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.