Day #45 - Why year abroads can totally suck

The title of this post is a little more pessimistic than I was going for. However, I think it's really important for people to understand what I mean by it, and, as I'm actually heading back to the UK tomorrow, so it seems only right that I should do a sort of round-up of my first half-term here in Rouen.

When you set off for a year abroad, there are plenty of pamphlets and websites telling you how 'exciting' years abroad can be - people travel the continent, make friends for life (the University of Edinburgh was particularly keen to tell me the ERASMUS programme's marriage statistics), learn more about themselves, find self-confidence and master their second or third languages to near-bilingualism. A year abroad is frequently toted as 'the best year of your life'.
Personally, I wasn't particularly bowled over by the idea of leaving all my new friends at university behind - they become your adopted family in so many ways, and leaving an entire support network was (and still is) absolutely terrifying to me. With the whole 'you're-going-to-have-to-do-Freshers-again-but-in-French' thing added on top, I was not too excited. Nevertheless, I filled out all my forms, got all my paperwork in on time, and started finding accommodation and courses online.

When I first arrived in Rouen, there was a sort of floating honeymoon period where I stayed with my friend Eleri (whose name should only ever been noted down in this blog if it is followed by the words 'my lifesaver') and we spent about two weeks attempting to complete our timetables. If we didn't achieve much - or anything - in a day, we would simply shrug, then head out into the town centre and sit out in the sunshine, drinking wine. I ate a lot of pastries. Once she got her wi-fi installed? Ah, it was bliss.

Then there was a sort of... slump. It came about two and a half weeks in. Two and a half weeks of sleeping on a friend's sofa bed, two and a half weeks of being messed around by the banks, by my university in Rouen, by my university back home. Two and a half weeks spent living out of the same suitcase. The fact that the days were getting colder and Autumn was closing in was just a cherry on top.
It was at this point that I started complaining - mainly to my other friends on exchange programmes across Europe and beyond (we may be scattered across the globe but they're very important and helpful when it comes to things like this). It turns out that this is quite a common problem. I even found articles online and blogs trying to outline the '5 Stages of Moving Abroad'. There aren't always 5 - sometimes there are 3, or 18 - but all of them suggest that at some point, things get really hard and gross. You see all your friends on ERASMUS exchanges having fun and don't understand why you aren't. You don't have the motivation to get up and talk to anyone, or go to classes, or listen to anyone speak any other language besides your own. What you really want is a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich and your old bedroom back. I quite like calling it The Slump, and not The Week And A Half You Spend In Bed Watching RuPaul's Drag Race And Complaining On The Internet, but they take exactly the same form.

RuPaul's Drag Race; beacon of hope for ERASMUS students everywhere

I didn't really get it. I was doing everything right - I finally moved into my new house and set up my bedroom as best I could, and I didn't even feel particularly homesick. I just felt... kind of... not right. It didn't quite add up. Where were all my friends I had been promised? Why didn't the French kids understand me? And I was way too poor to do all the cool trips and holidays and weekends away that the pamphlets talked about.

But about four weeks in, something changed. I'm not sure whether my brain kind of broke and I just decided to go with it. Maybe it was because I realised that I had to take action when making friends, rather than waiting around for someone to talk to me. Maybe it was the fact that, slowly, I was piecing my timetables and my courses together. But things got better. I made some friends. I learned where you can find fresh milk. I started going to classes. Things started to get good. I've got a little bit of that French laissez-faire attitude now, guys. I have friends who are willing to help me smuggle bacon into the country. I have places to go and things to do and it's almost taken a month just to re-realise that France is HUGE and I can go ANYWHERE I LIKE. It's a slower pace of life than I was used to with my hectic Summer and my squillions of societies back in Edinburgh, but the travelling and the new experiences more than make up for it. And I think that, if this is how it is now, then it can only get better.

But, if you're having the same deal, just remember that everybody goes through The Slump.

So as for best year of my life? It's got potential. But ERASMUS grant will finally come in two weeks. Then it'll be hur är det, Sweden and hola, Barcelona with my new friends!

Josie
x

P.S. I'm going to Paris today! Don't expect tourist photos, though, Meg's a local now x

Day #38 - Losing my English, hypermarchés, and my first grève

First off, let me start by briefly mentioning that lots of people have told me, over the past week, that they have read this blog. My first reaction has always been, "AHAHAH WHY," but the second one is usually, "Well done you, on your excellent taste," and then we all move on. (But seriously, thanks for reading my yaer abroad blob, means a lot)

I've got a couple of things to talk about today so I've been pretentious and separated my blog into sections. Here we go.

My First Grève

Un grève is a strike. It is also, apparently, a way of life for an entire nation of people.
I live in a small town of about 5,000 inhabitants, roughly 30 minutes' bus ride from the city centre and my university campus. It sits directly on a major bus route. I have a bus pass which allows me unlimited travel. This is great. Apart from when the bus drivers decide to go on strike.
After spending half an hour in the cold October air (ha, cold, it's 15°), me and my housemates decided that it would be much more productive to just... well, just go back to bed. 
I actually just sent my tutor an email explaining why I couldn't come in, and I got to spend a day catching up on my translation homework and watching La princesse de Montpensier, but I also couldn't go out for drinks with my friends and I am sure that the novelty will wear off soon.
However, it did mean that all my housemates were trapped in the house with me. Me and Francois had a lovely afternoon arguing over translations and I had a beer at 2pm. Killer.

jeanne d'arc having a nervy b after she missed her bus

French Hypermarchés Are Just As Overwhelming As I Remember

If you are unaware of French hypermarkets (or hypermarchés), then you really need to get them in your life. Why? Imagine your nearest biggest supermarket and then multiply it by about 30. Or imagine a warehouse crammed with literally anything you could imagine, and add more wine. Or just nip to your local Carrefour (I think there's one in Calais).
Hypermarchés are usually enormous and take about a day to get around properly. They frequently have entire aisles devoted to specific types of yoghurt. After spending 2 years shopping almost exclusively in the Tesco Metro on Nicolson Street (and, failing that, the tiddly Scotmid in Marchmont), these huge French supermarkets have turned me into a giddy, screeching child. The one that I visited this weekend had a fake market in the middle of the shop, complete with a sushi stall and water features. There was even one of those tanks with the live lobsters and crabs. French people are insane (in the best possible way, lots of love, please let me continue to live in your country xoxo)

They actually pipe in the sound of birdsong in the 'market' section of the shop, so that the French consumers don't feel guilty about abandoning their traditional outdoor markets in favour of a more international-feeling food clinic. And that's OK. It just makes the whole experience feel a little more Disneyland than your average trip to Morrisons, and that is fine by me.

In case you're interested, I bought some wine glasses, some pain au chocolat, and a plant. Oh, and a candle that smells like raspberries.

making some wine at the french hypermarché

How to Deal With Losing Your English

That's right. You've been living in your new country for about five weeks, and you're having a comfortable conversation in your native language. You reckon you've just about wrapped your head around using your new language every single day for the most menial of tasks – small talk with your housemates, telling the cashier you want to pay by card, asking the girl at the till if they have it in another size – and it's going pretty well. You're gonna be bilingual, you think. It's going to be amazing.

And then it happens. You forget the English word for 'saucepan'. Or 'pumpkin'. Or 'lace' or 'drumkit' or 'necklace'.

You've started to forget your own language, you absolute idiot.

This has started happening to me. I mean, I never had the best grasp of spoken English anyway – my stint on the student radio is testament to that (“My talk has gotten not very good,” during exam season being a particular high point). But since when do you forget words?

I forgot the word 'Sweden' the other day. I called it 'Swerst'. What is Swerst? It sounds like goat's cheese. It definitely isn't the most populated country in Scandinavia.

The other day in translation class, the teacher asked me to provide a synonym for 'common', and I blanked.

“Are there any?” I asked.

She stared at me incredulously for a little while, and said, very slowly,“Ordinary.”

Outwardly, obviously, I was super calm and collected – mainly because the class was full of French kids who now probably think that the world 'ordinary' is weird and nobody uses it. However, my inner monologue was the opening to Simon & Garfunkel's 'The Sound of Silence'.

There isn't really a cure for this, as far as I can tell. The problem is, the more English I speak, the more confused I'm going to get when I speak French again, and vice versa. I suppose I will have to get used to occasionally forgetting the odd word and making a fool out of myself.

I just ask that, if you see me, please don't be surprised when I forget the word for 'hello'.

Josie

x

P.S. Mum, finally found somewhere that sells hoisin sauce. It's great.

Day #31 – Calm down, France

I have long regarded France as a wonky version of England. There's a reason that, while students of Asian Studies have entire lessons on their timetables devoted to dealing with culture shock, the European students are merrily sent on their way with a cheery thumbs up and maybe some comments about bringing back cheap wine and salad dressing (God, do my family love French salad dressing)

And, I mean, yeah, France is basically Britain, isn't it? The weather is just as unpredictable, there are still things like hospitals and cars and hairdressers, and the French use more Englishisms in their everyday speech then they would like to admit (see: 'cool', 'alright', 'let's go', 'what?', 'dead', all swear words). Sometimes I swear I've just moved to Keighley, or Leith, except a sort of dystopian version where everybody speaks French and eats a wide variety of cheeses. But there are some definite differences that remind me that I'm definitely not in Kansas anymore.

1. thE WEATHER

WHAT THE HECK, FRANCE. IT IS THE 10TH OCTOBER AND THERE IS SUN IN MY EYES. SUN. STREAMING. I'M SO SWEATY. YOU TAKE YOUR HIGHS OF 19°C AND YOU CAN SHOVE IT UP YOUR- although, speaking of that, I was caught in what can only be described as an apocalyptic downpour yesterday and I had to hide in Lidl for half an hour. (I bought a massive tin of chili con carne and a bar of chocolate; it was a successful trip). I have also had evenings where I've been so cold I've had to wrap up under my duvet in two jumpers with the laptop charger clutched between my hands because it's the only warm thing in the house. Go figure.

LIAR

2. French people do smoke as much as we think they do...

...but they hate when you point it out. They get all huffy and defensive and say stuff like, “English people smoke too!” Like, yah pal, the English smoke, but the French smoke. They smoke like chimneys. They chew on the ends of those e-cigarettes at bars and in cafés, then switch to a regular clope the second they step outside. They have smoke pouring out of their noses even when there is no cigarette in sight. That's how evolved they are.

3. Some people are just walking clichés, and I'm at peace with that.
Yes, boy in a green velvet blazer eating a baguette in the campus cafeteria. Yes, French housemate who somehow smokes while playing the trumpet in the conservatory. Yes, elderly woman carefully cutting her own brie to enjoy with her wine at a table on the pavement on a sunny market day. You guys do you.

4. Nobody drinks proper milk.
For a country where dairy products seem to make up about 80% of everyone's diet, France cannot make milk for neither love nor money. Firstly, everyone seems to ingest UHT milk, which creeps me out and should creep you out too. The second problem is that the French have different levels of milk. Full-fat milk. Baby milk. That's fine. Then there's vitamin milk. Creamed milk. Aisles and aisles of branded milk. And none of it goes in the fridge?
And I'm the weird one for wanting to put it in my tea.

nothing to do with milk, really, but quite nice

5. French TV sucks
Literally nobody watches French TV, apart from my mate Safiya, who found the French equivalent of 'Take Me Out' (for all those keen beans, the direct translation of 'Seduis-moi si tu peux' is actually 'Seduce Me If You Can'), but she's English and therefore does not count. And also...

6. The French will dub everything.

You know how sometimes artsy people will say things like, “Yah, well, I prefer to watch old films with subtitles rather than dubbing, because otherwise it can really lose a certain je ne sais quoi in the audio?” That's me now. I have become one of those people. 

I went to go see '22 Jump Street'. It was dubbed. 'Friends' is dubbed. 'How I Met Your Mother' is dubbed. The last straw came for me when we watched the 1989 American film 'Dangerous Liaisons' in my Literature and Cinema course. It is an English-language film. It was dubbed in French. And the teacher put the English subtitles on the bottom. At that point my brain turned into sand and I launched myself into space.

I have more things to say about France, but I'm going to leave it at that, because even talking about the dubbing in 'Dangerous Liaisons' has made me so angry I've had to put my panini down. And that's very angry.

Next time: “Can you make friends in French?” (Answer: No. God, I'm lonely.)

Josie

P.S. Hi Mum, me again, that last line was a funny joke. I have at least four friends.

day #25 - settling in

Yo yo,

This is my first blog post! That's right, I'm 25 days in, and I'm settled/bored/desperate enough to start a blog. As opposed as I was initially to the idea of putting yet another ERASMUS blog out into the universe (there truly are bajillions floating around the internet - just look at thirdyearabroad, it's full of idiots like me), and as much as I loathe attention (ahem), I've actually seen some very cute blogs from some of my friends which have been really fun to read and have therefore inspired me greatly. So now I'm ready. Ready to embark on a journey.

Alors, bonjour from France. I'm currently living in Rouen, which - according to Wikipedia - is the historic capital of Normandy and is roughly a quarter of the size of Edinburgh, my adopted hometown. As far as I can tell, Rouen is really good for old churches and Joan of Arc memorabilia, and if you wander down the Rue du gros horloge at lunchtime on a Saturday, you will see plenty of Japanese and American tourists dutifully taking photos of the big golden clock (...le gros horloge. The French are very imaginative with their street names.) The pastries here are also excellent, of course, and I have been enjoying them round the clock in the glorious French sunshine (24°c weather in October? Get it together, France)

le gros horloge, a sparkly clock

I arrived here on the 9th September with 3 suitcases after taking 4 train journeys. I was tired and therefore incredibly emotional (think crying-on-the-train-in-front-of-strangers-while-listening-to-the-Disney-Tarzan-soundtrack emotional). My friend Eleri came and met me at Rouen train station, and consistently proved to be a total lifesaver for the next three weeks, where she let me sleep on her clic-clac bed in the living room of her gorgeous apartment - which just happens to be in an old listed building which has its own Wikipedia page, bien sur.

We started trying to organise our classes immediately, which, apparently, was already far too late - I managed to miss all of the introductory lectures and tours. Not that it would have helped at all, of course, because somewhere between the University of Edinburgh and l'Université de Rouen, they managed to write down that we wanted to learn English. Non, non, non. We spent the next two weeks trying to rectify this mistake. 

We did not rectify the mistake. There are still teachers asking us if we want to take English grammar courses. Maybe they will learn.

However, three weeks in,  I have just about managed to form some semblance of a timetable, and there's a heady mix of History of Art, translation and cinema. In fact, if my granddad would call it a "doss subject", I'm probably studying it. 

this will probably be covered in my history of art class

I have managed to get a bus pass, a French SIM card, a young person's railcard, a French bank account (even if they won't let me have the bank card yet, les méchants) and two days ago I even managed to finally move into my own house. It's weird and exciting having my own bedroom again, and I'm sharing an enormous 6-bedroom country house with a Turk, a Russian, and three French people - one of whom is called Francois and is the living embodiment of every cliché I have ever heard. They're very nice. It's actually in a village outside of Rouen and about a half an hour's bus ride away from the campus, but it's not too bad.

I cannot stress how nice it is to have my own space - Eleri was incredibly generous in taking me in, but it was very odd when I guiltily made myself the unhealthiest dinner known to man last night and realised that there was nobody to judge me. So I put more Swiss cheese on it.

I will leave this post for now, because I'm sure nobody really cares. If you would like a more up-to-date, hip way to keep track of the failings of the French administration system, I frequently complain about them on my Twitter. 

I'll probably update again. Later. OK. Babye. Thanks for reading!

Josie

P.S. No Mum, if the title alarmed you, I haven't been counting the days, I used a website.