Sunday, 30 September 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, 22 September 2012
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.
Wednesday, 19 September 2012
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.
Monday, 17 September 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, 16 September 2012
Saturday, 15 September 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, 11 September 2012
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)