Baguette Me Not

Monsieurdames,

Due to somewhat aggressively popular demand, I'm back. 

I returned triumphantly in true McKenzie Smith style (a week later than I was supposed to.) Those who went to school with me will remember my consideration of term dates as merely a suggestion. I touched down in Lyon at some ungodly hour on the 11th and proceeded to have a minor meltdown. I hated France, I hated Lyon, I hated my phone, my luggage, everything. (As one tends to at 5 o clock in the morning.) I, as you could probably glean from that, was none too pleased to be continuing with my Year Abroad. After a brilliant Christmas and New Year, it is always hard to come back down to earth, especially from 37,000 feet in a disconcertingly rickety EasyJet number.

However, after a few cheery "Bonjour, Madame"s and several baguettes, I was feeling slightly chirpier. By the first bottle of wine I was positively dancing with joy. (Funny that.) I took myself off to The Wallace, not being quite ready to sever all Scottish ties just yet, and sat down to write a list of all the things I love so much about being here. Warm, fresh baguettes (I had forgotten just how much better French ones actually are; a rare example of the French not merely thinking they're superior) tea on my balcony, watching the sun set over the Alps, exploring a new area of the city each weekend, coming across dogs in the changing rooms of Zara etc. I won't bore you all with the whole list until at least the last blog entry. 

I mean, just look at it.

So feeling my Frenchness fully restored, I adjusted my beret and sashayed back into la vie Lyonnaise. I've taken myself in hand and commanded myself to take full advantage of my last few months here. I've tried new restaurants, nibbled (and regretted said nibbling) some steak tartare, made various forays into yet unsampled wines and finally done the travelling I kept promising to do. Taken the taureau by the cornes, if you will. 

I hopped on a train at Perrache (sadly sans dream or indeed cardigan) and made my way to Avignon. I'd chosen it as my weekend destination for two main reasons. 1) I had vague recollections of visiting there as a 12 year old on a school trip, but there are few things that take the impact out of a beautiful, historic city like seeing it in a 2 hour, heavily supervised burst and 2) I found a devastatingly cheap deal. I arrived in the most glorious sunshine and sat around drinking wine in a square and chatting to my new Labrador companion at the adjoining table. He was called Alfonse. 

I can neither confirm nor deny that he was wearing a beret.

I bid adieu to my canine companion and checked in to my hotel. Some people might think it is strange, but travelling alone is one of my all time favourite things to do. Want to consume the entire contents of the minibar for lunch? No problem. Want to spend 6 hours in the bath singing along to The Jam? Go for it. Travelling alone gives the most amazing sense of freedom. I did exactly as I pleased for the entire weekend which is, fundamentally, how I would quite happily spend my whole life. #hedonistatheart. If you haven't been to Avignon, I cannot urge you strongly enough to do so. It is small enough to see in a weekend and is arguably one of the most beautiful places I've visited. The Palais des Papes is genuinely breathtaking and of course, there is the infamous Pont on which it is rumoured, on y danse.

Alfonse and I's square of choice.

My wonderful weekend was only slightly marred by one utterly inexplicable situation (just the one, my luck must be improving). I was wondering around the deserted Palais des Papes and was climbing a spiral staircase into a large antechamber. A lone male stood in said (still cavernou)s antechamber with his back to me. He then proceeded to belch in the most revolting manner imaginable, and, of course, it echoed. Oh god, did it echo. I tried as hard as possible to avoid laughing and very nearly succeeded. Perhaps I should've been blunter with my mixture of disgust and amusement however, as the author of this bilious masterpiece walked up to me and asked me out for dinner. WHAT THE HELL? I have just heard you burp in a Papal Palace, watched you appreciate its echo and you think that is some sort of aphrodisiac? As soon as I think I understand the French, something like this happens.

The scene of the crime

Belching Frenchmen aside, it was a magical trip and it was with a heavy heart that I left beautiful Provence to prepare for my 8am lesson the following day. Yes, being what some may and indeed have called a majestic multi-tasker, I manage to squeeze in a bit of teaching in between my swanning and/or quaffing. This has been slightly less eventful than before Christmas. As far as the students are concerned anyway. They have been verging dangerously close to delightful, more of which later.

The teachers, however, are a slightly different story. Most have been as amazingly kind, welcoming and helpful as ever. In fact, I am going for a drink with one later this evening to meet her family . However, there are some who, since discovering that I won't be staying for an optional extra month, have decided to make their feelings known. Despite my bravado, I do actually work really, really hard. I spend hours if not days on each lesson I plan, have given extra lessons on my days off and have also organised for my students to participate in a Europe wide model UN event here in Lyon.

Hotel de Region. It has indoor trees - a true mark of swanky buildings.

However, it would seem that this extra work is not enough. I have "not been around much," aka I don't feel compelled to spend my spare time in the staff room making painful small talk with teachers whose names I don't know and who don't have a clue why I'm here. "I'm not planning my lessons carefully enough" because, silly me, I assumed it would be ok for me to borrow some speakers from the teacher. It was not. "I'm not reliable," because...I don't even know where this one came from. I haven't missed a lesson yet and in fact this teacher has missed two lessons with me. Did I say any of this? No, of course not. I'm British.

I just smiled politely and remarked that I "had been busy recently" and would make an effort to spend more time drinking tepid tea on threadbare chairs and indulge in threadbare chat. Fortunately, my students do not think the same. I write this from the Hotel de Region, surrounded by over 300 students from 6 different countries, some of my pupils amongst them. Not one of them has ever been to this building before, nor even this side of the train station. Some of them used to be so shy about speaking English that they wouldn't even talk to me, yet now here they are speaking English in front of hundreds of people in a totally new environment, writing lengthy and articulate articles for the local press and even interviewing the director of the entire Rhone-Alpes Region. YOU GO TEAM DOISNEAU. We showed those (alarmingly well-dressed and glamorous) international school students!

PROUD.

On that cheerful note, I shall bid you all farewell. If anyone has any mediating they need doing in the meantime, I know just the kids.

I yield the floor.

xx