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.
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