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...

"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. 

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.