"No, I'm fine, grazie, grazie"

When I fell flat on my face in front of a crowd of Italian tourists in Stansted airport, I knew this was a sign of things to come. A deadly embarrassing combination of humiliation and clumsiness, I just knew that today, was not going to be my day.
“Oh, no don’t mind me!” I practically boomed across the terminal as I scurried to the departure gate. Where I slipped twice and almost headbutted an elderly German lady. This is all before the distressing turbulence on the flight. I am not good on planes, and the man sat next to me wasn't the most comforting of men as I began to wail and cling to the armrests.
I've spent the last five months in Strasbourg, France and this sort of experience sums up that time - a really great anecdote. As I write this, in my poky studio apartment, the heating still not fixed after four months and a face like Grumpy Cat, I know that I've outstayed my welcome. New pastures lie ahead! Fresh fields of Spanish gold, my own ROAD TO EL DORADO! But first, I have to pack. Two suitcases. That’s what came with me to France, and that’s what’s gotta leave with me too. Sounds simple enough on paper, but as a student with a serious Zara and Mango dependence, it ain't that easy, folks. For an hour now, I have been re-configuring the layout of my wheelie bag. Books on top or side pouch? Shoes in side pouch too? Finally, I zipped it shut. I walked back over to my bed, smug in the knowledge that my mother won't have to unpack everything and do it again "the proper way" and snuggled back under my duvet. DAMMIT! The duvet! Everything fits but the bloody duvet! Back to square one. After drawing the conclusion that buying another duvet in Spain is horribly impractical, and that money is much better off hanging up in my wardrobe, I'm at my own stress arcade, playing suitcase Tetris again. I have sat on the suitcase. I have rolled my delicates up and stuffed them in my shoes. I have even considered burning probably important paperwork. I loved my time in France, and I'm more than physically ready to accept that I am probably going to fall over in front of foreigners again in Spain, but take my advice children, part one of Things People Don’t Tell You About Your Year Abroad – that dress looks tempting now, but when it’s time to leave, and your mum isn't there to pack everything up properly for you, the bloody duvet won’t fit. 

Lessons in Living Alone

As an introvert, I find the idea of living alone fairly appealing. Impromptu dance parties, singing as loudly as I can at the top of my lungs and no queues for the bathroom in the morning - I FLOURISH IN THIS ENVIRONMENT. But is it all La Vida Loca? Well, sort of yes, though as with most things, there are downsides. 8am starts are not encouraged in "Casa Hope", in fact, they are frowned upon. But missing one means that I am frowned upon, and the glare of an angry French woman is not the glare I ever wish to be scrutinised by again. Oh and when the fridge breaks, and all the electricity goes out at 11pm, there will be no-one there to dry your tears and work out how to get the hot water running again, oh no, you'll have to spend the night in a hotel (which ends up having a bath and being much nicer and comfier than your own apartment).
I have never been too dependent on others to provide entertainment or conversation - not that I talk to myself THAT much - and I do not find myself vying for attention after fifteen minutes of solitude, but as I am sure many of you agree, finding someone already in the house as you return after a long day can be particularly pleasant. And something I miss from second year. Coming home for Christmas in mid-December and being suddenly startled awake by my little sister squealing at me asking me to paint her nails and having to have quicker showers because my brother is banging on the bathroom door, I realised that still, since that (albeit dramatic) post in September about missing the central heating and the fridge, I still do miss them and I am not ashamed. Though I do like living thirty seconds away from a kebab shop and being able to use up all the hot water myself. I almost thrive on it, in fact.
Next semester I will bid adieu to my scary landlord, scarier neighbours and almost certainly haunted apartment (seriously, it's either that or there's a flock of birds trapped and living in the walls) and live in Spain in an apartment with two flatmates, and although part of me is excited to experience the difference between living alone and with other people, I can't help but worry. WHAT ABOUT THE DANCING? WHAT WILL BECOME OF THE DANCING? Will my standard "stand with feet firmly on the ground and just bend your knees and bop about a bit" move become so unpractised that the next time I attempt it, I'LL JUST FALL OVER? It's all too much to bear. All I can do is hope they're fans of Strictly and we can recreate the routines in the kitchen. Failing that, my next blog post will be a plea to all people about the importance of an impromptu dance party. I'll start typing it up now...

Christmas and Other Reasons I Love Strasbourg

Like the holiday season itself, the minus degrees landed in StrazzyB with a thud (I fell over, the shame) these past few weeks. I was rudely awoken at 9am Friday morning to witness the rising of The Star of Bethlehem in the square outside my window, and just like that two hours later when I eventually did wake up, Christmas was here! For all its oddities; milk in a tube, Sunday slumpday and angry cyclists, Strasbourg knows how to deliver Christmas. Though the "capital of Christmas'" markets may not be open until this coming week, the preparations have been going on for about a fortnight and the Christmas fanatic inside me is begging for a glass of vin chaud and roasted chestnuts. Which leads me on to reasons I really love StrazzyB. Though it was cruel and mean at the start of my stay, holding me back from finding accommodation, confusing me with its university mumbo jumbo and this week, having someone steal my student identity (more later), it's pretty top notch. I am not going to be groundbreaking by saying how beautiful it is, or how quaint and unique, you all already knew that. Nope, I love Strasbourg because nowhere else in the world I can imagine, can you get a kebab at any hour of the day or night and be asked if you want a side of curry wurst. Except maybe Germany, but I am not in Germany, so I do not know. Nowhere else will you find a café that opens at 7am, and closes at 11pm...on a Sunday. And I will happily bet good money that nowhere else will you find such good pretzels. Alright, so food is on my mind a lot. But I thought it might make Strazzy sound a bit odd if I told you about the punk who wanders around permanently drunk with a boombox under his arm, and the man with no nose who plays saxophone. They're génial too. My madcap capers and experiences are seriously great. A special shout out to the man from the kebab shop, who wishes me a "BONJOUR HELLO MY BRITISH FRIEND!" every morning as I pass by.
Now, back to what I am sure is bamboozling you all. "Hope, what do you mean someone stole your student identity?" Well, pals, are we ready for story time? After nine weeks without my student card, I decided to give up. They knew I was here, attending classes and exams - check me out - I was growing sick of the sentence "Il n'est pas disponible" (It's not available). This theory was working out for me, I was living the high life, coffee from the machine, baguette from the law faculty cafeteria and I was looking fierce and French - no laughing. But then the bombshell came. An email from the head of the Erasmus programme at university telling me my student card had been stolen. "Oh" I thought. "Why would someone do that?" Emailing back the lecturer, she informed me that someone had been attending classes under my name in the law and science faculties. Part of me was confused and slightly scared that someone was pretending to be me, but of course, I was hugely flattered. Me! A muse! To a thief and rebel of learning, sticking it to the man, and I am the face and name of the operation! Though in the back of my mind there is something a bit Dog the Bounty Hunter about it, this is another reason why I love Strasbourg. Someone - one hopes a female, since my face is on that card - has gone underground in the name of education, and for nearly an entire semester, gotten away with it. I applaud you, you rabble-rousing science and law renegade for actually succeeding. But I'd rather like my student card back now, please. I want something to stick into my scrapbook.

"Ugh I'm so sick of being stared at on public transport!"

Have you or a loved one ever said this sentence before? If the answer is yes (and it will inevitably be) you're probably a student living in France! Yes that's right ladies and gentlemen, on average, 10 out of 10 Erasmus students will complain that the old lady on the tram is tutting at their skirt, or her husband isn't, if you catch my drift. But fear not, for here at HMCS Industries, we're here to help! Just following these ten simple rules to surviving life in France, and you'll go from obvious exchange student, to Français(e) in no time!

1. YOU ARE NUMBER ONE. PUSH.
The public transport system over here in France can be a tricky one to figure out. Tram delays, confusing bus routes and constant road works, the confusion never ends! To deal with the endless issues of getting around in StrazzyB, I don't make the mistake of renting a bike, oh no. You will be far more respected and approved of if you just lose all sense of Britishness, queueing and all, and just PUSH THROUGH THE QUEUES FOR THE TRAM. Like your life depended on it. And when I say queues, I mean the slow moving glob of people shuffling about in a little group attempting to get onto the tram. They are all doing the same. So push.

2. IF IN DOUBT, BUY EIGHT BAGUETTES AT ONCE
It's a cliché for a reason, the more baguettes the better, mes amis! The bulk buying of the French favourite, in my opinion is half the reason for rule 1 - when Nana Genevieve comes trundling along with her arms stacked with baguettes, she's looking for a prime spot on that tram, and God help you if any snap in half when she uses them as battering rams...

3. STAY OUT OF THE CYCLE LANES
I learnt this the hard way. Cyclists hate pedestrians. Cyclists especially hate pedestrians blocking the cycle lanes and will verbally abuse them in a very angry French spiel. If you are going to do it, have a "ta geule!" up your sleeve. And then run. Very fast.

4. SAY YES.
Not to like, robbing a bank, or the ladies of the night circling the tram stops at questionable hours, but to the nights out, the people hawking free magazines, the bus into Germany, the cheap Milka and silly hats in Germany and the ridiculous lectures. I don't think I'd be half as happy as I am if I'd have gone "no, I'll pass on the tarte flambée, thanks". Yes man handing out leaflets about a pie eating competition, I'll go, and yes madam with her clipboard asking if my experience in the Orange shop was good, let's have a chinwag shall we?

5. NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE POWER OF TEA
When Sundays set in and everything seems a little blue, a good cup of tea will literally lift your spirits through the roof. It gets cold in North-east France, and as I sit here, with my hat on, curled under my duvet typing with mittens on, I thank Brigitte Bardot herself that I bought a kettle.

6. EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED
I write this particular rule after a very unexpected evening. A blown fusebox, call to the landlord, panic to my mother and an hour later, I am in a hotel. Yes, only I would have an issue so inexplicable that I am not able to sleep in my own apartment. Did I mention this all happened after a lecture in which a young man discussed the future of "ladies of the night" and the numerous reasons that they will one day be replaced by robots? No? Yeah, that's cause I wasn't expecting it either. 

7. TAKE EVERYTHING IN YOUR STRIDE
I have been nanoseconds away from being ran over by a bike so many times in France. Approached by homeless men asking for money, and been on the receiving end of a very drunk deranged woman on the tram. This is now my life. And what can I do about it? Take it on the chin. As my evening would show, France throws anything and everything at you, usually fabulous bread and cheese, but on the occasion that you get stuck with no electricity, you've gotta use the France-tra (remember that?) and say EH, THAT'S FRANCE!

8. DOCUMENT. EVERYTHING.
Seriously. I don't think a day has gone by here in France without me taking a photo of something cool or interesting or funny. No matter how big or small, from the awesome Cathedral to graffiti that stated "WALTER WHITE IS HEISENBERG" I have got snaps of it all. And share them! A quick email to parents or friends can not only cause some serious jealousy of everyone back in Blighty, but looking back on snaps you take can make you go "ah, that was fun, so glad I said yes to that tarte flambée!"

9. IT'S NOT WEIRD TO GO ALONE
Introverts rejoice! Whilst in the UK, you might get a raised eyebrow or sympathetic glance from an elderly lady as you eat at a restaurant alone, even going to the cinema on your seul gets a few glances. But not here, thank you France! This weekend, Eddard Stark, his crew and myself spent around three hours in a café, completely blending in. Ahhh yes. Whilst I am a firm believer in the tourist lifestyle, sometimes nothing can beat a good day out on your own. Does this make me sad? Nope, I like to think it makes me a local.

10. IGNORE ALL THESE RULES
Yeah okay so blood, sweat and tears went into creating this blog post, over three days of planning and asking people what I should include, but it's fine, REEEEEALLY, just sack the whole thing off. In all seriousness (new for me, I know) everyone's year abroad is different, and when I go to Spain, I'm 99.9% sure it'll be different too. If you take anything away from this, it should really be the following three things: say yes to bread, buy a woolly jumper and make sure you ring your mum at least once a week. 

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?

The Bucket List

So I haven't done a post in a while, and for this I can only ask for forgiveness, but this week has been a blur of being ill, trying to sort out my life both here and in the UK (NTU admin, I'm still waiting for your emails!) and honestly I had nothing particularly good to write about other than a bizarre but enjoyable night out on Friday resulting in heckles from passing cars as I walked home from a club that's actually a boat.
However here I am, racking my brain once again for things to blog about, just not really getting anywhere. But then it hit me, I had a little bucket list! Never written anywhere, but contained in my odd little brain, ready for me to forget as soon as something new came along and pushed it out. So the time has come for me to actually jot it down, and where better to do so than on the number 1 thing on said list - my blog?
VISIT A FOREIGN COUNTRY
So technically I went to Germany today, only over the boarder, but nevertheless, I crossed country! But a two hour trip that took ten minutes on the bus wasn't really what I meant. Switzerland, Sweden, Germany, Czech Republic, Denmark, Holland, my list of European nations yet to be graced with my presence continues to rack up, and for me, that's what Erasmus is about. Having a laugh on a train trying to speak a bit of broken French and Spanish. And the odd German word, fantastisch!
MAKE MY OWN SPATZLE
Okay, I know I talk about Alsatian noodles like they're going out of fashion, but I learnt how to make them recently, and even for me, it looks fairly easy! I feel as though my favourite comfort food might start adding up if I depend purely on restaurants to cook them for me, so trying to be a domestic goddess might be a good idea.
BE MISTAKEN FOR FRENCH
It's with a heavy heart I say I need to stop posing outside road signs. The constant stream of "sigh, I speak English you know" coming from the pouty mouthed women working in the patisseries is getting too much for me to handle. As are the pouty mouthed student in their sunglasses sipping espresso. The sign posing must stop, Hope. It is time to be pouty and French. At least until the Christmas markets arrive.
USE 20€ AND GET AS FAR AS POSSIBLE
Sounds fairly impossible, but 2€ gets you into Germany, and then the possibilities are endless...
RENT A BIKE
Yes, I know, my previous post about cycling makes me sound like a Monty Python sketch, but I cannot justify spending five months in France sans un vélo. It's time I faced my fears, show the woman who failed my cycling proficiency that she was wrong and this time, not ride into a parked car. Just call me Victoria Pendleton.
VISIT A COUNTRY WHERE I DON'T KNOW ANY WORDS
Sweden's ABBA Museum, I'm coming for you.
GO TO EVERY MUSEUM IN STRAZZYB
Many merci's to my Student Culture Card, I can visit any Alsatian museum for free, and I fully intend to. Already ticked off the list; the Zoological Museum and the Alsatian Museum. Personally, I can't wait for the day we visit the Wallpaper Museum, Stamp Museum or Cheese Museum. Life doesn't get more thrilling, I'm sure you'll agree.
GO TO THE TOP OF THE EIFFEL TOWER...FINALLY.
I've been to Paris twice already and despite playing the perfect tourist, have never made it to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Reasons vary between it being too cold or that I'd walked to the second floor already and at that point was ready to give up. Third time's a charm. Oh, also visit Paris.

Of course I could be really boring and add "get fluent in French" or "stop speaking so much English" but those are givens, and would both make for a fairly boring bucket list. This is also just half of what I actually want to achieve, but I'll save "visit the IKEA flagship" and "find the Starbucks in Baden-Baden" for another list. Entitled "Things I REALLY REALLY Want to Do"

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..?

A Guide to Growing Up...about five years too late.

As those who know me are well aware, I am not sophisticated, chic or in any way French. Which is why the culture shock of being torn away from my comforts of cheap peanut butter, the channel Really and a shower that doesn't drip, and being cast 500 miles from home (I'm singing it too, don't worry) has suddenly set in. It's a very different feeling than the one I had going to uni in the first place - literally 30 miles from home in Leicester to Nottingham - but not just for the distance.
As the full moon rises, the darkness draws in and I decide a coat is a better purchase than a jar of Nutella the size of my head, the transformation is complete and I am suddenly aware that I AM AN ADULT! This worrying behaviour of early nights, more time reading the paper and eating fruit tells me I am growing up. In France. Sacré bleu indeed. Yesterday for example I had to make a phonecall that still doesn't make any sense. With the electricity company. This was like the David and Goliath of French conversation, Rocky v Apollo, and with my heart beating in my ears I meekly asked Gérome, the lovely man on the other end to help me out. And I did it...IN FRENCH. Oh that's right ladies and gentlemen, I didn't back out, ask to be spoken to in English or lose my train of thought, cry down the phone and hang up, I spoke in French! I must admit that my transition from socially recluse introverted twenty year old to fully mature adult did suffer setbacks, in the form of the impromptu Carlton Banks dance party I held for myself shortly after Gérome and I said "au revoir", but rather ironically, baby steps! 
Anyone who has had the move from England to France and has heard their mother use the phrase "self-sufficient" a bazillion times will know this feeling of growing up. Well done guys, pats on the back and croissants all round, we deserve it. We deserve to swagger out of a lecture having comprehended more than 30% of what went on, we deserve to high five everyone we meet because we've managed to send a postcard home and the fact that we spoke on the phone to someone IN FRANCE? Well, that's a well earned glass of rosé, my friend. It might seem that just a simple phone call to someone explaining that I'm a new residence and that I'd like to pay the bill at the end of the month is getting me over-excited and animated, making me feel like a real actual functioning adult, but in reality, it's almost like the penny has dropped, and that the dark cloud of homesickness and self doubt is melting away into the sun (rendering my new coat impractical). Without self-deprecating too much, I have never been the one to lead, always a follower, so this is the boost I've been waiting for. I have always been the lost one, wearing too much eyeliner and drinking tea at impractical hours. It's like Monica says in Friends, "welcome to the real world, it sucks, you're gonna love it!" and you know what? I sort of do. It's time to don my sunglasses, stick on some Beyoncé, dance around my room and shout I AM AN ADULT AND I CAN DO AS I PLEASE! 
Swiftly followed by serious study, the news and another apple. I am a serious adult, after all, of course.

You're Listening to Radio Hope

So I was really down in my last post, and decided to put the lid on the peanut butter and actually be positive. I compiled a list of French songs and songs related to l'Hexagone to make myself feel all Francoise Hardy and the like. 

1. Francoise Hardy - Le Temps de l'Amour 

I love Francoise Hardy. She's cool, and her music she releases even now is pretty good. She makes me want a fringe and heavy eyeliner. You may recognise it from Moonrise Kingdom.

2. Phoenix - Girlfriend

I know everyone knows the song 1901, but this is my favourite Phoenix song. I was introduced to them by one very cool friend of mine, and we got to see them at Glastonbury this year, and they were by far my favourite performance of the weekend. Also worth a listen - Trying to be Cool and Lizstomania.

3. Edith Piaf - Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

Ah Edith, how could I not feature you? That voice, that song, this. It's stereotypical yes, but I actually love Edith, so forgive me. Still amazing, still gives you goosebumps. La Vie en Rose, the movie is also worth a watch.

4. Sylvie Vartan - La Plus Belle Pour Aller Danser

Another '60's chick, I am a huge fan of the YéYé girls music, Sylvie Vartan, Francoise, France Gall et al. Sylvie married Johnny Halliday and was totally cute and friends with The Beatles. Makes me want to cut my hair short.

5. The Beatles - Michelle

They sing in French in this, it counts alright? Self explanatory, how could you not love this?

6. Air - Playground Love

Yes, it's moody and depressing, but I would never forgive myself for including Sexy Boy, but I love Air. Featured on the movie The Virgin Suicides. 

7. Carla Bruni - Quelqu'un M'a Dit

There's something really calming and tranquil about this, and it just puts me in a really nice mood. It's a sad, bittersweet song, but it sounds beautiful. 

8. Brigitte Bardot - L'appareil Sous

Love her or hate her, this song is happy and poppy and the 60's. I'm learning that little shimmy she does in the video. Also doing my hair like that as we speak.

9. Daft Punk - One More Time

A million times better than Random Access Memories, everyone loves this song. An obvious choice, but a good one. 

The Slump, Subtitle - Why I Hate Sundays

Nine times out of ten, I like to blog quite jokingly. I like to make silly puns about croissants and drop a French word into an English sentence comme ça like it's no big deal. But then there's that one time out of ten where I sit at my desk, in the total silence, with just The Office for company, and I fall into a slump. 

Literally everyone ever says that their year abroad was the greatest experience of their lives, they made friends, learnt a new culture or two, did something HIGH-larious like got drunk in a water park or rented a bike and rode to Zimbabwe or something like that. They gloss over the bits where they miss their mum or their best friend, because with the technology we have today, we can talk all the time, practically be next to each other. But the truth is, there is still a distance, and no matter what technology we're using, it's not quite the real thing. Sundays I find to be the worst. The whole city goes into shut-down, with the exception of a couple of café's and as everything turns a little bit too 28 Days Later, you find yourself running home to the safety of your laptop. I will come back time and time again to my brie eating contest metaphor, not only because I love cheese, but that's what I came here to do - eat as much cheese as possible in four months. But really, it can be hard, and Sunday's mean that Petit Casino and Carrefour Express are closed, so your brie feast suddenly becomes a bit Man Vs. Food. So, what now? I'm sat here with my metaphorical plate of brie, the size of my own torso, and all I have to eat it with is a plastic spoon. When I'm really homesick and the cheese seems a little bit too much to handle, how do I get around it?

"IT'S HARD I MISS HOME WHY AM I HERE! I CAN'T EVEN HAVE A FRY UP, MCDONALD'S DON'T DO HASH BROWNS" ah yes, the infamous internal monologue spilled out to my mum via FaceTime, this time a little less dramatically in my own apartment. Although reminding me that my dad is visiting next week, I still found it hard at present to get out of my rut, like a spider in a bath of turmoil and homesickness. As my Nottingham friends get back into motion, going to clubs that play music made in the last 18 months and eating Pot Noodles, I felt down in the dumps, confined to my own one room paradise, sat in the silence. But I can't expect time to stop, or for someone else to scoop my spidery self out of the bath. I have to build my own ladder and climb out the tub myself. I LISTEN TO FAR TOO MUCH SHAKIRA TO BE DOWN FOR TOO LONG. It's true I miss my best friend's home made jalfrezi, Jack Wills and Pandora's Box on a Friday, but they'll all be waiting for me next year. I can sack off the brie contest for a day every now and again, put my duvet over my head and eat peanut butter from the jar, because it's no fun eating brie alone. I can be the human embodiment of Grumpy Cat, because let's face it, we all feel that cat's pain from time to time. I can chain-shower (exactly what it sounds like) and watch Grand Design's in a marathon because that's what I like to do, come rain or shine, England or France! But I know I need to get out, because that's the only way to stop wallowing. I need to press PLAY on She Wolf and dance around the cathedral. And most importantly, remember it's okay to miss home, as long as I don't miss out here. 

This feeling will pass.

That was cheesy, wasn't it? Speaking of cheese, where did I put that brie?

The British Aisles

For some reason, unbeknownst to myself, I exude an air of un-Frenchness. Whether it's my borderline anaemic paleness, my incessant need to take photos of literally everything, or that during exchanges with actual French people, my response is usually "Pardon?", I just cannot figure it out. I don't know why it's so obvious to the population of Strasbourg that I am not French, but apparently it is. I don't know whether there's secret DO NOT BE CONFUSED: SHE ISN'T FRENCH posters with my face plastered on them floating around the city, or if the old ladies of the WI (is there one here?) have all tutted at the fact that I'm skipping about with my camera taking photos of street signs that read Rue Leicester? Either way, I have been easily identified as an étrangère on more than one occasion.Well, I couldn't until today.
I'll set the scene.
E. Leclerc, the French mega-chain, seller of everything from milk to mugs, a French Tesco, you could say. Midday, and Gina and I were wandering through the aisles, picking up the odd bar of Milka, and pasta shapes when suddenly...THE BRITISH AISLE. For those of you who may not know, I am not a fan of coffee, in fact, unless it's teeming with caramel syrup, steamed milk and calls itself a Starbucks macchiato, I'm just not going to go for it. Instead, I pick tea, time and time again, as lowbrow as it may be. The French are not particularly well known for their love of a cup of char and a wad, so for the past fortnight, it would be fair to say that I've been displaying withdrawal symptoms from my English Breakfast brew. But this is the past. Faced with an aisle of Great British goodness, it took all the strength in my body not to collapse onto the display of Marmite and weep with joy. Baked beans, brown sauce and Sun Pat all welcomed me home for a good few minutes, their metaphorical cheers of "We missed you, Hope!" ringing in my ears! But where was it? Feverishly scavenging, I scanned the shelves for tea. AND THERE IT WAS. In its shiny red packaged glory. Twinings. I could almost taste it as I grabbed the box, overcome with a joy that I could only imagine is matched by a wedding or the birth of a baby, but I'm not totally convinced, this was pretty special. Chattering loudly about the love I have for tea and even taking photos to send to my mum, I'm sure there was the odd French tut at the girl so overwhelmingly excited by finding teabags that she was one step away from bulk-buying, but this was my moment. My "Lion King Circle of Life" moment. Thankfully, I didn't cry, but as somewhat of a tea addict and hot beverage connoisseur, this was a defining moment in my life as an adult in France. I feel that in hindsight, it was in fact this one moment that had outed me as a foreigner to the other shoppers of E. Leclerc, as it's a bit of a give away to stand gleaming at the checkout with my English Breakfast and my milk - fresh this time, not in a tube, more later - that I am a bit of a tourist. Nestling into my tiny French abode, I realised something wasn't sitting right. No, it's not the sugar, I have plenty. And it's not my viewing material, that's fine...what is it? A dark, looming sensation overwhelms me as the dread is realised...BOURBONS. I have no bourbon biscuits. And just like that, here we go again...

The Great British Blogger's Block.

It's around this time when I blog, about a week or two in, that I suffer from blogger's block. Everything I think of writing at midnight suddenly becomes a terrible idea at midday, and I mutter to myself quietly backspacing on all my previous words. The reason I've not posted half the things that I've written is down to the fact that I was finding myself being quite negative. All obviously in a jokey way, cynically calling France out on the fact that they don't have half the technology we take for granted at home (Netflix, iPlayer, I am looking at you.) or that rushing is apparently not a thing here. I really am enjoying myself here, other than the occasional homesick wobble, and I'd hate to portray the whole year like a GRUMPY OLD WOMAN.
So I reached a bit of a wall. There was always the option to just put a post out that I hadn't put thought and effort into, that wasn't that funny or actually meant anything, but that just wasn't for me.
Which brings me here. Fairly confused about what to write next. I haven't had many classes, and the university system is so old fashioned that using pigeon mail would possibly be an upgrade.
I appreciate that I am in fact a cynic, a scowler, I grumble. But on the flipside, when it comes to my writing, I'm a perfectionist. 
With this, and my lack of material (unless you'd really love a detailed description of my apartment) I thought I'd change it up a bit, and do some French recommendations! A sort of "When In Rome" type of affair.
IF YOU'RE GOING TO SEE ONE THING...
See the cathedral! Not that it's hard to miss. Standing at the foot of the massive doors and looking up, it's pretty overwhelming. And inside is just as beautiful, with an astronomical clock too! Apparently they show videos about the astronomical clock, but I'm not going to make you watch that. It's just inexplicably beautiful to see, and the oldest, tallest building in Strazzy.
IF YOU'RE GOING TO EAT ONE THING...
Don't make it the maggot cheese! I am still, two weeks later, not sick of Alsatian noodles. Also known as spaetzle in Germany, I could not be any more in love with these. It's a combination of pasta, egg, potato and love and comfort. I would fully recommend La Corde á Linge for these bad boys with mushrooms. Heaven on a plate.
IF YOU'RE GOING TO ONE PLACE...
For a good night out, I wouldn't necessarily say France were experts. (See previous posts) but I don't think Happy Hours is a bad place to start. Oh yeah, plural. From 3-8pm, certain drinks are only around 3 euros and with a kitchen that smells AMAZING, you cannot go wrong. That's five hours of cheap drinks, plus good food and complementary pretzels, what's not to love?
AND ABOVE ALL ELSE...
Get on the Batorama! Yes, I know this sounds geeky and cringey that I went on a boat ride listening to a historical tour of Strasbourg, but this was the greatest thing ever, alright? It was relaxing, interesting and the fact it was really sunny massively helped. I suppose during the harsh Alsatian winters it could be quite different, but for something quiet and relaxing, the Batorama is for you. And a 'rama it is.

Like a Bull in a China Shop

I'll be honest. My apartment is not all roses and kugelhopf. The shower drips incessantly and the lady upstairs apparently enjoys salsa dancing at midnight. If anything, it's less "la vie en rose" and more LA VIE BOHÈME. But, following my brand new "Eh, that's France" mantra (my France-tra?), I'm taking it in my size 5 stride. A trip to Ikea and one massive cleaning spree later, I feel ready to let MTV into my crib and show then what I keep in the fridge (clue, pâté and bread.)
I feel especially 'Strasbourgeoise' living above a café bar. Le Chat Perché likes to sit everyone outside my window and they have a soft spot for playing jazz in retort to Mrs Second Floor and her moonlight salsa-thon. It would be fair to say its lively. The one dilemma I currently hold is transportation. For those of you who may not know, Strasbourg has an IMMENSELY good tram system. One shows up every two minutes and unless you hit rush hour, you'll get a seat. But it's costly, like a bus, eventually it adds up. So I thought "I know what's a great idea, a bike!"
Me on a bike, cycling through the city like Victoria Pendleton on her Sunday cycle. Foolproof right?
I discussed the idea at length with my friends who all actively encouraged the rental of a VelHop, joking that I would be a wannabe Amélie, filling my bicycle with baguettes. But they don't know me yet, clumsy, awkward, accident prone me, constantly one step away from knocking over a line of people, breaking the drippy shower and tripping over a pram. Sounds of my failed Cycling Proficiency paper being dropped on a desk in front of me ring in my ears and all of a sudden everything's a little bit too Twilight Zone and I speedwalk straight past the bike rental shop. I am not now, nor have I ever been a strong cyclist. If you've met her, no doubt my mother will have told you about the time I cycled straight into a stationary, parked car.
French life, it appears has changed drastically to the retro-lomography Paris we're so used to Ikea selling us in a nice white frame. I have seen one, yes just the ONE beret since I've been here, not a single onion necklace and hardly any chatter of crème brulée in the street.
The trams run, as I have mentioned - impeccably here, and there's always one little weasel at the back of the coach playing Avicii at full blast, nodding at the long haired handbag wielding pouting girls stood on their iPhones in the corner. I naturally went virtually undetected as I hauled my two suitcases, three bags and pillow cross-city from my hostel to my studio. It appears no matter how much France has modernised, there has not yet been the mass -produced invisibility cloak. But there has been Vine. So look out for the video of a girl with a rucksack on tripping over some tramlines, I'm sure I'm there. IT APPEARS CLUMSINESS IS INTERNATIONAL
This whole post has apparently too been a bit haphazard. I suppose it's just a bit of an update of the goings on of the day, along with some witty anecdotes about my own terrible centre of gravity and desire to appear cool.
So no, my hip French life is not totally macaroons and Madeleine's. It's pesto flavoured crisps and peaches. An odd one, but you'd never turn one down.

It Was Eric Idle Who Once Sang...

Ladies and gentlemen, the impossible has happened! Nope, I am still being recognised as English and no, it's nothing to do with my face, but I am smiling! Boys and girls gather round, for I am being POSITIVE! In a scheme I am calling "Eh, that's France!" I have decided to brush all the weariness away! Fell asleep on a boat? Eh, that's France! Confessed that actually, Grease is your favourite movie ever? Eh, that's France! Eaten cheese with maggots in? Eh? That doesn't sound right, let me just Google...nope, it's right! THAT'S FRANCE!

I've been more built up today, like I know something is just around the corner. Usually a cyclist shouting obscenities as I bop about the city like a small child. 

Maybe it's the E numbers in my bolognaise crisps (as good as they sound) but things are looking up!  Let me tell you, InterPals, when you're lying in a dingy hostel bed at 8am, stuck to your pyjamas because it's so hot outside, listening to a group of French people squabble on the street and you think "Is this what my life was meant to be like?" that's when it turns around! If you're not there yet and you can still afford coffee, I envy you. I am the proverbial phoenix rising coughing and spluttering from the ashes to begin again! I don't know whether it was the incessant "ta geule!"s I heard from the window this morning, the fact that I ate grapes for dinner last night or the fact that I think I have said the sentence "Avez vous le WiFi?" more times than I care to imagine, but I feel triggered to go out there and carpe the ever loving hell out of the diem.
To the cyclist who shouted "JOLIE!" as I skipped merrily to the tram this morning, thank you, but je ne suis pas interessée! The lady glaring at my bare legs in shorts yesterday; I AM NOT SORRY! And to the man who sold my aunt some cheese with maggots in - WELL...that's still not right, dude. 
I have decided to overlook the fact that France - in terms of technology - lives in the dark ages, and I have crowned myself QUEEN OF THE STONE AGE. No 3G? No problem, I'll just live in McDonalds connecting to the free WiFi, inconspicuously eating les pommes frites every now and again! No internet connection of my own? That's cool, it's about time I met the neighbours! Though the whole "NO NETFLIX" thing does baffle me...
I will admit, somewhat embarrassingly, that I didn't take to this whole "year abroad" malarkey quite like everyone else. I was a nervous wreck, sobbing in quite the unladylike manner into a hoodie as my mum bid her adieu the other day. Wobbly and very hungry, I just started to meekly make my way about, figuring out where I'm going and when, setting myself little targets for uni and trying (really, Mum!) to speak French and not get caught out as a Brit. Now I finally have my own place (guided tour and gift shop hours TBC) I feel more settled and ready to make this work. I'm off to my favourite place in the world tomorrow, Ikea, so I'll be picking up some tres Francais bits and bobs to make myself feel more at home. 
I'm sure you're all over the moon to not hear me complain for once, and I am too. So until next time, French Friends...

I Could Just Eat Some Drop Scones...

The one thing, after a week of living life in France, that I miss, is home comforts. My own bed, my parent's sofas in the living room, the never ending fridge...
As I go about my days, I find myself craving what was second nature at home. I get a lump in my throat even thinking about the fact that Netflix doesn't work in most of Europe and that I literally have to go cross-continent to get to the hairdressers. I can't just nip downstairs and steal some of the dinner whilst it cooks, or even ask my mum to post me a cake (trust me, I did, apparently it's not a thing)
So, Estrasmuses, how do we cope when homesickness sets in? With a patisserie? A film in our jimjams? Skype?
Answer:
All of the above.
Today especially, I struggled. I promised myself two things as I started this blog. Firstly that I wouldn't whine about too much and turn people off the idea of the year abroad, and secondly, despite that, I would be HONEST.
I'm not a particularly lucky person, I have always been clumsy, unfortunate, goofy and I like to think I own it. Like a wannabe Miranda Hart, if you will. But as I trawl, constantly in search of accommodation in this gorgeous city, I cannot help but feel as though someone up there has it in for me. WHY? Why me! I don't smoke, blaspheme, steal, cheat, lie! I just need to catch a break. Exhausted by the whole shebang, I called my mum, weeping in my own dramatic fashion on a tram. "MAMA, WHY? WHAT DID I EVER DO? GET ME HOME MAMA, BRING ME BACK TO BRITAIN" - I think I was even flailing my arms around like a hammy actress at some points. It dawned on me that despite being exhaustedly down on my luck, poor and fairly alone in France, I was homesick. Already, I know! I sat on the rest of the tram journey (after most people had seen my monologue and moved several seats away) craving desperately a hug from my little sister, tea made by my dad (always puts sugar in without being asked, top man) and my mum's Spanish chicken. So I did what every homesick Erasmus student should do when they miss home - I cried, ate a massive bag of crisps, two éclairs and bought some wine.
Guys, I'm going to level. Year abroad is great, okay? It's a once in a lifetime chance to go on what is essentially a YEAR LONG HOLIDAY and eat James Corden's weight in bread. But the going gets tough, y'all. It gets hard, and nobody tells you about it. All you can do is persevere. That bump in the road, be it money, accommodation, friends, family, homesickness - think of it as a plate of brie. About a third of the way in, you've had enough and just fancy chucking it in the bin. But then you realise you're in a brie eating contest, and you have to gnaw away at that gooey cheesiness in the same way as I am desperately trying to find a way out of what has become a (for me) serious blog post.
I'm also writing this for future reference when homesickness hits again. 
And at the end of the day everyone, I've seen you eat brie before, and you're a champ. Just pop over to Carrefour, bag yourself some crisps and questionable rosé and make a feast.

The Morning After the Night Before

I'll set the scene. 10.30pm, Strasbourg. You're wandering around Place Kléber, desperately trying to find somewhere that sells alcohol. You reach no conclusion. Dammit! France, for all its wine and champagne shuts its offies incredibly early. Sober and frustrated, you decide to just hop it to the club.
The night starts off slow but when the DJ starts playing music you genuinely recognise (Live Club, I see you with your 1990's Michael Jackson, STOP IT) you have a little boogie and the night gets underway.
THIS IS WHERE THINGS CHANGE
"Oh I tell you, all this bopping about has built me up a right thirst!" You think as you head to the bar for your third vodka and coke of the night. "Goodness, this is strong!" but being you, you persevere. You trooper, you. Turns out, it is pretty strong and the equivalent to nearly three shots of vodka with just a dash of Rolla Cola. Oh the student life. The night is great and then you head off home for some well earned kip.
SKIP TO THE END...
"Oh I better get up...OOOH no, head is too sore for that right now, I'll just lay here for a bit." Oh that's right friends, your best pal Harry Hangover has decided to spend the day (and the following day, you know who you are) and he's put his feet right up! Being in Britain hungover can amount to a number of things, depending on who you are. Cures vary from person to person, but I seemed to have narrowed them down into three separate groups:
1. Junk food: I'm talking fry up, McDonalds, sweets, chocolate, carbohydrates, Chinese takeaway.
2. Sunglasses, a cigarette, a cup of tea and a chinwag about the night before
3. Sleep.

Rule Britannia indeed. But what about when we're in l'Hexagone? Whatever shall we do! What do you mean they don't have fish and chips? What do they do with themselves? Those poor souls! For the Brit abroad, this may come as quite a shock. No full Englishes, no fried bread, and if you asked a waiter for curry sauce on your pommes frites, be prepared for some seriously weird looks.
"So what DO we do?!" I hear you cry! Well, here's the thing. You don't do anything. From what I've seen, France loves its drink, but they know their limits! I am yet to see a chic French girl fall flat on her face after one too many alcopops. 
Though maybe, just maybe they've seen how we do "hangover chic" - I'm talking men's t-shirt, pants, socks and no makeup and realised, maybe it's just a British thing.