Hello, This is Newsround.

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?

Does This Mean I'm a Grown Up?

I think I'm an adult.
This sentence as I type it throws me into such a state of panic and anguish that I scatter quickly back into bed, hide under the covers and watch Ugly Betty on Netflix. Almost like that scene on Freaky Friday when they realise what's happened. It's scary, when? How? Why?!
But I cannot escape the feeling, that I am genuinely grown up. I know, I was meant to be grown up already, paying my electricity bill, looking after my student loan and buying fruit. Which I am doing (really, mum!), but to me, it's always felt like it should be more than drinking coffee rather than tea and reading the Telegraph, not just doing the sudoku. Which is why the realisation that I AM AN ADULT hit me where I least expected it - living in France at the age of 20. But it didn't hurt.
Between you and I, friends of the Internet, today I bought some novelty hats in Germany. Not just any novelty hat no, this is not your bog standard party hat with a streamer, or your day to day reindeer antlers, I bought felt hats, in the shape of dogs, elephants and bees. Oh, and I bought five. Now, before we all have a chuckle, thinking "Oh, Hope, you fruit loop, why? Could you not have bought something useful like pens and a microwave?" to which I respond "Yes, you are correct, stranger who I have just made up to be saying such a thing, I could have done so. But my mum asked me to buy them." This, however isn't the embarrassing bit. Not in the slightest. Helplessly in the €1 Store whilst paying for my five felt novelty hats, and receiving that look of disdain  and sigh of "tourists..." from the cashier, I realised I didn't know how to ask for a bag in German. Oh no. On the verge of tears, my heart beating, and being cast aside for the woman behind me paying for a toilet brush, I was forced to leave without a bag. Holding the novelty hats. I was practically forced out of the shop into the streets, clutching hats in the shape of animals. I kept an understandably low profile walking through the town, certain that the Germans were pointing and laughing at the blonde girl with a bumblebee hat in hand, so obviously needing a bag, before quickly ducking into the supermarket to buy something in order to get a bag. I will admit that my supermarket purchase was smooth peanut butter, since it's over €4 in France and only €2 in Deutschland, so my sassy ascent into fully fledged adult life hit a small but delicious snag. But as I skipped out of Kehl, my animal hats now safely hidden from public sight, I realised that I hadn't worn any of the hats in the street, and for this, I was a grown up. With peanut butter.
Maybe this is more of a silly post about felt hats, but after a long arduous process finding my feet in France, socially and with university (STILL looking at you, NTU admin...), learning how to pay the electricity company and just getting to grips with something that for a long time didn't feel real, it was glorious to have a little grown up victory. I even drank coffee the other day, one that wasn't 85% steamed milk too! Well played, France and Germany, you made me responsible. Now, how do you go about making Spatzle..?
Oh and if you're wondering: Kann ich bitte eine Tasche?

A Good French Dressing

Bleary eyed and tired, I dragged myself to an 8am lecture Wednesday morning, cursing at the university for making me wake up whilst it was still dark. My hair, despite wrestling with a brush, sticking out at various angles and I'm fairly certain my low maintenance make up routine that day left me looking like Stig of the Dump. But at least it was early and I could be home to actually reassess my visible situation two hours later. 

Two hours later, I walked outside and to my horror, total and utter terror, the French students had arrived. And it was like Paris Fashion Week.

Just standing by the entrance of the university building, I saw a girl. Michael Kors bag slung on her arm, hair poker straight, walking like she in fact owned France. To my left, I recoiled in self-loathing as I saw another girl hop off her rental bike, readjust her sunglasses and totter inside...IN HEELS. I will admit that I am making myself out to sound like I was wearing a bin bag and slept by the Rhone river, when actually I did make the effort to put a skirt on and even dug out my eyebrow pencil for the day, but I wasn't winning America's Next Top Model that day, let's just say. I have still not mastered the art of French chic. 

French dressing (the act of clothing, not like a salad topping) is an elusive mystery. For the cool French chicks riding their bikes in five inch stilettos, it's second nature, something they were born with, or something their mum taught them whilst eating baguettes at light-speed, three glasses of vin rouge on the go. For us Estrasmuses, myself in particular, it is something I must learn and in the meantime trying to not trip over the laces on my Doc Martens. Until this day comes, I have compiled a list of ways in which I could appear to be less dorky-Brit-abroad and more native-Franco-German-delight.

1. Stop letting your nail varnish chip.

2. Wine counts as lunch.

3. Zara and Mango are your new best friends.

4. Nobody cool takes the tram. 

5. I really need a Michael Kors bag.

So for someone typing this with three glittery nails on each hand, drinking chamomile tea wearing a Norwich City shirt, it's going well. Of course these things aren't going to transform me into a Francaise at the stroke of midnight, during a full moon, in full daylight, whatever. But whilst I'm here, I thought I might as well give "fitting in" a bash. I am still yet to master heels on solid ground before attempting to cycle in them, and I actually enjoy my daily tram ride, so maybe I am still sticking out like the un-chic bag lady that this post has unintentionally made me out to be (I'm really not, I just like Topshop!), however I can rest easy knowing I am not parading around in a bumbag, I HEART ALSACE hoodie and socks and sandals combination. There is always hope. Now where did I leave that beret..?