zhem!"

6) Drink too much beer - you can never have too much…

Although some of the students are spoilt and up their own arses, they make me laugh everyday and for that reason I suppose I like them.

verging on an unhealthy obsession...

I was serenaded again by some 15 year olds yesterday, it was totally awkward when I joined in rapping Wiz Khalifa. The result: being accused of taking drugs à la Monsieur Khalifa. A bit harsh, no?!

Chartreuse; the largest liqueur cellar in the world.. (at Caves de la Chartreuse, France)

If there’s one thing the French can do, it’s bake. Most amazing cupcake ever <3 (at Jardin du thé, Grenoble)

wine tasting, competitive teachers and a french Liam Neeson...

Another exhausting week in my new French life. After a long summer doing, well, absolutely nothing, waking up at half past 7 for a 9am lesson has come as a huge shock. I may or may not have forgotten that this time exists, and frankly I preferred when I didn’t acknowledge it.

Lesson planning kicked in this week, as did the urge to reply to the students in French. I found myself saying “alors…" when starting something, and “oui, d’accord" when agreeing with a student’s barely understandable answer to a question. Seeing as I’m constantly being reminded by teachers that I am being paid solely to speak English when in the school, these habits need to stop. Compared to other assistants’ schools, mine is strict and way too up themselves. One teacher actually told me, “we are all in competition here. Zee teachers, zee students, even zee cleaning ladiez. Everyone seems nice, but zhey gossip so watch out" - thanks, really, I now feel absolutely crap and wary everytime I walk into the staff room. The bratty kids were even more bratty, and the nice ones even more complementary. A good week at the lycée then..

On Wednesday we took some time out from our strenuous day of speaking English, and went to see Taken 2. However, the French never like anyone tainting their brilliant culture, so put awful dubs over every American/English/generally foreign film, and Taken 2 was no exception. When Liam Neeson started talking, I died a little inside. The voice over they had for him was so wrong. If he had an infamous speech like in the first Taken, I wouldn’t have noticed. Moral of the story: it is impossible to replace Liam Neeson. Nevertheless, I managed to understand 90% of what they were saying, not that the action doesn’t speak for itself… but I felt proud anyway.

Thursday, a wine and music festival came to town. There were big white tents surrounding the fountain of the main square, Victor Hugo, and for €7 you could buy a  glass and taste every single wine/champagne/fruit juice at the stalls. I couldn’t have felt more French. I even fancied myself quite the wine connoisseur - swirling wine about and attempting to describe the taste, “yes, this one erm… you know, has a weird taste". Surprisingly, I had absolutely no idea and looked stupid.

This week has been an “immerse myself in French culture" week - even if I taught English, saw an originally American film and the wine sellers replied to me in English. Damn, gotta work on that accent…

   


It has started to snow in Les Alpes already - absolutely crazy! Making me extremely excited for the start of skiing season, which is looking to be brought forward a month if this is what it’s like in October.

Grenoble looks so beautiful surrounded by snow top mountains! Loving my life in France :)

first week of teaching: from wiz khalifa to out of line teachers

So, the teaching has finally begun. These past three weeks have felt the longest, but on the other hand, I still feel as though I arrived yesterday. It’s a weird mixture of feelings that I don’t think anyone could possibly comprehend! Under the impression that I was having an observation week, I turned up to my lycée on Monday very ill-prepared, only to be shoved in my own classroom with eleven teenagers. The topic? Media. That’s all I was given, media. Instead, I spent twelve hours last week ‘introducing myself’ - more like bigging myself up to some French teenagers who replied with blank, confused faces. After the first hour or two I really got the hang of it though. I’d hate to be ‘that guy girl’ but I’m gonna big myself up that little bit more; I think I’m a natural teacher. There, I said it. I never realised I could actually improvise, and there I was, standing tall and strong (but inside shaking like no one’s business) ordering scared, shy teens to speak English.

Most of the students were a piece of cake, they actually had an opinion, whether I thought it correct or not. Others, well they have already been noted as a lost cause. When I asked them what genre of music do they listen to, I merely expected a one word answer - pop/rock/rap/everything. Instead, a group of fourteen/fifteen year olds just shrugged and didn’t utter a word. There were 25 of them, and they all agreed that they hate music. “What about French music?" I asked, with which they replied “Don’t do it!" while frantically shaking their heads. Clearly they didn’t understand a word I was saying, unlike a group of secondes who absolutely LOVED to talk… and jump around… and ask awkward questions. Their reply to said question? Well it’s in the title. “I love zee wiz khalifa, ‘e singz about smoke and girlz" I was then faced with a rowdy bunch of pubescent kids who started rapping (I think) and pretending to smoke a joint. “Ev, can we speak bout zee wiz khalifa?!" I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

My favourite moment, however, was a class of terminales (17/18 year olds) who had to do a short presentation on their interests or likes. One boy decided to completely wing it and speak about his favourite thing: himself. Apparently he does this a lot, because the teacher rolled her eyes and wrote down “encore?!" (not again). I learnt all about his Martin Luther King style ‘dream’ of becoming a pro footballer, but an ‘illness in his knee’ meant he had a new dream, to become an actor ‘like that American Brad man’. What was more awkward than listening to his ‘I have a dream’ speech, was when he found himself at a loss for words to finish the sentence “I fink I can be great actor, becoz I am…." to which the teacher added “sexy?" I gasped and burst out laughing all at the same time, awkward. Fortunately, the teacher had an explanation: “NOO I said it becoz I fought that waz what ‘e waz going to say. I do not fink ‘e is sexy, no french boyz are sexy!" Seriously, dig yourself an even bigger hole. I love my job :)

Overall, a really good first week teaching. HOWEVER, I still stand by my vow never to become a teacher, but perhaps ask me again in a month or two, because these frenchies really aren’t too bad.

my first grenoblois night out

I could not have imagined a better way to spend my second weekend in Grenoble.

On Saturday, a few other assistants went on a six hour hike around the bastille, seeing incredible views and bonding over their ‘love’ of walking. I, however, had a much-needed lie in, returned to the amazing quiche café for some poulet and casually went to an Egyptian ‘party’ (definitely shouldn’t use the literal translation of fête in this case) at my lycée. After staring blankly at an arrogant French man, who frequently reminded us that he was in fact a journalist/writer/creator of the ever so popular Pharaon magazine, us lazy few assistants took a cable car up to the Bastille to meet the sweaty, tired hikers. There, we sat with copious amounts of wine and cheese (oh so French), watching the sunset and appreciating great company. It may sound cringey, but it was bloody brilliant and cold. After there was no more wine, cheese or light, we stumbled back to the bubble and reached normal altitude, where we made a mad dash back to our apartments for a change of clothes and for some, toilets to be sick in. Some people just can’t handle the French ways, no more wine for you!

We met an hour later at my studio (now the designated pre-drinking location), to teach the French, Americans, Spanish and god knows what other nationality, to play the apparently oh-so-British ring of fire. After being moaned at by my neighbours for our shrieking English voices, we headed out in search for some sort of bar/club/a bit of both. In the end, we found ourselves in McDonalds where the lightweights ate a fat burger and went home for lack of single vision, whereas, the heavyweights (comme moi) hunted down a bar. It was called Couche Tard (I think?!) but I like to call it Sleep Late, because I love being literal. It was rammed full, so we danced a bit, got squashed, sat down. I asked for a beer, got a straight bacardi and sugar. I spoke to french people, in french, got replies in english. Brilliant.

I did have a great night though; laughed off the arrogant frenchies wanting to practice their english, downed the bacardi because it was so vile, and could dance as much as I wanted because I didn’t really care who I was squashing. I did not appreciate, however, the TWO different groups of french boys who insisted on opening my bag, attempting to rob me and pulling my arm to get me to come home with them. Firstly, who do you think you are, you arrogant little boys? Secondly, don’t touch me. Thirdly, do you really think that after you tried to steal my phone and purse, I’m going to agree to ‘come home’ with you?! Sort it out. According to the french friend who walked us home, it was because “english girls dress like sluts" - while pointing at me. I’ll have you know FRENCH BOY that you have a moustache that makes you look like an 80’s porn star, so you have no right to an opinion on my ‘slutty’ dress sense (which is, for the record, not slutty whatsoever).

Next time I will wear jeans and a ridiculously baggy jumper. Plus, I’m currently practicing my karate skills from 8 years ago.

Hunted down the cutest little French café, and had the best ‘tarte de feta’ yummm! Beside the fact that mince and orange squash is non existent, French food is great.

a trip to ghost town

There’s a group of us assistants that have now formed some sort of crew, but we like to call it a possy. We are basically a few girls who follow around a guy called Patrick, because he is the know-all person of Grenoblois life. On Monday we took a coach to a mountainous town called Autrans, supposedly for some team building exercise. I’ve never been one to love a long coach journey, but this was just plain horrible! Winding around mountain upon mountain, climbing higher and higher above sea level made me want to throw up at every turn; it wasn’t pleasant. So, we arrived at the Auberge de Jeunesse - a few ‘chalets’ with various bunk-bed-filled rooms. We picked up our bed linen from huge baskets, and struggled to make our beds like we were back in year 7 on a trip to Osmington Bay.

Autrans was gorgeous though, huge mountains with clear ski routes that will soon be covered in snow, forests enclosing the cute stereotypically french chalets, and the ski lodge style bar that we managed to hunt down. However, the place was a ghost town! I assume it’s a seasonal town, so they must jump with joy when 250 odd eager french learning 20 somethings rock up on several coaches every October. The bar we hunted down was guarded by a scary French man with an even scarier rottweiler, but it was warm and had Gangnam Style on the tv. We rinsed them of €1.50 wine and fruity beer, and suddenly the lights dimmed and were replaced by year 6 disco lights, and a cringey DJ to go with it. I love France.



I met some more really cool people, and hadn’t really contemplated before now that there are people placed in cities other than Grenoble! As stupid as that may sound, I’ve kinda been in my own little bubble the past week and a half with my Grenoble crew, so it was weird to hear that people were in tiny towns near Annecy that I’d never even heard of! I’ve never been so grateful to have a school in the dead center of the city! Another realisation, was that I’ve never actually met an American person before. I think because I watch so much American trash brilliant TV, I assumed I’d spent hours with them. Wake up call: 90210 and Gossip Girl does not prepare you for the American lingo. I need to get a dictionary, and they need to stop calling a pavement a sidewalk. All the assistants are great though, and I’m glad I’ve met people that I feel so comfortable around already!

What an appetising first meal in Grenoble - welcome to student living.

from London to Grenoble: drama and chaos in week one.

This has been the most stressful, emotionally exhausting week of my life. I am one to exaggerate a lot, but this is no exaggeration, it’s fact. The drama couldn’t even wait until France, it started in London. Check in was horrific, with Gatwick tipping out mums hand luggage (a rampacked suitcase) for the world to see, then explaining that actually “if this case was to fall out of the overhead locker, it would probably kill someone." So we were forced to fill stolen, unpaid for WH Smith carrier bags with half the contents of the suitcase. I also had to wear my new heeled Chelsea boots, so after realising we were late for departure, we had to run to the gate. We arrived, panting and sweating only to realise the time on the boarding pass was when the gate opened, not closed. I then looked down to find my socks, ankles and boots completely bloodied. £80 well spent.

When arriving in France, we had 5 days in which to find and move into an apartment, open a bank account, get a French phone, and have some time leftover to actually enjoy Grenoble. Oh no, nothing in France is EVER that simple. After frantically phoning useless landlords and students with no sense of urgency (even with my repeated use of “immédiatement"), house hunting was proving to be as far from simple as can be. By Wednesday I finally had a viewing for an apartment with 2 French girls. We travelled downtown, where the apartment buildings were skyscrapers instead of gorgeous town houses with big French windows and railed balconies. As soon as we entered the apartment, we were hit with a strong smell of sweat and pee, which we later discovered was due to a cats litter box in desperate need of a clean. I was then shown another tiny bedroom with 2 mattresses and a cat on the floor - the girls’ bedroom. I now understood the cheap as chips rental price; you’d live like a squatter. I attempted to speak to them in my best French, but I soon found myself merely nodding and laughing when they did, which was awkward when one girl actually asked me a question and I replied with a nervous giggle, and no answer. We left/ran out of the apartment, after having an awkward 2 way kiss, French style, and promising to call them tomorrow. Needless to say, neither of us phoned.

Things were looking dismal; after 3 days I had nothing but a want to live on my own. I then viewed a studio and loved it, but the agency insisted that I have a RIB - something to do with your bank account that does NOT exist in England. With this being my only option, I actually cried to the agency lady, hoping that her female empathy would come through and let me have the studio anyway. NB: this does not work on the French. By Thursday night I was crying, my mum was crying, and the hotel booking ended the following day. €70 and another night in the hotel later, I was well and truly on my own and terrified in Grenoble. When bidding au revoir to my mum I spent the whole afternoon sobbing into the cosy hotel duvet, feeling sorry for myself and hating on my degree choice. I eventually stopped crying and managed to phone around a few more landlords, with one or two asking if I had a cold because my voice sounded funny. Nasty. Finally, I got a viewing for a studio in central Grenoble, with intent on signing for it. It’s a bit crappy and old but it’s clean, and if you look past all the flats there’s a lovely view of the Bastille (an ancient fort on top of a mountain) from the ‘balcony’. So, the couple were nice and cute and the studio was alright so I parted with a hell of a lot of money, and finally have somewhere permanent for the next 7 months. Relief doesn’t even cut it!

I also went to another assistants’ apartment for a party on Friday night. There was a mix of English, American and French, so after a few glasses of wine to give me courage, I spoke to a nice French man. He had a cool moustache, but we decided he looked like something out of an 80s porn movie - great look. He asked how long I’d been studying French and I was extremely ashamed to say 7 years. I had to quickly defend myself by blaming the English education system, but he wasn’t convinced, he thought I was simply crap. Awkward, gotta work on that.

So I now (finally) have somewhere to live, but am terrified by the awful sound that comes after a flat upstairs flushes their toilet, and the fact that I have hobs over my fridge, and no Internet for a month. Luckily, France like to take you for everything you’re worth, so I have paid €20 for a months worth of Internet on my phone. Here’s to another week in Grenoble.

autumn's coming

And I can’t wait to cosy up in fur coats and chunky knits, and wear my new, completely unpractical heeled chelsea boots. I’ve well and truly stocked up for Grenoble - I even found my Russian hat, and seeing as I won’t get a chance to actually wear it in Russia, the frenchies of Grenoble will have the pleasure of seeing me wear it instead, everyone’s a winner.

feeling sentimental.

With 4 days to go, I really thought I’d be more excited. Actually, I don’t feel excited at all, more sad than anything. Today I’m resenting the fact that I’m leaving my mum, boyfriend and friends while I swan off around Europe.. Nottingham Uni start freshers again next week, and I am stupidly jealous. Not being able to go back to my Rothesay girls and graduate with them makes me annoyed that I’m even doing languages in the first place! Everyone has repeatedly told me: “you’ll be fine once you’ve settled in, and you won’t feel like your missing out at all", but honestly? I don’t believe you at the moment, so go away. I’m probably being a bit/extremely melodramatic, but that’s what I do best, and right now I just don’t feel ready to go to France or Russia. My degree can suck balls.

seven days

This time next week I’ll be chillin’ in a modern hotel in Grenoble, soaking up the few luxuries I will experience over the next 7 months. I’m sure every language student who is about to embark on their year abroad is feeling the same mix of emotions as I am - anxiety, fear, excitement and curiosity for the unknown. Truth be told, I’m currently feeling a whole lot more terrified than anything. Due to my being lazy over the past three months, I am going to France without any sort of lesson preparation in hand; not good when I’m being entrusted not only by the British Council, but the French educational authority, to teach. Without being given any heads up/tips by my responsable, how am I meant to know what sort of curriculum a middle-class school teaches their 15-18 year olds?! And don’t even get me started on the potential lessons with the students of the classes préparatoires, who I’m told read Shakespeare. SHAKESPEARE. I expected to simply cut a few articles outta The Guardian and make them read, occasionally asking questions.. Not have to dig out English Literature A Level books and brush up on my knowledge of the old man.. Actually, terrified doesn’t even cut it.

I also started packing today, and the fact that my clothes only filled one suitcase worries me. I now need to go shopping (again), because there’s no way that seven months worth of clothes should only fill one suitcase. First world problems and all that.

My home for seven months; not bad. Currently picturing myself
skiing (terribly) down those mountains..

                                                                     *  *  *

the last British trip.

With only 2 weeks or so until I jet off, I decided I needed one more getaway to remove myself from all the lesson planning dilemmas and house hunting failures. So, Plymouth it was. My boyfriend goes to the University there and seeing as it was going to be sunny and I love the coast, we travelled across the country a week before term starts to have a mini Brit-break.

I’ve only been once before now, but I love Plymouth, and I thought I loved the west country in general (mainly the accent), but actually the distinct dialect of the region now irritates the hell outta me. One morning, I spent 3 hours listening to a group of builders next door constantly laughing this deep, vibrating, evil laugh. Now, as many friends/family members/strangers will tell you, I have a ridiculous laugh so I may not be one to judge… But this was on a whole other level of annoying. Mixed in with their farmer accent, I have never heard anything so irritating. Anyway, enough about laughter…

We had the best week; roaming the cobbled streets of the barbican, sitting by a castle on top of a hill gazing at the glistening English channel, and devouring cream teas amongst the older generation in a vintage style tea room. It was such a welcomed change from the crowded streets of Nottingham and the pikey-laden streets of Kent, that I now don’t want to be in Kent or France. I want to be amongst annoying accents and equally annoying laughter as well as beautiful views in the west country with my boyfriend, please.

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

- Lao Tzu

the perks of being a wallflower

I have just finished reading this. It’s a heart-clenching, coming-of-age novel that I recommend to anyone and everyone. Turns out the film is coming out in October, so definitely give it a read before Hollywood completely destroys it in its entirety. There’s a pretty lengthy, but impressionable poem from the book that shouldn’t be missed amongst the other famous quotes… But before you read it! I am not in any way suicidal nor can I “relate to this poem", it’s just a nice poem, alright?!

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it “Chops”
because that was the name of his dog
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year that Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
valentine signed with a row of X’s
and he had to ask his father what the X’s meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it “Autumn”
because that was the name of the season
And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it “Innocence: A Question”
because that was the question about his girl
And that’s what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle’s Creed went
And he caught his sister making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly

That’s why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it “Absolutely Nothing”
Because that’s what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn’t think
he could reach the kitchen.



- Stephen Chbosky

hunting for a home.

La belle France is fast approaching (24 days to be precise), and I have yet to find someone to put up with me for seven months. I’ve tried appartager.fr but due to the fact that I refuse to pay an obscene amount to become a member privilégié purely to send an email, I’ve had no luck. However, although I may not be privilégié, other keen Frenchies are, which means they are lucky enough to actually contact a member when they like what they see (ahem, housing wise…) Such members are 99% made up of forty year old men requesting me to live in a tiny two bed apartment in the mountains. Sorry Jean-Claude, but my momma taught me not to talk to strange men, let alone live with them.

So, moving onto plan B… I shall pack up my life in twenty-four days, travel down to Grenoble and become homeless until someone pities me enough to take me home with them. (Reminiscent of Sharikov in Heart Of A Dog - one for the Russians, who will know that this is NOT a wanted comparison!)

And if that fails, plan C: invite mum to come to Grenoble with me for 5 days, stay in a luxurious hotel because “we need a break", and force her to do the house searching for me. I like plan C best, so hotel has been booked, and trains are to follow - stopping off in Paris on the way. Who would have thought that even after two years of independent university life, I would need mummy’s hand when something new and strange comes along?

HIDEOUT 2012 - raved so hard, we lost a toenail.

Hideout Festival may have been over a month ago, but summer let me forget to write an all important post dedicated to the most amazing week. 4 of us set off around Europe, leading to only one place - Zrce Beach, Isle of Pag, Croatia. Starting our voyage in Venice, Chelsea and I ambled around the small, cobbled streets of the romantic Italian city. Having visited twice now, I am yet to understand the hype that surrounds the place. The canals, bridges and buildings are beautiful, of course, but I couldn’t help but despise the huge amount of tourists, and how every shop and restaurant has given in to them. What else can you expect, I suppose. Heading up to the gorgeous coastal town of Trieste in Northern Italy, we spent a night in a youth hostel, preparing ourselves for the 5 sleepless nights on the campsite. After a coach and catamaran ride, we were on the Isle of Pag.

   

The atmosphere of the whole week was indescribable. The previous doubts we had about people ripping our tent, kidnapping us or stealing our things, were soon forgotten. Instead, everyone was buzzing and bloody crazy. The set up of the venues on the beach was amazing, with stages, balconies, pools, podiums - we were living the dream. Even spending £25 on the Shy FX boat party was so worth it. No matter how tired, ill and hungover we were it was insane. Jack Beats & Chibuku supported the main man and we partied hard in the middle of the Adriatic. Pool parties during the day, picking up again by 10pm that night - the whole week was full on bass, couldn’t get enough. Personal favourite: SBTRKT. I went to a gig of his in Nottingham way back in February, but it was nothing on his performance at Hideout. Mixing in his own records with complementing drum & bass/dubstep, it was the best hour and a half of the festival. With his usual crazy tribal mask covering his face, the venue ‘Kalypso’ was the perfect backdrop. Think palm trees, thatched bars, wooden ascending podiums and stone paving… SBTRKT and his Crash Bandicoot mask looked like something out of a jungle.

    

Other highlights: Andy C - that man can mix, and knows exactly what the crowd wants. Chase & Status - as good as always. Redlight pool party (+ MC Asbo) - the MC was hilarious, and Redlight took it to a whole other level. Doorly, Sub Focus, Annie Mac… and the rest of the weekend is a blur.

I would encourage absolutely anyone who’s into drum & bass/dubstep/house to pay the mere £100 ticket price and hike your way on over to the island - it was oh so worth it. Just one thing though… Do not camp.It was horrific. 4 people squashed in a tent in 36-40 degrees just isn’t fun. Instead, we could come back to the campsite at 6/7am and resort to sleeping under the only shaded part of the campsite, along with 50 other sleep-deprived campers. I awoke one morning to the welcoming sight of a thick, long trail of huge ants, and a boy taking a photo of us claiming we “look like we’re in a refugee camp" - cheers Hideout. But if you can endure the heat and the locals who pitched up their own dodgy bar on the site, function on 2 hours sleep a night, and still appreciate the gorge beach on your ‘tentstep’ then camping won’t be a problem.. Just watch out for the scorpion.

Until next time, Hideout Festival 2012 was sick.

Finally got round to watching “My Week With Marilyn". Before watching it, I only knew her as a sex symbol with a pretty face. Really, there seems to have been so much more to her that deserves recognition. Compared to other pictures where she seems posed, at times forced, but still drop dead sexy, here she looks young, beautiful and carefree. I love her jumper too - I bet she didn’t think she would be setting trends in 2012. A new crush has been revealed..

the biggest after party in the world; but was it enough?

The London 2012 Olympics was an event that no one could possibly avoid. Whether you were faced with it on your routine journey through the capital, or simply every time you switched on the tele, the nation was gripped. Having not been able/too lazy to find a job this summer, I had no qualms watching the various events of the Olympics all day every day. This is the first of the 6 Olympic games of my lifetime that I have given my full interest, even to sports that I never previously knew/cared about, like handball. Seriously, what crazy person woke up one day and said “you know what, football is for girls, let’s throw the ball, violently and full pelt at each other instead." brilliant.

Watching on with anticipation and pride for this diverse, brilliant and (at times) crazy country, the medals came rolling in. As reported, women have been able to reel in more medals than at the previous games. Providing 12 out of our 29 golds, I think it’s safe to say, contrary to the myth, that men do not dominate or are in any way better at sports than women. (feeling a little pride and a want to shout girl power - better kept to myself…)

The opening ceremony and 16 days of sporting events were organised and executed brilliantly. The colours, the atmosphere, the athletes - it all made London that little less dreary and routinely. BUT (there’s always a but), the ‘after party’ gave me mixed opinions…

As much as the closing ceremony did showcase our musical talent through the decades, and brought out our recently found patriotic unity, if you really think about it we were just showing 4 billion people how becoming a rockstar/supermodel/all of the above in Britain, ends up with drugs and sibling rivalry. Of course, the likes of Ed Sheeran and Jessie J may be the exception, but take Liam Gallagher as my first example. 3 years ago he was the vocalist for one of the biggest rock/indie bands of our time, now where is he? Founder of ‘Beady Eye’ (yeah, who?!) and in some tight, fierce war with his brother over a supposedly made up spout of man flu. What’s more, by the sound of his nasally voice at the closing ceremony he’s been sniffing one too many lines of cocaine. Secondly, I love Russell Brand as much as the next person, but his previous sex and alcohol addictions are public knowledge. So why was this man placed in front of the world, after all that he is known and stands for, to act as a role model? I think he is a great comedian and I get his style, but to put the likes of him, and anorexic, violent (Naomi Campbell), drug abusing (Kate Moss) supermodels, next to inspiring young athletes, is wrong.

I love comedy and I love fashion, and each professional must have worked hard to get their break in the competitive industries, but after the show that some athletes put on, and after knowing how much training and dedication goes into their sport, it’s admirable and deserving of success and appreciation. We are constantly reminded by the government and media that we are from a generation of a “troubled youth", so let the likes of Jessica Ennis and Mo Farah be our role models. Tell us how hard work truly pays off to the sound of a gold medal around your neck, not that becoming a rockstar equals more expensive drugs.

Nevertheless, the London 2012 Olympics were bloody fantastic, with London hosting the biggest after party I’ve ever seen. I’m looking forward to how Rio are gonna top them.. but watch out, I’m sure my cynical self will find some faults.

50 shades of.... Bookporn.

As women all across the country are falling in love with one Christian Grey, my first thoughts were to question why?! To me, his so called “charm" is degrading, and his crazy fetishes are even more so. Now, I claim to be no feminist, but a female author writing about the submissiveness of another woman to some ‘god-like’ man, irritated me a bit. Nevertheless, I stuck it out and continued to read, desperate to know what all the fuss is about.

It wasn’t until I reached somewhere after the half way mark, that I really started to get the allure of Christian Grey, and the story as a whole. It may not be the seemingly perfect relationship of Edward Cullen and Bella Swan, but it’s just as unrealistic yet slightly more exciting (even without the vamps and wolves). A broken, lost Mr Grey is unveiled, and James teases us with snippets of information that may explain his dangerous sexual nature. This added storyline of a wealthy, mistreated, and supposedly beautiful man, makes the book harder to put down, and understandable as to why it’s a crowd pleaser.

It’s no PG 13 novel, and I assume the reason for its popularity is down to the detailed descriptions of a Dominant’s fetish-filled sex life. Middle aged women are going crazy this summer, leaving copies of the books open on a ‘raunchy bit’ for their partners to see come bedtime.

Maybe it’s the fact that our generation is more sexualised and open, but I didn’t find it all that shocking. Uncomfortable at parts, sure. But when that much detail is used about another couples sex life, it’s enough to make anyone cringe. I vowed not to read the remaining two books, completing the trilogy, but I think I’m going to have to eat my words and continue to delve into the mainstream erotic-yet-with-a-storyline novels. As men have said: “it’s just more acceptable for women to read about porn than it is to watch it."

The last show for Moylesy.

"@CHRISDJMOYLES has announced we’re leaving the @BBCR1 breakfast show. Thank you to all our listeners for supporting us."

I read a few articles/blogs by people who were happy to see the back of Chris Moyles, but I am of a different opinion. After providing eight years of sarcastic hilarity for the nation able enough to be awake at six in the morning, I can’t help but feel a little gutted about his departure from the radio station.

I’ve listened to the show every morning before school since a mere twelve years old, and occasionally at Uni when I’m forced to be up for a 9am. It was my alarm, my parents wake up call, and a way to make the dreaded school run that little bit more exciting and humorous.

Nevertheless, in true Radio 1 fashion, I’m sure we’ll hear Moyles’ sarcastic, booming voice in no time at all.. Over at Radio 2. It seems their style to ship off DJs when the first grey hair appears, the same being done to Jo Whiley in recent years (another great asset to the station), and I don’t know about you, but not even my 40 something mother is switching to Radio 2 anytime soon. Radio 1, you’ve got it all wrong. Apart from maybe the replacement, Nick Grimshaw, who is pretty hot.. BUT, however hot he may be, in my eyes he has some big shoes to fill (literally).

"Some of the kids are posh, but you just laugh at it"

Having just had a 45 minute phonecall with my French ‘responsable’, I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of excitement mixed with anxiety for my year abroad. She was more than helpful, and completely reassured me on the boring, long-winded (and sorta necessary) tasks like banking.. housing.. lesson planning.. it’s not like I’m gonna be a teaching assistant or anything. I asked a few questions about the school, already knowing that it is elitist, prestigious and beautiful. My ‘responsable’ (mentor) also added to the description, in her best English, that; “the kids.. or teenagers.. are not naughty or bad, but there are some posh ones. It is fine though, you laugh at it." I couldn’t help but laugh, firstly at the frankness of the sentence, and secondly at the thought of my Kentish self fitting in there. Still, something to work on..

However, I’m more excited at the prospect of being able to ski every Wednesday! I was informed that she could “sort out an arrangement with the P.E. teachers" (sounds very MI5), whereby I can join the students on their weekly trip to the snowy Alps. Couldn’t think of a better way to spend my Wednesday afternoons for seven months. Bring. It. On.

On a separate, more teacher-related note, I’ve been asked to think of an English musical/play that the eager Frenchies can perform as a ‘project’ next year. Due to my lacking knowledge of drama or the like, I have absolutely no ideas so will be relieved to hear any suggestions!

Nottingham summer party

One of the many things that persuaded me to come to the University of Nottingham, was the annual music festival that takes place on the ‘Downs’ - a big open space with hills and grass on campus. The Summer Party 2012 was as good as 2011, with free southern comfort, bumper cars, and a bouncy castle. It’s a day of reliving your childhood, drinking beer, and watching some decent bands. This year, Wheatus brought us back to our teens with ‘Teenage Dirtbag’, Fenech Solar & Dutty Moonshine provided us with more bass than we need to hear in a year, Delilah soothed us with herboringgreat songs, and Labrinth closed the festival with the same set he did when touring with Drake - not that I’m complaining. I won some competition that meant I was given Labrinth’s album ‘Electronic Earth’ (the deluxe edition, might I add!), which is actually bloody good. Good beats and summer tunes, check it out :) Until next time, Summer Party.

farewell teenage years

                                        

As of the twelfth of June at 11:47pm, I was no longer a teenager. Someone asked me if I felt any different, if I felt older.. The truth is, I think I feel exactly the same as any other twenty year old - young, but perhaps that tiny bit more mature. I am the baby of uni, and the (second) baby out of my close friends from home. When everyone turned eighteen and I was still lagging behind, I definitely was jealous, and cursed my parents for conceiving me ‘at the wrong time of year’ (gross). Yet, after that milestone age, I can’t help but be grateful that I’m just that bit younger than all my friends. At the age of fourteen/fifteen, me and a close friend (a July baby), would fight back at all the snidey, baby-calling remarks by stating, “well actually it’s your loss, because you’re going to die a few months before us." Oh how naive and melancholy, and even more so, how embarrassing that it was only five/six years ago! That seems like a lifetime ago now…

Everyone knows I make a big deal out of birthdays, whether it’s mine or a close friends. This year was definitely no exception. Seeing as I’m spending my twenty-first birthday away from home, family, friends and my boyfriend in Russia, I decided to make this year special by having a birthday week. So over the top, and so my kind of thing.. With a music festival held at my University (blog to follow), a visit from my boyfriend and 4 best friends, Queen, Will & Kate coming to Nottingham, an amazing meal and birthday brownie at Jamie Oliver’s Italian, and an uncountable number of cocktails, I had one of the best weeks I have had during the two years of my time at University. I love my friends, both at home and in Nottingham, as well as my boyfriend, for making this birthday one to remember.

However, there is no way that my twenty-first will not be as eventful and memorable as my twentieth. Whether I’m alone in some dirty Russian bar, drinking vodka that has been topped up with white spirit (yes, that’s really an issue), or even doing the same but with new and old friends, Russia won’t know what’s hit it. Good riddance to my amazing teenage years, I can’t wait for what my twenty’s will bring.

all things british.

The Jubilee - celebrating 60 years of our great Queenie and all things British. We had our own Jubilee tea party, along with a visit from Queen Liz (Charles, below), who greeted every guest with a queenie wave; we’re the best hosts.

                             

off travelling the world...

…or at least France and Russia.

I’ve recently found out where I shall be spending a year of my life as of September. I gave my preferences, but really I could have ended up bloody anywhere. Instead, the British Council decided they liked me enough to give me my first area choice - Grenoble! I was too excited when I opened the email that bore the letters GRE, mainly because I was terrified I’d be given a place in France that I’d never even heard of before. Lucky me. However, I then held mixed reactions to the news that I would be teaching in a secondary school. Bratty, bitchy, cocky, loud teenagers - at least that’s what i’m assuming they’ll be like, based on my behaviour in secondary school. I’d like to think i’ve grown up since coming to uni, and become.. well, maybe just a little less bratty. Got to work on that. I’ve never even visited Grenoble, all I know is that it’s in the Southeast of France, “at the foot of the Alpes" - all i’m thinking is skiing every weekend, screw the kids! It looks beautiful from pictures, and I was recommended the region by final years who were extremely envious of their “lucky friends in Grenoble" - winner.

The idea of my year abroad now excites me, not terrifies the hell outta me. Except maybe when I visit Russia next summer - then, I will most definitely be terrified. Completely disregarding the idea of travelling alone to Russia (i’m not suicidal), me and a friend have ditched the idea of spending 4 months in Petrozavodsk (exactly - where?!) seeing as it’s in the middle of nowhere and clearly no one has heard of it for a reason. Instead, we’re returning to St. Petersburg to continue our rendez-vus in the numerous parks playing Yaniv, and taking pictures of every single building that looks remotely ‘pretty’. I’ll be leaving the bratty french kids behind (and with it my teaching career), to pick up some decent Russian education in some half-decent Russian school.

Nevertheless, I still have 4 exams (YES half way!), my 20th birthday and a summer plentiful of amazing experiences ahead of me, before i’m jetting off around the world. I love life :)

Below   -   top: Grenoble     bottom: St Petersburg 2011

"Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels"

- actually kate, as much as I love you, I really enjoy the taste of food.

In my head, this is me after I finish my degree. Living wild and free in Paris. Perhaps with a pixie crop like One Day’s Emma.. but then again I think I’d look like a lesbian.

Shoot for the moon. even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars

- Les Brown

A quote I think of when feeling negative; that reminds me of my best friends and home. oh, and that Pitbull song.

never lie in oral exams - your mum will probably hate you.

2 down, 6 more to go. Started on the 8th May, finish on the 8th June. And yes this is a competition. I clearly win.. and lose, seeing as i’m the unlucky twat who has been given the pleasure of having to sit 8 exams. Second year is slowly but surely killing me! On top of that, i’m the biggest drama queen going, so things will be expressed ten times worst than reality. I’ve resorted to venting my anger on here, leaving the pack of chocolate digestives far away from my reach - not that this makes a difference now, seeing as I’ve already eaten the whole of its contents.

Oral exams are over, which are undoubtedly the most stressful part of a language students exam period. French went pretty well, considering I blagged the whole thing. Being given the hugely feminine topic of sport, I spoke about how i’m an avid Arsenal supporter, go to near on every match played at the Emirates, and how I just love football when it unites us all.. What a loada bollocks. I feel obliged to support Arsenal because my mum and brother wouldn’t like me much if I didn’t. When the examiner asked if supporting Arsenal brought disputes to the family, I did something to my mother that was deemed even worst than simply not being a fan of the club.. I told the examiner that “yes, football does cause disputes in our family.. because my mum is a Tottenham supporter". This clearly brought in a wave of conversation, seeing as the lovely french lady had no idea why this would cause disputes.. She had much to learn.

When my mum asked what we spoke about in the exam, I said “oh, you know, about how sport is an instrument of social cohesion, supporting Arsenal.. the usual.. and erm, something about you and Tottenham, but that doesn’t matter, so how’s work?" There was silence, until my mum finally took in what I’d just said.. “you did.. WHAT?!" She then went on to say how it was totally unfair that I’d said she was the Tottenham fan; “why didn’t you say your father was? And are you sure you’re allowed to lie in your exam?" Yes mother, I can say whatever I like. Because believe it or not, the french lady does not have a folder containing the ins and outs of my life, which she can whip out when I say something believed to be a lie, and say: “oh sorry, i’m going to have to stop you there, because you’re actually lying. It says here, your mother is in fact an Arsenal supporter". Thanks for the laughs mum.

Russian oral was not as interesting, actually more like a disaster, so I think we’ll leave that one. Now to stop procrastinating, and get on with revision for the 6 exams looming over my strangely large head.

YOLO

In April, Drake brought his brilliant Canadian self to Nottingham - an opportunity I could in no way miss. My extreme love for the YMCMB star predominantly stemmed from his most recent album, Take Care - 19 tracks of pure excellence. The majority of the crowd was either high, pissed, or terrifying. The boyf and I looked a bit out of place, surrounded by either annoying sixteen year old girls, or completely ripped boys with huge arms and tiny legs. It was hilarious. We got high off of everyone else’s smoke, and bounced along to the one and a half hour set. The Motto was crying out to be the finale, and we all bloody loved it. The whole tour crew came on stage, and i’m pretty sure the crowd were singing along louder than Drake himself. The song choices were bang on, the set was incredible, and the love for his UK fans is undeniable.

I would recommend anyone who is into this genre of music, and who doesn’t spend their time slagging off Drake for being too ‘mainstream’ (seriously, the fact that you are so intent on being alternative is laughable. Live a little, and like whoever the hell you want!), to pay a somewhat silly price for his next tour. Believe me, it’s worth it.

Oh, and one more thing: YOLO, welcome to club paradise.

 

april antics

As a prior warning: I shall blog about what interests me, which include my life at university, food, comedy, music and fashion. It may seem typical, but I’ll try to make it as humoured, interesting and informative as I can.. well, I said I’d try.

April has been a good month, mainly because I was back in Kent. After a ten week term of (occasional) hard-work and drinking, I went home to a full fridge, comfy bed, freshly cooked meals, and a street that I didn’t feel as though I would be mugged/shot every night.. It’s named ‘Shottingham’ for a reason. I took full advantage of the home comforts, demanding washing and food to be prepared for me, like a spoilt child. This worked on my poor mum for a few days, until she realised that I’m supposed to be a nineteen year old, independent young woman, which is a joke in itself. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am actually a very dependent person, too lazy to make my own decisions, and whose culinary skills stretch as far as spaghetti bolognese. BUT, I have improved, I promise!

Back to April… So home was a saviour in itself for me, and I loved every minute of it, (even though I spent it doing godknowswhat instead of revision for the upcoming 8 exams!) going to fail. A few pictures below :)

When reunited with the girls from home, we did what we do best - hit Maidstone town/simply ‘Muggs’ and Source Bar. The night started in the local wetherspoons that has a shiny disco ball and is riddled with dirty, old men, which is precisely why we love it. Me and my friend, Megan (above), caught up with some light reading, and another friend, Chelsea, was forced to tell a clearly underaged boy: “I can’t dance with you, but I’ll dance next to you".






London is a day out, even for us Kentish lot, so me and my previously mentioned boyfriend, Markus, caught the train and had fun being tourists for the day.

a year on..

After almost a year since my last (and only) post, I’ve had a sudden surge of motivation/avoiding revision. After spending too much time reading about other people’s lives, I’ve decided to join the obsessive world of blogging.. And I plan to stick to it this time.

I realise I never really introduced myself before, so a quick one is in order; I’m Eve, 19 years old, study French and Russian at The University of Nottingham but am originally from Kent. I insist on the fact that I am from Kent, the garden of England, and NOT Essex, contrary to common belief. Shut uuuuup.

So, since the lonesome post in 2011, I have progressed in my studies at university and am currently in my second year. I wish I’d had more time during Freshers to document a crazy language students life, but clearly I was too busy livin’ the dream, shouting “DOWN IT FRESHER" at every given opportunity - a thrilling, adrenaline-pumping experience that every first year must abide by. Now, however, i’ve swapped the copious amounts of booze and partying for feminist french novels and twisted russian tales from the Soviet Union (n/a: not as interesting as it may sound). Don’t worry though, the wild fresher has not been entirely abandoned as of yet, and I’m still partyin’ it up in Nottingham.. Just maybe twice less a week. I sadly can no longer shout the aforementioned phrase, because apparently we’ve matured since then (paha!), except when I’m home with friends that are luckily still in first year - winner. Actually, to prove my absolutely crazy second year lifestyle, I am currently writing this post in a place some call ‘student heaven’, one that epitomises student life, that has plenty of comfy chairs, doughnuts and starbucks coffee.. no other place but the library. Looking up drug-use in French sport was taking its toll, so I accidentally clicked onto my tumblr page, convincing myself that there may be some much needed information on recent, juicy scandals in the world of french athletes. Unfortunately there was none, so instead I was forced to create a post that at least mentioned the subject - success.

It seems as though I have made my (re)introduction, so now back to writing about sporting scandals in the place that shall be my home for the next 7 weeks.. bloody fantastic.