In the name of the Father, the Son and the holy Spirit(s)

There are few things in life that can be described as timeless. A quilted chanel handbag. The Mona Lisa. The Ferrari 250 GT Breadvan. However for most people these are just pipe dreams and the result of many lustful google image searches. So what exactly is the working man's Joconde?

Check out the nostrils on this baby.

I wish I could be profound here and say something like "quality time with the family" or "a brisk country walk," but one look at the title of this entry/my general demeanour can give you a clue as to where I'm heading with this. I'm talking about drinking. More specifically during the day. Even more specifically at the airport. 

Airports, thanks to a wondrous concoction of fluorescent lighting, perky shop assistants and "comedy" stag party t-shirts, are places where time magically stands still. (Except, perversely, when your gate is closing in five minutes.) Many people I know are more excited by the prospect of their first breakfast wine of the holiday than the holiday itself. By many people I mean my family and close friends. I don't know if it is the European lifestyle getting to me (who am I kidding, I've always appreciated a good boozy brunch which eases seamlessly into a drunch), but I am therefore more than a little disappointed that my flight home leaves the airport at 9 o clock in the morning. I will be kicking around the departures lounge at 7:30am which even for me rules out any possibility of a swift verre before take off. Chiefly because I happen to know the one bar in the glorified tent that is Lyon St Exupery will be closed. 

A tray of wine a happy traveler makes.

I have actually resorted to googling whether or not one can consume duty free items onboard. Before any of you get concerned and start bringing up sponsors and debating whether or not to revoke any recent invitations, I do actually have two excuses. 1. I am not a particularly happy flier. Don't even bother explaining the statistics, more people get killed by donkeys blah blah blah. I know, and, like I said, it is always fine after a glass (albeit a large one) of crisp Sauvignon Blanc. 2. Something tells me that crosswords and a three week old copy of Heat aren't going to be enough to keep me chirpy to see me through the SEVEN different types of transport that I need to take to get home. (For the vaguely autistic amongst you, they are bike, bus, metro, tram, plane, train and car.) I don't want to get drunk per se, just to enter in to that beautiful haze where I won't be unduly fazed by being inevitably seated next to an obese Frenchman who insists on eating all of his garlic eclairs at once.

That's me to the right. 'Scuse the beard.

So, despite how arduous it will inevitably be, I am very excited to be heading home. I've spent this afternoon packing, singing along to carols and wondering once again why I was never chosen to do a solo at school. I have been thinking about all the wonderful British things I've missed - the landscape, proper fish and chips, Marmite, queues and the subsequent tutting, microwaves, pubs and OH LORD REAL NORMAL MILK. None of this UHT shit. God it is repellent. 

Jolly good.

But....then I looked out of my window to see a snowy Mont Blanc just peeping over my balcony in the late afternoon sunshine, and started to think about all the wonderful French stuff that I'm going to miss these next few weeks. The Cairngorms vs The Alps. Glenshee vs Val d'Isere. Fish and chips vs Fondue and tartiflette. Marmite vs homemade jam bought from the market down the road. Queues and tutting vs every man for himself and some lively confrontation in the morning. Microwaves vs actually taking time over a meal and taking time out of your day to really enjoy food and the experience of eating. Pubs vs a glass of the new Beaujolais outside a cafe overlooking the river. Real milk vs....yeah, going to leave it at that actually.

Cheese eating surrender monkeys.

I know I'm at risk of becoming that francophile: "Ooh, they don't do that in France. Oh, well in French that sounds much nicer blah blah baguette fromage etc etc." For this I can only apologise, or maybe just shrug nonchalantly and break off another bit of bread. I suppose it is just that I suddenly really, really feel like this, here, Lyon, is home. I look out of my window every morning at the Frenchness of it all and am just really amazingly happy. 

Nothing a few weeks of solid rain and crippling social awkwardness can't sort out though, I'm sure.

Happy Christmas to all of you, my wonderful readerlets.

x

Advons, Advez, Advent.

Glad tidings my wonderful readers. I hope you are all feeling thoroughly Christmas-y (incidentally an adjective I loathe, but we all make sacrifices at this time of year and that's hardly the spirit,) and that your parents/friends/local barista love you enough to have bought you a wonderful tray of chocolates cryptically concealed behind numbered doors. Or, if you are either my sister or a French person, a wonderful tray of PLAYMOBIL CHARACTERS behind numbered doors.

Tiny plastic foal vs. tiny plastic tasting chocolate. 

For December is now upon us and all of the festivities which it brings. In Lyon, that means one thing - La Fête des Lumières. For those who haven't done extensive research on my new home town then a) shame on you and b) I'll fill you in (as it very much were.) Every year during the second weekend of December, Lyon lights up. I'm talking Vegas rather than Rome, and it is set to be bloody majestic. In a way that can only be described as devil-may-care, the Lyonnais council are reported to spend EIGHTY PERCENT of the yearly city budget on a flashy outdoor disco(theque.) Cause who needs hospitals?

LOOK AT THE SHINY SHINY

"Why such frivolity and excess?" "M'ssieurs-dames,  car c'est la France." (insert nonchalant shrug here.) Sadly this is not the actual answer. It's still quite a cool reason though. In 1643, Lyon was hit by an immense plague and the then mayor pledged to give thanks to the Virgin Mary every year if she saved his town, despite the fact that one can only assume he was nicely tucked away from the vomiting boil-ridden public in his absolutely massive mayoral crib. Snaps for Mary, she did as she was told and put a spell on Lyon or whatever and BANG. Happy, shiny people once more. 

Nice threads VM.

So the Mayor kept us his end of the bargain and had a little candle-lit procession from the main square to the basilica. As is the usual wont of these things, it snowballed and, the French not needing much excuse for a party (read: yet another day off work) upped their ante and now have the third biggest destination festival in the world, beaten only by the Rio Carnival and Oktoberfest.  Think less beer and crystal thongs, more basilicas and crying statues. 

Virgins and vin aside, I have also been putting in sporadic appearances at work. I say sporadic not in an attempt to seem cool and laissez-faire, but because I've actually been quite ill and primarily spending my days in a beautiful cloud of wonderfully strong French pharmaceuticals. When I have been there though, it has been uneventful, which for the purposes of this blog is a bad thing. Except the singing and the falling over. And the attempted theft. It's all relative I suppose. 

"Ohhhh nuiiitttt"

We'll start with the singing. Finally my life has begun to resemble parts of the above film besides the ubiquitous (at least amongst GCSE French students) "Action - Reaction." I was sitting in my little classroom, the smell of vomit hanging ever so slightly in the air and generally feeling a bit sorry for myself. In traipsed an ingratitude of children (the actual collective noun; it's the little things in life) and I steeled myself for the usual hour long onslaught of sarcasm, disinterest and mockery. Yet how wrong I was. One pupil, a comparatively charming young man, came in and put his things down quietly and with no undue fuss and asked, politely, if I was alright. I replied I was fine, thank you (he was hardly to know the treason I would be committing were I to answer anything else.) He did not take this well- "But you are clearly not, you have sad eyes and you did not say hello in your normal way." (I was unaware I was usually so outwardly cheery...) He then - I kid you not - started singing. "Don't worry, about a thing, cause every little thing...is gonna be alright." THEY ALL JOINED IN. My whole class actually sang to me and it was beautiful and uplifting and wonderful and made me finally have the "so THIS is why teachers do it," sort of moment. Happy days.

So that was wonderful, and then I undid all their good work by face planting into a pile of moist leaves (I'm so sorry) in front of what appeared to be the entire school. It was painful, humiliating and irritating as I left the majority of my carefully filed worksheets fluttering gaily around the suburb as I limped as far away as possible to allow myself to burst into hideous, gulping tears and kick a lamppost in irritation.

We can just pretend I look that good crying/ever.

The theft pales in comparison - I'm hamming it up if I'm honest. I just came in to my classroom to find a youth rummaging in my drawers (don't report me) which are luckily filled only with cluster of broken pens and a couple of croissant crumbs. Unlucky Oliver Twist.

Un gamin, yesterday.

So once more, there we have it. It is just over two weeks till I'm jetting off to the warmer climes of Scotland (now there's a sentence I never thought I'd write) to stuff my face with mince pies and wine. Just to be on the safe side, I'm getting lots of practice in here. I keenly await the arrival of two wonderful ladies/training partners who are winging their way here next week. My first guests. Time to get the good silver out I think.

Can't forget the can-canning champagne bottles!

Au revoir and to all a good night.

Xx

Vandals, Verbal abuse and Vomit.

I hope you're sitting comfortably, as I shall now begin.

Well, bloody hell, what a week it has been.Yet somehow it is only Wednesday. As those of you who have me as a friend/involuntary stalkee on Facebook will know, I had a highly eventful Monday morning. For those of you for whom Facebook is too mainstream or who have many secrets to hide from future employers, (both the former and the latter are directed at one person who is not too difficult to identify) I shall elaborate.

Note: this blog does not endorse camels.

Picture the scene - it is a cold, blustery Monday morning, and the smell of board markers, adolescent sweat and industrial disinfectant linger in the air. A group of 11 children are seated in Salle B055 (yep, that's right, Salle Boss) hanging on to my every word with a keen sense of enthusiasm and curiosity heretofore reserved only for pupils of Robin Williams and the ubiquitous "cat" (and look what happened to him.) Actually, apart from the room name and the number of pupils, most of that is a lie. They were sitting around, chatting, swearing and pawing at each other in a truly desperate manner that only 15 year olds seem to be able to achieve. There was one, however, who was being particularly noxious; hurling stationary around, shouting seemingly incoherent sentences and, most distressingly of all, ATTEMPTING TO DEFACE MY UNION JACK. #treason.

If only.

At first, I took this simply as a high spirited youngster channeling his energy in the classroom. I then noticed his inability to focus his eyes. Then he called me a whore and lobbed a pen at my head. It became clear that he was in fact, massively drunk/hammered/smashed/pissed/twatted and also high as a metaphorical kite. As were, I think understandably, my anger levels.

Feel lucky, punk?

I scampered off with my tail between my legs in an attempt to find someone with more authority and experience of abusive children and returned, triumphant, with the Head of the English Dept with vision of reprimands and retribution. However, I was brought back to earth with a very nearly a literal bump as I skidded across the laminate flooring through a pool of unnervingly verdant vomit. Yes. In my absence, this beast had actually thrown up in my classroom. This was, to be fair quite understandably, a source of much hilarity and hysteria amongst the other pupils who were steadfastly not helping. The child in question was ushered from the room looking satisfyingly queasy whist I was left to literally mop up the aftermath. 

The latest addition to my classroom's wall.

Despite my rising aggression/depression/bile/tears, I couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for this kid. He is ELEVEN. Eleven years old. He is 2 years away from being a teenager, 7 years away from being able to legally drink and about a million years away from becoming a functioning member of society. If at 8am on a Monday morning he is in that state, what the hell must his home life be like? At the risk of getting deeper than the vomit I was standing in, it really does make you appreciate a) how amazing school was b) how unscandalous it actually was when ONE sixth former did drugs about ONCE (or even, for those who remember, Broomstickgate) c) how absolutely brill my family and home are. Even they wouldn't let me get drunk at 8am on a Monday. Unless it was a birthday. Or Christmas. Okay, or maybe if there was a really good rugby match on. 

Preach it sister.

So, vomiting minors aside, it has been an enjoyable week. I'm getting to take lessons on my own now, and feel/really, really, really hope that I've got my worst experience out of the way so am getting more confident and feel infinitely more comfortable telling them to face the front, take out chewing gum, stop snapchatting or taking "surreptitious" photos of girls' boobs. Nice to know boys are the same worldwide.

You know it.

To jump from cockerel to rooster (a translation of an absolute corker of a phrase I've just learned, which means to jump from one topic to another), we've had tonnes of snow today. My flat is at the very top of Lyon's tallest hill so we've had more than anywhere. I had a wonderful "We're not in the UK anymore, Dorothy" moment when I left to go to work and all public transport was on time and fully functioning. Moreover, everyone just got on with their daily business instead of moaning about their being too much/not enough grit, the price of heating and the state of the country "nowadays." Also the French are much more practical about the cold when it comes to clothing. They wear proper coats, sensible, sturdy shoes and hats. They do not wear Uggs, slip over on their arses and prance around in fashionable yet entirely impractical winter-y print leggings. A winter-y print does not, in any way, have a positive correlation with warmth.

Neither coat or discernible fancy dress theme.

So, once again, I sincerely hope that you enjoy this small insight into my time over here, vomit filled as it may have been. If any of you are having a bad day, essay crisis, been dumped or such like, just reassure yourselves with the fact that you probably won't be mopping up an 11 year old's puke anytime soon. Unless you've got kids. In which case, it's your own fault.

It's your own time you're wasting.

Bonjour once again all of my wonderful friends and or/facebook acquaintances. Oh how much has passed since we last spoke. We'll start from the top.

The Boomtown Rats once pondered the age old question regarding peoples' dislike of the first day of the week. Okay, so of course I should count my lucky stars that nobody got shot at school, but Christ alive I came close to doing so. (If any of my employers are reading this, I am obviously totally joking. The only thing I've ever shot is a cow in the leg by a total accident. Pretty much.) I had lovingly and painstakingly prepared what I evidently mistakenly thought was an engaging and fun presentation filled with pictures, interactive activities, references to French rappers and so on and so forth. Oh how wrong I was.

There is only so long I can smile for when faced with a classroom full or recalcitrant delinquents. I tried, Lord knows I tried, but after asking about 20 questions in a row with no answer straying from the apparently obligatory Gallic shrug, I did what I swore I never would. I became my own teachers. "It's your own time you're wasting you know. I don't have to be here doing this - do you think I wanted to spend my free time preparing this for you? Would you rather we went back to the grammar sheets?" Not to be a woman of empty threats, that is exactly what we did. Some mind-numbing, soul-crushing work on the preterite tense. Their sullen faces upon leaving the classroom filled me with a joy that suggested teaching may not be my calling after all.

Fortunately I will not meet these delightful specimens for another week now, as this Monday was a bank holiday (you know, just in case the week for All Saints didn't quite suffice.) There is no minute's silence here in France, but the buses and trams all sported rather jaunty Tricolores. It is a day dedicated less to the military as such, and centered more on the celebration of the history of France and ALL of those who have helped to build it. Except their (ex) royal family. Funnily enough, they don't really get much of a mention. 

So, after a two week holiday, a national holiday and a bank holiday, I was ready for a hard week's work at school. Except Wednesdays which I have off. Oh yeah and the strike on Friday. And the "pre-strike" day off on Thursday, just to ease yourself gently in to a richly deserved four day weekend. Zut alors. I thought this attitude to work was nicely demonstrated by a pharmacy I found in the centre of town. The sign on the door proudly claims to be 24/7. The small print underneath reads "except Sundays, bank holidays, and 12-1 each working day." I'll try really hard not to feel ill during precious lunchtime then.

I am still wrestling with the infamous French bureaucracy. Still. I opened a bank account THREE WEEKS AGO and the card is still "being processed." The employees of BNP Paribas Bellecour (still feels odd and ultimately deeply unpleasant saying I'm with BNP) are becoming familiar faces and ever less welcoming. I do enjoy a good argument in French, or even, as happened the other day, in an intriguing trilingual exchange in which I acted as an interpreter for two bemused young Spanish girls who spoke no French and were desperately trying to explain that they needed to open their bank account immediately or risk being chucked out of their flat. Nothing warms the cockles like a deep sense of self-satisfaction.

Alas, it has not all been high-brow intellectual shrugging and cultivating a hatred of children. I have also been pretending to be a normal person and have friends round for Coline and I's flatwarming. I am glad to report that it was almost identical to any housewarming party I've attended in the UK. Except people brought salad. And quiches. And pies. TO A PARTY. The only useful thing I've ever brought to a party is a bottle of vodka and a set of highly questionable morals. 

It was absolutely brilliant fun though. It really did - lame as it sounds - make our flat feel like our own place. I spoke French all night (or at least some version of it), danced in/on the bath, commandeered the sound system in a way that can only be described as Napoleonic (got my Coolio onnnn) and drank nigh on an entire box of wine. I think we can declare a the party an immense success.

The day after, as is my wont, I leant on my trusty and mercifully international friend Dominos. I ordered the usual, but when it came to the drink choice, I was torn. I was hungover in a way only a hardened Scot can be, but THEY DELIVER WINE. Could I really pass up the opportunity to have alcohol literally brought to me on a platter in my own room? Obviously not. I sucked it up and got that damn Macon Villages. Darn tasty it was too. 

So there we have it my friends - another week (roughly) in my life. A week spent drinking wine, berating the laziness of the French, and hating children. Remind me why I moved all the way to Lyon again?

Bonsoir

X

Return Triumphant

Now, as some of you may be aware, last week I was shipped back to Blighty. Mercifully, in this modern world, I was excused shooting myself in the foot and even shoving two pencils up my nose and saying "Wibble."

That is not to say, however, that I managed to escape entirely unscathed. Firstly, there was the monumental hangover that dogged my very existence that day after having booked the flights. Yes, I fell victim to Wine Wallet. (Stop trying to make Fetch happen. It is not going to happen.) After an exultant evening of pub quizzing and drunk on victory (along with four gin and tonics, half a bottle of champagne and god knows how many glasses of shit white wine) I forgot myself and booked flights home. Thank god EasyJet doesn't do first class.

When the hangover had subsided, I decided to take myself in hand and rationalise the situation. So I have 2 weeks off from school - what else was I going to do? I could travel around Europe with gay abandon, backpacking and hitch-hiking whilst simultaneously maintaining a good level of personal hygiene/safety. Or not. Given my aversion to camping in my own back garden, something told me that hostel life was just not for me. 

Besides, by the time I've added up travel costs, food costs, wine costs, bribes to dodgy European policemen etc, it would actually be the more expensive option. Probably... so off I merrily trotted at 3am to Lyon St Exupery, complete with backpack. Less a nod to my other holiday options, more a sod off to EasyJet's £40 check in baggage charge. Tight bastards.

Only three people knew of my impending arrival, (quickly given the title of Operation Caledonia)the three being my sister and two of my best friends. Oxford, as anyone who has indulged in a spot of light post-crewdate dalliance knows, is a nightmare for bumping in to people whom you have absolutely no desire to see (perhaps ever.) I was therefore proud of myself for managing to make it from the Grand Cafe to Corpus, a distance of roughly 500m, without being rumbled. I then liaised with the Operation Coordinator over a good, British lunch of sausage and mash and we discussed hiding places. After much heated debate, we settled on...the bathroom. 

We waited until The Man Himself knocked on the door, I panicked, knocked over a chess set, and hid in the bathroom as planned. I then leaped dramatically from said bathroom and nearly inspired a heart attack. All very Moliere, I felt. Job done. The cat out of the bag, it was on to evening entertainment which ended with me vomiting in to a bush on Woodstock Road. And they say that your year abroad changes you.

So, back in Oxford I of course did all of the touristy things I hadn't done before and was generally productive. Oh wait, I sat, watched Peep Show and read Hello magazine (Prince George Christening Special!!). All of which I have been doing with aplomb in France.... oops. I did however manage to see my wonderful little friendlets, go to the Motherland (Camera), have many an Ahmed's, win a ticket to the JewSoc ball and not do any work. It felt like last year had never ended. I also got to surprise my Mum outside Selfridge's and make her cry on Oxford Street. An excellent trip all round.

It was brilliant seeing everyone, although I didn't see some nearly as much as desired. In my selfishness I sort of forgot about people having "lives," and "plans." Gah. It was wonderful all the same, and of course almost impossible to leave. It suddenly dawned on me that I have only been in France a month and if I already am running back home, what does that mean for the rest of my 6 months here? Time is passing slowly - I feel like I'v been here forever, which I suppose is a good thing as it indicates that I have settled in properly, but simultaneously Christmas and home seem a very long way away, despite the supermarket's best efforts to convince us otherwise.

So in order to combat these thoughts, I've been throwing myself back into la vie francaise. Yesterday I cycled all over town, picked up a picnic, and ate baguettes and cheese by the lake in the park whilst reading some Sagan. Pretentious, moi? I then made the obligatory visit to the red pandas who were, for once, actually playing ball and not sleeping. They were eating pumpkins, though sadly not in the exuberant style promised to me by YouTube.

I'm now spending my time steadfastly not spending any money as my trip to Oxford bankrupted me, I've not been paid, and my French bank account STILL ISN'T OPEN.... I've been planning lessons mainly and making wild stabs in the dark as to what French kidzz will think is a fun an interesting way of learning to tell the time. Dare I create a rap? I've gone for the old song lyrics with some blanks in. I will report back. 

I had breakfast on my balcony for I think the last time this year - it is finally getting cold! Hurrah! No more awkward attempts to remove my jacket without punching someone in the face whilst riding the metro. I also get to wear my beautiful new coat which makes me feel like a cross between Audrey Hepburn, The Queen and Serena van der Woodsen. An enviable combination indeed. 

So I bid farewell to you all. I'll keep you updated on the weather, because you can take the girl out of Britain...

x

Those who can do, those who can't teach. (Missing commas intentional.)

I write this sitting in the staff room. With my colleagues. Lamenting the broken photocopier. Oh, life on the other side. So my teaching career has now spanned 2 weeks, which whilst not being long enough to merit a pension, is definitely long enough to realise how bloody HARD it is. Long holidays - yes. Constant abuse, mockery, stress and bureaucracy? Also yes.

Some of my classes are brilliant: the pupils are driven, interested, engaged and willing to ask questions and generally embrace a new language. My introduction presentation (a slideshow offering a wee taster of Scottish life including deep fried Mars bars and clips of Groundskeeper Willy.) has bad a mixed reception. The younger kids I think feel patronised and pretend to have no interest in my many Harry Potter links (Fettes, Oxford AND my uncanny resemblance to Emma Watson...) whereas my elder pupils have offered up interesting questions, their opinions and their phone numbers. I'm not allowed to speak French with them in the classroom, but I have had great fun on occasions butting in just to make them aware of the fact that I do, unfortunately, understand everything they are saying about me and no, I doubt that my sister would be interested in you, Khalim.

The teachers are, without exception, amazing. They are incredibly patient with me and my sometimes confused grammar be have invited me out all over the place: the theatre, to their homes for dinner, on bus tours etc. They seem genuinely excited by the fact that I am not another American (this is in no way meant as an insult, I think they just find Scotland a novelty after 4 New Yorkers) and keep asking if I've met Prince George yet or seen The Loch Ness Monster who appear to be the UK's biggest exports in France.

One thing that I struggle with is the sad lack of resources that my school seems to suffer from. There aren't enough classes for each teacher to have their own, so the walls are all bare except a couple of gratuitous references to what is usually taught in them such as a stringless Spanish guitar and a peeling poster about ionic bonds. I came laden with maps, calendars, posters and cards to stick up in what I thought would be my own little area, but they remain festering in my locker. It is hard to illustrate what haggis is without a picture, and my Pictionary style approach resulted in answers such as "Haribo," "tea bag," and "baseball." I don't know if they actually fully understood just how different it is from the answers provided, as shock levels were minimal. However, this is coming from a city which prides itself on how many ways it can prepare pig snout. Miam miam.

At the end of next week the schools in France break up for Toussaint (half-term), which means I am about to have 2 and a half weeks on my hands with very little to occupy myself. The few friends I have made seem to be performing a mass emigration home so I am planning on rationing the tourist-y things Lyon has to offer to avoid the inevitable situation of lying on the sofa watching Peep Show and eating yet more cheese.

I've finally braved a bike ride in the city. I say braved for two reasons: the only city I've ever cycled in before is Oxford which may as well be a suburban cycle path, and obviously there is the whole other side of the road thing to grasp. Actually, just French driving in generl is quite off putting. None of the nonsensical pedestrian right of way here, Merci. There are, as in most European cities nowadays, bikes for hire à la Boris which are cheap, easy to ride and dotted all over the place. Unfortunately, I live at the top of an enormous hill, so each week when my local station gets filled up with bikes, within two days they are all gone because everyone just dumps them in the middle of town and gets the bus back up the hill. Understandable yet enormously irritating.

Other than cycling around the zoo and artistic renderings of the haggis, I haven't been doing all that much. I am thoroughly embracing the more relaxed way of life which France offers (2 hour lunch breaks) and, on the whole, loving it. A few things have made me a bit homesick recently though: the first Facebook album entitled "Refreshers," (incidentally an album title I loathe wholeheartedly for its utter originality and general shitness of pun, but the thought of being in Camera and laughing at first years is appealing), a programme on iPlayer called "The Great British Year," and when somebody touched my hand on the metro today and didn't recoil as if bitten by a puff adder and actually just LEFT IT THERE IN A VERY GALLIC WAY WHICH MADE ME DEEPLY UNCOMFORTABLE.

I am slowly acclimatising to the effusive nature of French greetings and general existence, so careful I don't try and get off with you all on my next visit. It will be either that or a nonchalant shrug; I haven't decided yet.

À plus, mes amis x

P.s I apologise for the lack of pictures, but my laptop is broken, use your imagination, children.

Taming the Lyon (title courtesy of JLPDR)

 

 So! Here we are once again – or at least, here I am. I have finally touched down in the mighty Lyon and it is with great excitement that I am able to report that everything is going just swimmingly. I’ve taken the bus, had a linguistic spar with an official, had a madeleine induced Proustian flashback (although managed to condense it into just the one volume) and rescued a dog from being crushed by a tram. All in a few day’s work.

Aside from my heroic feats of both bravery and francophilia, I have mainly been exploring. I was unbelievably relieved to arrive at the gate of my apartment complex and have to enter a code, then use a key, then another code, then a code for the lift. Arduous, yes. Secure? As Fort Knox (or Fort Irénée, the area in which I am actually living.) My flat is a haven. A lovely white, tiled haven of Frenchness complete with balcon, piscine and resident French bulldog. It is a world away of the oak beams and uneven floors of Oxford, but in a way that is exactly what I wanted. My flatmate (who may or may not be reading this!) is lovely. Even if she isn’t reading this, it still stands. She has a reassuring large collection of l’alcool on her shelves, and perhaps more significantly for any gentlemen who fancy a holiday over here, she is a legitimate babe.

 

Property pride apart, the rest of the city is just as brilliant. Lyon is a funny mixture of Mediaeval, Renaissance, Modern and Post-Modern architecture. You can’t walk down the street without wanting to gawp at at least three different buildings. (Although sometimes that is just due to the signs on them. I am still unsure as to why the key cutter proudly displays its license to sell “tampons.”) There are two rivers running through it, the Rhone and the Saone, and a long-running Lyonnais joke (get me and my insider knowledge) is that the third river is the Beaujolais due to the impressive rate at which wine is consumed. I think I’ve found my spiritual home.

The food is another matter entirely. Lyon may well be the gastronomic capital of France, but only in this wonderfully bizarre country could BOILED DONKEY SNOUT be considered a delicacy. That isn’t a mistranslation – I checked three times – boiled donkey snout is a thing. Horse meat I can just about take, having probably inadvertently eaten it anyway thanks to my penchant for Ahmed’s, but Eeyore? No wonder he always used to look so bloody sad. Thankfully the Lyonnais cuisine has redeemed itself in my eyes by also offering a wide range of exclusively cheese and potato based dishes, along with plenty of DIY food experiences like fondue and raclette. I love a bit of interactive food.

 

It hasn’t all been mind-blowing boulevards and donkey-based delicacies however, for my explorations have in fact introduced me to Lyon’s one and only Scottish pub! They appear to have got a bit confused along the way and sell copious amounts of Guinness, but their whisky library, comfy chairs and softly blaring New Wave music enveloped me in a lovely alcoholic embrace. They’ve even got a Burns Night evening planned with free haggis for anyone wearing tartan. I feel so loved and included. Vive the Auld Alliance! Notably the English theme bar “Elephant and Castle,” looked rubbish and totally craic-free.

 

However theme bars and questionable delicacies aside, my parents have finally left me all on my lonesome and lonesome it does feel. I’m having to do all sorts of grown-up things like get Social Security, open bank accounts, buy toilet cleaner etc and, sad as it may sound, I want my Mum. I’ve found a few other English girls who seem fun and that’s all great, but I have an awful long time stretching ahead of me with what feels like very little to fill it. After all of the mind-numbing official paperwork is completed, I’ve only really got 12 hours a week filled (by work.) I’ve planned my entire Saturday around picking up my dry-cleaning. This is my first plea: come and visit me please.

It's The FINAL COUNTDOWN.

Cue music - we're into the last stretch. I've suddenly found myself becoming quite overwhelmed with "Britishness," assumingly in reaction to my looming departure. Last night I stood outside for a bit, "just to have a listen to the rain." I wasn't aware that I had recently become a middle aged be-tweeded woman with a penchant for Radio 4 and Tupperware, but apparently so.

I'm slowly becoming aware of the things that I will miss most, the majority of which are sadly totally untranslatable en francais. Proper rain. People apologising when you tread on their foot. Macaroni pies. The quiet tutting of a British queue at a dare-devil queue jumper. The unmistakable rustle of The Telegraph and the side order of harrumphing. All of the wonder that our small island holds, and the thought of leaving it all behind, is enough to make one a bit down (but obviously, if anyone asks, we're fine,) so I've been perking myself up by trawling through Trip Advisor, Wikitravel so on and so forth to find lots of lovely things to focus on.

Many of which, it appears, I will be unable to afford. Yeah, the best things in life come for free and all that, but I still reckon a meal at Lyon's most famous, 3 Michelin Star restaurant might also be pretty good. Nice one Erasmus grant... However, Lyon isn't all fois gras and andouillette (if you're a veggie, do not google that...) and there do appear to be some amazing things on offer. Lyon is home of the Lumiere brothers, so there are loads of brilliant movie museums including one whose only exhibits appear to be thousands of scaled down sets. My Small Fat Greek Wedding. The Not-So-Big Sleep. A Very Brief Encounter.  King Kong. Oh the fun I've been having.

It's not all rubbish movie puns though. There is a bike hire system that would make our bumbling buffoonish BoJo proud, medieval streets, Roman amphitheatres and Traboules, which are an intricate network of cobbled underground tunnels which used to be used to smuggle things from the river up into the heart of the city, but nowadays are home to things such as underground WINE BARS. Ahh I'm going to settle in just fine.

In a vague attempt to meet people (shudder), I've joined the Erasmus Lyon Exchange page on good old Facey B. I already regret it. Instead of handsome, Gauloise smoking types looking for a philosophy/shrugging gallically partner, I've been inundated with a Shuffle Nights on Tour page. FOAM PARTY THIS TUESDAY! SPEED FRIENDING IN THE DARK! BEACH PARTY IN COMMERCIALLY BLAND CLUB! This isn't exactly what I had in mind. Firstly, the idea of going to a foam party with strangers is vaguely terrifying, if not verging on pervy. Hey people I've never met, let's all get into our bikinis, get drunk and contract some sort of unmentionable rash which we blame on the dodgy foam. Hmm.

The idea of making friends is something that has actually crossed my mind though. I'm hoping that my awesome new, in-a-band, gorgeous flatmate may have some friends that I can sort of hang around with/follow till they like me. If that fails however, I've discovered the beauty of the Lyon Rowing Club! Their club image is a Saltire, so it's pretttty much meant to be. They also have a wondrous creation which translates, essentially, as a Rowing Hike. You jump in a minibus for a bit, whip out the boat (okay, laboriously screw the boat together, arse around with riggers, put all the seats on backwards etc) and then do a scenic tour of France from various rivers. Genius. So you can row along the Seine in Paris, go chateaux watching on the Loire and - my favourite - have a wine tasting based rowing excursion! Oxford is seriously missing a trick here, the Godstow-Isis transit just isn't going to cut it anymore. Anyway, as I suspect I'm at a risk of losing half of my readership after that bout of boatie chat, I shall move on.

So. The flights are booked. I've fashioned a fun presentation about where I'm from and got lots of picture of haggis/caber tossing/punting to hopefully pique the interest of 50 sixteen year olds (or, as my father suggested, just wear a pencil skirt. Thanks.) I've gutted my wardrobe in order to strike the perfect balance between I'm-a-serious-member-of-staff and -wait-im-only-20-be-my-friend. I've researched French swearwords and located my nearest Marmite selling supermarché. Friends. I think I may be ready. See you on the other side.

Jess seeks Schmidt.

Jericho or Cowley? Chore rota or laissez-faire? Guys n' gals, or strictly sorority? All of these questions are ones that you have doubtless wrestled with yourselves and have equally doubtlessly caused superb factions to arise within college, leading to hall storm outs, bop cock-blocking and even pidge based sabotage. I, having performed my infamous college migration, sat as a smug spectator on the sidelines of such events last year, safe and far away (we're talking miles away here. Summertown.) in my college accommodation. Not for me the fruitless debates over whether or not the person who has tactically ensnared a fresher deserves a bedroom seeing as they pretty much have free college accommodation now anyway.

Oh how the mighty have fallen. Oxford has two universities and enough student houses to satisfy your wildest dreams (provided these dreams involved identikit terraced housing in Iffley.) Lyon has 7. That's 7 universities full of far cooler, far better prepared, Gauloise smoking frenchlets than I. They, presumably in between enigmatic shrugging and protests, have managed to secure apparently every single flat in Lyon that has a roof and a notable absence of abestos. To be frank, it's got to the stage that the aforementioned wouldn't even be deterrents.

I've been using two sites akin to Gumtree, which involve a mini profile more suited to a dating website than an estate agent. Age range, smoking preferences, hobbies, BDSM yay or nay.... I don't know if I am just being too picky. Maybe it would be an adventure to live with a group of four youths who identify as "cyber-goths" and list "pot" in their list of hobbies. Or perhaps the profile picture-less 36 year old male who has made it abundantly clear that I can have friends over any time I want, provided they are female. Then again, perhaps not.

It's made even harder by the fact that I have a) no idea of which areas of Lyon are meant to be nice and which are a bit Dundee/Blackbird Leys-esque (#internationalreadership) and b) how to make myself seem even remotely normal when typing in my second language. Every email I've sent to normal looking potential flatmates has made me seem either overly enthusiastic about gas and water being included in the rent price, or completely lifeless and a bit depressed. If only the French did sarcasm...

So the search continues. There is one girl who is my age and likes wine (pretty much all the boxes ticked there) AND the flat has a shared pool, although I'm wary of the old adage that if it seems to good to be true, then it probably is. All of a sudden, I find myself longing for a terraced Cowley house all of my own. At least I'd know my way home from Camera.

Bienvenue

Alliterative title, check. Gratuitous use of a foreign language, check.

Welcome to the Year Abroad Blog™. Yes, you've read them before, and yes, they usually are acres of self-indulgent witticisms. This one probably won't be much different, but there will be infinitely less soul-searching and a whole lot more daytime drinking. It'll keep you abreast of both the giddy highs and apparent new "amis" I've been promised by the British Council, and the inevitable lows when I end up living with France's answer to Howard of Fresh Meat Fame. Think of it as a group skype session but without the awkward pauses and I get to spend longer trying to make it all vaguely amusing.

So, hold on tight, we're flying Ryanair to France's 3rd City,  The Manchester of The Alps, Lyon. (With a brief delay in the UK while I attempt to transform wading through French paperwork into an entry worthy of earning me a GQ column. Which is essentially the point of this blog.) On y va etc.