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.