Rule erm… France?

Well, as it happens, I quite miss France. I miss the French way of doing things, surprisingly.

Since being home I have frequented two supermarchés – ASDA and Tesco. It is odd, but I never really noticed the difference between the two. The ASDA we went to appeared to be full of chavs, whilst Tesco, still with an elevated number of chavs, appeared to have an infestation of the elderly. I have missed despising the elderly and the chavtastic. They just walk around saying things like “woah, it’s fuckin’ mingin’, innit” (minus the correct punctuation, obviously) and general standing in the way. Anyway, despite the chaff, it was wonderous to go round a logically ordered supermarket, although, I do miss French brands, and the HUGE cheese section (despite never buying cheese).  I attempted to hunt down a nice French wine : Tesco’s range of French reds was poor, to say the least. And, it was expensive to get a decent red WITH A CORK IN! It is a very British thing to make wine have screw tops. Personally, and this is totally unfounded, I think wine is much better if you have to get a cork out. Also, what struck me about both of these chav-magnets was the amount of sheer Christmas crap. Seriously, there was a whole aisle dedicated to Christmas shit – cakes, selection boxes, last-minute gift ideas, mince pies, wrapping paper, crackers etc etc. We know how to do Christmas, but a part of me can’t help but miss the subtle French Christmas – nothing too fancy; just enough to let you know “yes, we know it’s nearly Christmas”, but not too much to be tacky.

Hmm… What else? Oh yes. Crossing roads. In France, I think I mentioned, when crossing the road, you just go. You can look (optional), but generally, you just go. Cars stop there. Here, as I discovered the other day, they just slow down and shout abuse. You would think in ASDA car park of all places that the pedestrian would have priority. Well, I’m pretty sure they do, but this is not the point. Especially if I am pushing a trolley laden with goods purchased in ASDA.

I miss nipping to the bakers and getting a nice baguette. Or even from Carrefour. Mmmm baguettes.

I miss the lack of 4×4s in France. This is mainly because Citroen, Renault and Peugeot don’t make them. If they don’t make them, the French won’t buy them. Seriously. France is just one big advert for French cars. Every car is French. It is odd.

Back to the subject of chavs, I don’t understand why in this freezing cold weather, they’re still in trackies. They must be freezing. Utter morons. Funnier still is watching them slide around in their poorly prepared shoes. Says I, in my Converse.

Rule Britannia

Well, what a day it has been.

I arrived at the coach station over an hour early (earliness is the British way, don’t you know), and waited. And waited some more. And some more. Until finally ‘Guichet L’ was open. Then I waited some more. And some more. Then boarded my coach. This was followed by more waiting. Then we set off, into the snowy landscape of Paris. It really was something. If I wasn’t so sick of the sight of the place, I’d have taken some photos. But I was sat next to someone, and I’d have looked weird. So, yes, we continued our epic voyage to Calais. None of us knew what lay in store. I observed that France, in general, is very flat and nothingy. Don’t get me wrong, it looks nice, but it’s so incredibly nothingy. We passed Vimy Ridge, which brought back fond memories from the Year 10 Battlefields trip. Anyway, we finally got to Calais (after stopping at a service station, and traipsing through the snow). This is where we hit our little hiccough.

The first issue was whether we would take the ferry or the shuttle. We were taking the shuttle. This instilled fear into me, as I had already experienced one let down courtesy of the channel tunnel. We progressed. Then stopped. At customs. We were all told to disembark the coach, and proceed to customs. With our luggage. Seriously. I felt like I was being registered for a labour camp. Noone helped us. This is where my English attitude kicked in. No more “Merci”, no more “Bonsoir” :  just “Tar” and “Hullo”. That’ll teach you, France. I think they should consider changing their motto from “Liberté, égalité, fraternité” to “France : causing problems for over 1000 years”, or something along those lines. Anyway. The woman I was sat next to, never returned ; turns out, the police detained her, and we never saw her again. Noone knows why, she just was. Anyway, next step : UK passport control. Seriously. Our passports were just checked by the French, but apparently they’re not thorough enough, so the UK passport service checked ours. We just made it through, and just missed a train. So we waited. And waited. And got on the train. And waited. And waited. And then got to London. Finally. 2 hours late. So, I rushed to Victoria tube station (deceptively far away from the coach station), got my ticket (Tube ticket = £4! Actually outraged!), rushed to King’s Cross. I explained my situation to the man, cos I had booked a ticket for yesterday, he told me to go to St. Pancras. Noone there. Went back, he signed something, and off I go. Here was another potential issue. I was unsure if I was allowed in first class still. But, as it happens, the woman let me off.

So, after 7 metro rides, 2 train rides and 1 coach ride later, I am nearly home. 1 car journey is left to make, from Doncaster to HOME and then I can sleep. Or drink Ribena/Apple Tango/real milk. I am too excited.

At present, I am in First Class, drinking my second cup of free tea. Love it.

Arrivederci, France, or whatever you guys say over there.

**UPDATE** As I wrote about my second cup of free tea, I was offered a third. I did not refuse. No sleep for me!

Take II

Today, I go home. Again. Maybe. Hopefully. 7h30 on a coach. Plus bartering for a train at King’s Cross. Then arrival at home around midnight. Gah. FML.

Guess what…

You clearly all didn’t wish me enough luck. I’m currently in a hotel (which smells, by the way) in Paris. Just opposite Gare du Nord, aka Hell in the form of a train station. Wikipedia informs me it is the world’s 3rd busiest railway station. If I’d have known that, then I wouldn’t have bothered getting the Eurostar. Anyway, I had heard tell of it being shut, but refused to believe it until I arrived there. I delayed my arrival, purposely, by sampling the only Starbucks (Montparnasse) I have seen in France. I was very impressed initially – reasonable prices, jazz music – but then my opinion changed : I saw the uht milk piled high by the counter, ready for use ; the utter shite caffé latte I had ; and the fact that it was freezing. Oh, and they had the jazz version (no lie) of the Brady Bunch playing. Seriously. Unfortunately, when I got to Gare de Nord, it was true. Look. Well, luckily, I hadn’t even have the chance to get on a train. I arrived, to see signs, and announcements telling me about the situation. I joined the nearest queue and waited. And waited. And explained to people what the queue was for. And then spoke to a French woman. In French. And was complimented on my French. We moved slightly. She disappeared and came back. She apologised for having to leave me. Actually, she didn’t. She just left. More conversations ensued between Frenchies (desperate times etc), and I tried going through the “English priority” section. And failed. My booking reference wasn’t enough for them. So I had to go join the queue. Again. Well, not quite. I pushed in with some Frenchies I had been speaking to. So, another half an hour later (I was 23 people from the front), I made it. And got told “refund of wait until Monday”. I chose refund. This means I have to ring a number. Fools. So, I went off, then decided to try again, for the Monday, ‘cos planes and other options were pricey. Then, I was told of Eurolines. And did that. After speaking to more English folk, and finding a hotel over the road (52€), I finally booked my coach, COACH home. It will take 7 hours to get to London Victoria, then I will have to get the train from King’s Cross, home. Gah. Actually, 7h30. I forgot we had a silly time difference. Gah.

So, yes, I checked into my hotel, noticed the smell, noticed the 90s-ness and then went off. I was determined to go to the Louvre seeing as I’ve never been. It was fun. The interesting part was watching everyone amble towards the Mona Lisa, whilst pretending to nosey at the other stuff on the way. I did this too, to feel less bad. That said, I was really disappointed. It was small, and there was loads of people in front. So yeah, I took my photo (as did everyone else) and moved on. I then stumbled upon La Liberté guidant le peuple. It’s quite a famous photo. We had to study it, well analyse it, in history this term. It’s a good painting:

La Liberté guidant le peuple, Delacroix

See. You know it! It’s the cover of Viva La Vida, by Coldplay! And, the cover of Les Misérables, more or less. Then, I returned to the ghetto hotel, for an evening of fun and grumbling to myself.

I feel like I didn’t quite cover certain aspects of my day : the TGV I came to Paris in was actually a portal to 1991. Seriously. And, there is a lot of snow on the way to Paris, and outside the Louvre. I have photos, but they won’t go up yet. Cos it involves finding my cable, which is well hidden.

So, that was my first attempt to get home.

Il neige!

Look at me, using the verb “neiger”. I won’t lie, I never expected to use that verb in context whilst in France. Anyway, after days of rumours of snow, it finally happened. At around 4am this morning. I know this, as I was still awake, this time at Maire’s. We had been out for one last proper night out in Rennes before peoples go home. On that note, I go home tomorrow. I am both excited and worried. Excited, as I am going home!! But, worried because of all this snow, and the Eurostar strike. I’m sure it will all work out anyway… I will make this my last post in France. Here a few things I will miss in France:

• The McDo walk-thru
• Crossing roads without looking
• Speaking in English right in front of people, just because they don’t understand, about them
• The ghetto
• The métro

What I shan’t miss:

• The ghetto
• The lack of carpetted facilities
• The staring
• The Brittany weather

I feel I haven’t exhausted this list, but it will grow as more things spring to mind. Maybe.

FREEEEEE (until January)

So, the time to go do my oral arrived. I plodded along down the epically long history department corridor to find A303 and Mr. Hamon. He was there. Bugger. I got to pick 3 questions to do (well, 1 to do, 2 to disregard). I picked terrible ones: Indians viewed by the Europeans; Economics of Nouvelle Espagne or something about French and English regards to Indians between 1755 and 1765. Naturally I went for the vaguest one. I prepared, and got vague. He seemed to nod in all the right places. It was all good. He told me at the end that “découvert” was the past participle of “découvrir” not “découvrit”, and during he told me how to say “Chrétien” – with a hard K sound, not a Sch sound. Now you know. But yes, a few questions at the end threw me, but aside from that, all went fine, and he was like “a priori, je dirais 15 ou 16″, which out of 20 is pretty awesome! Yay me!

Gah.

Tomorrow I have my history oral. Sounds so dumb, doesn’t it? I mean, I get 1 hour to prepare one of two questions, then I present one of them, for 15 minutes. He may ask me questions at the end, he may not. Either way, a lot of bullshit will be spewing out of my mouth tomorrow. In the meantime, my old friend Wikipedia will be helping me out. Wish me luck.

It’s so cold!!!!

So, right now, I am in one of the warmest places that Rennes 2 has to offer, and I’m still cold. It is a joke. You know what else is a joke? This keyboard. I will touch type to show you.

So right noz; I q, in the librqry: It suchs; qos it is dqft: Like seriously: It is so bqd: I donùt knoz hoz they cope here zith such q terrible keybozqd: Okqy; so itùs not so bqd; but itùs kist dire: For sho:

See what I mean? All my efforts are going into this, but France : make better keyboards, preferably ones where you don’t need to push shift to get a full stop. Fore shq,e:

Erratum.

So, I forgot to mention the one thing that has made my life in Rennes worthwhile : the Guyenne Ghetto.

No, I kid. I despise this place. Anyone who comes to Rennes as a student should avoid this place like the plague. Seriously. It’s awful. It lacks heating, and adequate kitchen facilities. The bed lacks a matress, it is just a giant sponge. The shutters shut from the outside, losing all heat gained inside in doing so. You room comes with a bidet, but no toilet. Or, in my case, it comes with a space where a bidet used to be and was ripped out. I disliked having only one plug.

On the plus side, I liked being able to lay on my bed, and feel the sun burning me. It was like being in Malaga, or somewhere. That appears to be it for the positives.

Long story short: get carpet, central heating and double glazing, ghetto. Biz.

And now, the end is near…

Well, okay, so I leave France in 5 days, but I leave the ghetto tomorrow morning. I thought I’d do a blog dedicated to my bitches at Rennes, who I am gonna miss so very much.

Well, and this is in no particular order:

Ann-Charlotte – my crazy American… The moment we met, across the dimly lit square that is Ste. Anne (It was meant to be, surely?) I knew I wouldn’t be able to shake you off We were united in our dislike of our shabby accommodation, and our love of our individual languages (even though mine is right)… In short, we disagree, but the love is there In short: It’s pronounced Pee-can, Al-you-min-ium and They are called Trousers.

Liz - From the moment I saw you and Sinead stalking me through campus, I knew we were meant to be… The following days when Robert and I tried our hardest to latch on to you were difficult, but we won. Eye heart point. Nuff said. And, ‘Take a photo of me and Martin!!’

Sinead - I have been told to make this ‘extra special’, by yourself no less. So, you are dead special. Like a special child. But I will miss you, despite your efforts to try to replace the wife. Expect to hear from her lawyer soon, so. Also, that stalker stuff I said to Liz too.

Robert - Well, let me see… You have smashing hair, and live in a fucking palace. Need I say more? I feel I should. Well, okay. We kept the Lancaster love alive, but you need to continue it when I am gone. Also, never forget you are from Yorkshire. Yorkshire Power.

Derek - Oh, Derek. We have talked about some crazy things. You are so American, yet so not at the same time. I will miss your green trousers (or pants, I suppose as you call them…) Remember that time I ‘wore you’, as Sinead described it? I do it frequently at home. I hope you don’t mind.

Victoria - Well, I have gotten to know you better in more recent times, and I wish we’d been as close throughout the semester… I’m gonna miss you LOADS (WAY more than Liz… *To Liz: Nowhere near as much*, WAY more than Liz, Victoria)… You shocked me with your Combine Harvester euphemisms (here). I hope you enjoy my pants!

Nick(ers) - Well, despite your Southerness, you were still accepted into the group (albeit very lately). I will miss your HORRENDOUS attempts at a Northern accent, and your chivalrous walks home. And your hugs. You did well with them. “Happy in the club, with a bottle of red wine.” Or cider in your case.

Maire - Or Moya and Moire as you have been put in my phone as (when we met originally, obviously). You, with your small principality in which you live. I will miss our cooking times, whilst laughing at Helmut Fritz’s songs, and the French excuse for music. And CNN, of course. Sorry for spilling wine all the time at yours. I did attempt to clean it up… Enjoy your kettle! Or, as I believe you say in Irlande, “bain sult as mo ceitlín!”

Fiona - Arrr, how are you now? I will miss the drunken times we had… You rogue, you! I remember that time you dragged me into a clothes shop, expecting my expert opinion on things, followed by my “yes, it’s fine” response? I do. It makes me chuckle. Silly. AND, I remember coming to bother you at silly-o’clock ‘cos I wanted McDo. Classy. Fiona Ni Whall-ier. Look at me, spelling it how it’s said. Kinda. Proud much?

Jennie - I think the look you do when you’re in disbelief is actually priceless. Seriously. And your damned ability to skate effortlessly. Grr. You are lovely, and I’ll miss your Irishness. Not Sinead’s fake Irishness. “Mom”. Seriously.

Brahbrah - Oh, Barbara. I can’t believe it took us nearly all semester to make that link. Seriously. I’m ashamed. Anyway, what I love most about you is how cute you get when you get drunk… Seriously, you get all giggley. It is sooo funny! And, I appreciate your efforts trying to teach me Irish, albeit when I’m drunk. But, I now know that Taoiseach is pronounced “Tee-she(c)”, and how to say various people’s surnames.

MJ - It took me so long to remember which of you were which. Seriously, it’s a challenge. What are the odds of there being two Irish people called Michael in the same place at the same time. It’s just mad. Tales of your crazy antics always entertained us all… Sleeping with the Ste. Anne bums etc…

The other Michael – You couldn’t get any Irish. Unless you were going round selling potatoes. With a hat on. You with your Irish, and your respectful handshakes. Erm…. ¿que más?…. Did I mention you’re Irish? Well, you are. I remember having no idea what you were saying for the first few weeks. Seriously. I applied the ‘oui-nod’ with perfection

I suppose Tyler will want a mention too… Well… You are incredibly tall, and southern. This has been established. You have also somehow worked the word “y’all” into my vocabulary. Shame on you.

So, yes, there you have it biatches. Vous allez tous me manquer trop! And I will try my hardest to come see y’all when I has some pennies. Or centimes, as it were.

Bisous x

Rennes '09!