It dawned on me at 8am, sat in an exam, remembering I'd forgotten to apply mascara today, that I remembered something else. I've been here for two months. Two months that have apparently flown by. And although my life in France has somewhat resembled a National Lampoon film, I managed to scramble to my feet, and do feel I've had the odd victoire and raison d'etre en France. From the family road trip, to my day of constant delays coming home for a week and everything in between, I've handled l'Hexagone the only way I know how - with confidence and grace. No seriously, I've just rolled with the punches and had a laugh. Two months self sufficiently speaking to people in a foreign language, reading it and writing it, if you'd have told me at the beginning of first year that I'd be living below a salsa lover and above a bar, living off kiwi fruit and baguettes, I would have laughed in your face (as politely as possible) and skipped off to have a chinwag with my friends. Yet here I am - or was - I'm on my quarterly victory tour at home - merrily sipping Starbucks blended coffee, nibbling on tea loaf (something I have missed so hardcore), feeling actually pretty damn proud of myself. Which is why, halfway through my vie Strasbourgeoise I have decided to compile a list of a few of my defining French moments and give myself a virtual pat on the back. Feel free to join me.
THAT TIME I RENTED A FLAT
Oh memories. It seems so long ago that I was a poor street urchin, Éponine from Les Mis with Google Maps, shall we say. But despite my setbacks, trials and tribulations of life in a dingy hostel, I Dreamed A Dream (sorry) that I'd find a place to live, and just like Susan Boyle herself, dreams do come true as I managed to secure what to the untrained eye looks like a minuscule studio, but to a desperate Erasmus student, is Buckingham Palace. Those two weeks in hostel limbo is what I think I'll use in the future when my hypothetical children complain about homework. "Think maths is hard? Live in France alone for a fortnight trying to find somewhere to live, that's hard!" Either way, that was a defining, grown up moment.
THAT TIME I WAS FINALLY MISTAKEN FOR A FRANCAISE
Such a satisfying sentence to type. Half asleep half awake walking to meet Gina for the day's first coffee, I was approached by two girls looking worried and lost. As they scrambled over, the first thought was they wanted to report a robbery, as reflecting on my outfit, I was one beret away from joining the Gendarmes, but the panic was soon over as they asked for directions to a bakers, something I was worryingly expert on. I am assuming they thought I was French, so until someone asks me which province I originate from, this is my victory in that department. One to tick off the bucket list...
THAT TIME I FINALLY LEARNT MY WAY AROUND
About three weeks into French-ventures, I thought it was about time I learnt my way around. I had been like Bambi on ice, gingerly learning directions, using the cathedral spire as my beacon of life, but no more! It was about time I stopped calling streets "Rue de that one with the nice patisserie" and "Avenue de homeless man who letches at you" and be my own walking, talking City Guide. How very grown up.
THAT TIME I HAD A CHAT ABOUT AMERICAN LITERATURE WITH A CAB DRIVER
One of the more bizarre situations and nights of my life led to a taxi home from Germany with a cab driver with a passion for reading and learning English. Despite this, it was my first full French conversation and we discussed why I like Salinger and his opinion on Sylvia Plath, later on in the conversation discovering he had three Virginia Woolf novels in his glove compartment and wanted some recommendations of my own. We also spoke a bit in Spanish and talked about food. StrazzyB, the only city I have ever felt comfortable alone in a taxi, because the driver told me his kids like watching Titou le Lapinou. Is this one of those KER-AZY surreal moments people talk about happening on their year abroad? Cause surreal it was.
THAT TIME FRANCE SUNK IN FOR WHAT IT REALLY IS
I love France. Of course I do, I live there. With its cheeses, wines, beautiful sights and history, it's one of my favourite places in the world. But they can be so backwards. The iPhone owner in me of course let out a wail of anguish at the lack of universal 3G (sort it out, France) and the obsession with midnight salsa lessons to this day perplex me, but that's not it. Maybe it was the maggoty cheese, the pesto flavour crisps or the seeded grapes, but I experienced the culture shock to end all culture shocks. Milk in a tube. Like a paste. And it's EVERYWHERE. Not just your hippy dippy deli's or your corner shops, but in every hypermarché and Épicerie, France hides a dark secret from us across the channel. They love UHT milk. In a tube. And as much as I love you, l'Hexagone, this is something I cannot comprehend. Also, sort out your semi-skimmed/full fat situation, buying blue top for semi-skimmed doesn't sit right with my British mentality. But then again, at least I have a separate option from the tube of milk. Maybe I can deal with that first world problem.
These moments, though hilarious and enlightening to my life are not the only things to have happened, but as my tea blog post shows, if I posted about every little thing; the time I bought cheap peanut butter, paid my electricity bill, fixed the broken sink and did a presentation, I'd never have time to demonstrate my natural wit, elegance and charisma. Which is exactly how I managed to angle a free train ride that one time.
Anyone for a croissant?
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