tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46103040165913920422024-03-14T09:27:10.285+01:00I Fly A Star ShipStudying in Franceiflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-4476417793363125672011-09-21T11:50:00.000+02:002011-09-21T11:50:28.609+02:00La rentréeSo this past weekend, I went out on Friday night, got absolutely shit-faced, cycled home in a blur, fell asleep, woke up at 3pm on Saturday, read for a few hours, then went out to an African themed party at the residence, with my new 'residence friends'. I got to try some African food, these spicy meatballs covered in what appeared to be some sort of mango chutney, along with these fried banana pieces in a sticky spice mixture. Absolutely delicious!<br />
They put on some music, but I drew the line at dancing along to it. I'm fine thrashing away to typical white music, but there is no way in hell I'm going to get up there, swinging my distended skinny limbs around the place, when I'm surrounded by buxom, glossy-skinned African beauties with BOOTYS. As it happened, I was the only white girl there, which I thought was interesting: why? A guy came up to me, and was really concerned about something on my shoulder.<br />
"Your shoulder, are you okay? What's wrong with it?"<br />
Eh? You what, love?<br />
I turned my head and tried to see. It was just your basic bog standard mysterious red blotch which those of you with pathetically transparent skin will understand. One of those things that appears for no good reason, and then disappears. I spent the next half hour reassuring him that I wasn't ill. That I was going to live.<br />
<br />
On Monday, I had my first class. We started off with a meeting at 9am, to introduce us to the school and how things were gunna work 'round here. I had been woken at 6am by an incredibly intense dream, in which I lied to the police, my Mutti was panicking with me trying to hide me in the house. In the distance, I could hear the sirens, and suddenly, I was stung on the hand by an enormous wasp, and woke up feeling a serious pain in my palm. Turns out the siren was an actual ambulance going past in the street, and the wasp fantasy was just the fact that the motorbikes rushing past have that whiny insect sound. Nevertheless, I was awake, so I got up. Shoved some breakfast down my face, and headed out in good time.<br />
The meeting was fairly interesting, and didn't last too long. I'm under the impression the head of department is English, but difficult to tell. We got given our timetables, and I have 16 hours in total, which is a massive step-up from my 'doing fuck all' life of yesteryear. That afternoon, I had my first class: French-English translation (as opposed to Eng-Fre of which I have 4 hours a week). The guy taking the class was English and seemed quite nice. The word I would use to describe him is: bumbling. I was on the edge of my seat half the time, nodding encouragingly, lifting my chin in anticipation, willing him on to finish the sentence. He latched on to me and this other girl as the only two anglophones in the class, which was quite sweet, if a little embarrassing. There was one guy in the class, a Romanian guy we shall hence forth call 'A', who was extremely endearing, and apparantly a bit eccentric. Very eager, and seems to have an almost photographic memory. The teacher would make a throwaway comment, eg:<br />
"Interesting, you use the word 'cool'...I suppose I'm not au fait with the current British lingo anymore"<br />
And in A would pop, with:<br />
"In actual fact, the word 'cool' in its modern sense was coined in the early 20s. Due to an influx of....." and so he went on, whilst the rest of us watched on, mouths hanging open, intrigued. 'A' wears white polo t-shirts (is that what you call them?) with an ironed collar, over slacks and under jumpers in muted shades. His hair is parted. Brilliant!<br />
<br />
So intrigued was I, that yesterday, as I sat outside the building waiting for my I.T. class (more on that little gem later), I saw him go in and called out to him. We chatted for a bit, and it turns out he lives up round my area - the ghetto, as other people seem to see it as, due to its outskirtish nature and mainly student population. Half way through our conversation, I asked him if he knows my name, because I don't remember his.<br />
"Of course", he smiled. "[My first name.]. [First name] [Last name]"<br />
Jesus Christ! The guy knows all the class lists and who's who! Unbelievable, and again, intriguing!<br />
What's been interesting me lately, is how other people have the power to make you feel a certain way. Perhaps I am alone in this, but I feel like my whole being changes depending on who is around me. With some people, I feel like a strident maniac. Around others, I feel myself recoil, my voice becoming almost shy and unsure. Some people make me feel like I have to lead and be in charge. Some people make me feel girlish and superficial. Others make me feel butch. Some people make me feel stupid, others make me feel irritatingly pompous. Answer me this, readers: does this happen to you as well? There are very few people who I can be around, and feel, simply, myself. This A guy made me feel extremely comfortable and at ease, and he seemed to be a very generous and kind spirit. He came with me to collect my student card from the office, and as I was screwing around trying to open the enveloppe, he took my stuff off me so I could do it properly. I really appreciate little gestures like that. Then he was craning his neck trying to read the blurb, and had a few questions about how to register, how to get a French phone, etc. I just found him very touching.<br />
<br />
We went back outside and waited for the IT teacher to arrive. Yes, you read correctly. We have 2 hours every other week, of learning to 'use word processing equipment properly'. What this means, as is later revealed, we are learning all the little hidden quirks of Word. I mean, fair enough. Like everyone else, I struggle with the thing at times, finding exactly what tool I want to use, and just learning to live with those fucking mystery occurances (for example, when you start typing, and out of nowhere, as you type, it starts eating up all the words you've already written. WHY?!). Sure, it's great if I can learn to stop all those things from happening (as we did in class the other day), but is it really ESSENTIAL? Anyhow, the teacher is a pretty wacky matter-of-fact woman, who I like. She has dyed red hair, with one side longer than the other, wears bright cardigans, has nail art, and is in her 50s. She uses a few cultural shockers, such as calling a type of quotation marks 'gillemets negre', which was a little odd, and then when talking about Microsoft Office packages versus Open Office, said:<br />
"But I mean, if you like Open Office better, then go for it. I'm only racist by ignorance". Hmm. Interesting!<br />
<br />
As we sat down at our computers, 'A' was in front of me, and his computer started beeping like one of those heart machines attached to a dying person. Nervously he looked around, and realized he had no mouse, so I whispered to him, "there's one at the back". I meant, 'just change computer mate', but no, he got up and disconnected the mouse from the other computer, came and sat back down, replugged it in, and the beeping continued. I felt especially bad when latecomers came in and sat at the back, and when we began actually using the machines started bleating 'Madame, someone has taken our mouse! We have no mouse!' Poor A just sank lower into his chair, and I felt as if I had caused the whole debacle, whilst simultaneously being amused by it. A reminded me of those characters in films who are held responsible for some horrible event, but are unable to express that their error was made in ignorance, not evillness, and so eventually get hunted down and murdered by the townspeople.<br />
<br />
So I'm now half way through the working week. My next class is at 5.30pm (I <i>know</i>!) until 7.30pm, after which I shall retire to the student restaurant, and eat and drink my fill for a mere €3. I am enjoying it here!iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-4323931099058352722011-09-16T11:30:00.000+02:002011-09-16T11:30:01.052+02:00The tarte flambée club and the hypochondriac's guide to self-healingFor about 4 or 5 years now, I have sporadically yet regularly woken to find my face afflicted by a beast of a blemish. There is only ever one of them, about every 1-2 months. The thing starts as a tingle, and then over the course of a few hours, develops into a massive, subterranean welt - albeit an easily disguisable by make-up, welt. It hovers there, an angry looking lump, with no head to pop, no visible orifice from which to squeeze what I assume is a wealth of pungent pus just waiting to be let out. The thing gets massive, maybe the size of a kidney bean, and can take up to two weeks to disappear. It reacts to nothing, no product is mighty enough to shift its weighty presence. From my frantic internet searches, I can only assume it is a form of cystic acne, although because of its only occasional appearances, I don't consider it to be something worth worrying too much about.<br />
<br />
Except that now, as a fully-functioning member of French society, I am entitled to go and see a doctor and get reimbursed. I did consider this. I wonder how pissed off doctors get when these days you waltz into the clinic, make yourself comfortable, and say: "Right, well in my opinion it seems to be a sort of cystic acne, possible nodular although I'm not sure it reaches the stage where it could be considered nodular in the strict sense of the condition, per se..." I thought about making a trip to the <i>dermatologue</i>, since many French women just casually slip into the dermotologist's every now and then for an acid face peel or for a consultation because they're worried about a few blackheads around their nose, and have no qualms about getting reimbursed by the state for this, because let's face it, how your skin looks can be possibly considered taking care of your mental health. However, true to the general character of my weak-chinned and thin-blooded nation, I displayed a certain level of foolish stoicism, and proceeded to cure myself of the affliction on my own. I mean, once you start going to the dermatologist for stuff like this, what comes next? Buying a poodle and getting it's hair chemically straightened once a week at the local pooch parlour? Making appointments to see my nutriotionist because of a potential wheat imbalance? Checking myself into spas to 'deal with my stress' (which is apparantly, again, reimbursed by the sate, if you have been sent to said spa by your GP). No!<br />
I cured my subcutaneous chaperone by using a clay mask on it 3 times a day (just that part of skin, too drying for the rest), and then icing it until I felt like I only had half a face. It's taken about three days, but is definitely on it's way out now. Hope you enjoyed your holiday ON MY FACE. Now get your shit together, and GEDDOUT!<br />
<br />
Anyway, in other exciting news...last night I decided on an impulse to join a few other people in the residence on an impromptu trip to the student restaurant for some tartes flambées. (<i>Aside note: My diet over the past 2 weeks has consisted of variations on these basic ingredients:</i><br />
<ul><li><i>lardons</i></li>
<li><i>cheese</i></li>
<li><i>cream</i></li>
</ul><i>I've made carbonara (pasta), eaten it on tartes flambees (dough) and have made a stellar </i><i>tartiflette, without the help of an oven (potato). I have basically eaten these ingredients with almost every carbohydrate known to man.)</i><br />
I wasn't sure whether I really wanted to go to this thing. I envisaged a group of 19 year-olds, fresh-faced and eager, and myself, 24, cyst-faced and jaded. I made some sugared popcorn to help myself decide. I burnt the popcorn, and took that as a sign. I stepped out of the studio, locked the door, walked down the corridor, and there in front of me, lay one of those little foam armchairs that fold out into a mattress. On it, was taped a piece of paper with the words: 'A prendre'. What unbelievable luck, I thought to myself. What a stroke of good grace, a sign from God himself, for this sort of fruitful twist of fate rarely happens to me. Although, as Vatti would point out - it's that sort of negative thinking that MAKES it not happen to me. Like a furtive, spritely little crab, I grabbed it, and scuttled back to my room. Leaving the room, take 2. This time, I made it down the stairs, saw several people clustered around the post boxes, and said "Is this the tarte flambee club?", and so the evening began.<br />
<br />
They took the tram whilst I cycled in, and MAN is biking faster than public transport. I was there a good 15 minutes before they arrived. After a slight kerfuffle over paying methods (to use the student restaurant, subsidised by the government, of which there are many in Strasbourg, you need to pay using your 'top up' student card. Me and two of the others don't have ours yet, so there was some exchanging of money and logistical ponderings, before we walked through the spinning glass door of the RU). Allow me to mention just how great these student restaurants are. Here in Strasbourg, you get a three-course meal for €3.05. That's including a salad, a hot main course, a dessert, some cheese and a drink. Just brilliant. We decided to go for the deal of the day, which was a pitcher of beer and a tarte flambee for €5. The guy who had organised this meet-up is the sort of person who always inspires awe in me, simply due to his generosity of the spirit. I'm sure everyone has met a few people like this: this guy, let's call him P, has no need of new friends, having been born here, and yet took the time out to set this up for all the lost souls in the residence, and spent the rest of the evening making sure everyone was alright, and feeling part of the group, and had been engaged in the conversation. I admire those people, because for whatever reason (Insecurity? Shyness? A lack of social charisma? Laziness?) most of us do not quite go to the same extent. It was interesting to meet this guy, because despite having been born here and being, for all intents and purposes, French, his mother is English and his father American, so he is bilingual, and, like me, only returned to England as an adult to do is undergraduate degree. It meant we had a lot to discuss, and I felt like he understood where I was coming from. Like me, he had also spent a good few years 'fucking around' before starting his Masters, in various ways, although I'm not sure he ever told me doing what, exactly.<br />
<br />
After we'd eaten and downed a bladder-bursting amount of beer, they got back on the tram to the residence, and I cycled off to make a pit stop at Marcel's. He brought out a bottle of wine I had left there last weekend and had neglected to finish, and we sat under a tree, having a right old merry laugh, as I swigged down the wine, almost cutting my mouth on the metallic plastic that was still around the neck (charming - face cysts, and a cut mouth. Any takers?), and I felt so happy in that moment, like I was beginning to find a place here, as I <strike>cycled </strike>slalomed my way home, almost slamming into an unfortunately positioned traffic cone, before sauntering up to my bed and falling into a blissful sleep.<br />
<br />
P.S.: I decided to be all ecological and order school copy books off the internet from some green company who sell really cheap, recycled stationary. Perfect. Except it took 13 days to come, as opposed to the promised 5, and when it did, I only had one copy book instead of 5 (although this single book came in an absolutely HUGE cardboard box. 'Green', hmm?), with a hand-written note attached saying "Sorry! We ran out...". The note was signed with a red rubber stamp of a heart. Well, thanks for the love, but if you want me to save the bloody planet, you better make it easy for me to do so, because otherwise I am going STRAIGHT out there, back to my consumerist, capitalist ways, to purchase stationary of the nice, shiny, bleached, freshly-stripped-from-the-tree, took-10-days-in-a-plane variety.iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-56831443835054416132011-09-12T23:19:00.003+02:002011-09-14T11:27:10.823+02:00America!!I seem to have spent a lot of my time defending America to my fellow Europeans, and with good reason. The attitude expressed against Americans is one of loathing in the face of American heavy-handedness- they are self-centred, ignorant to the rest of the world, taking what they want whilst condemning other nations for war crimes, stomping into our countries and terrorising us with their franchises and television. Let's not forget that many European couuntries did exactly the same not so long ago. It was called colonialism. Lately, I've been reading up on my own country's despicable actions towards Ireland (amongst many, many others) and how they dealt with the potato famine over there. So Europeans may well take a sanctimonious and disapproving approach to America's politics, but it wasn't so long ago they were up to similar sort of stuff. Let's also not forget that globalization can only occur following a philosophy of demand and supply. You can't bitch about America 'forcing' Burger King on us when we basically are all gagging for the Summer BBQ Whopper and onion rings. Europe is like a pathetic slag, staggering home in one cheap stiletto, throwing up into her own bargain basement push-up bra, screeching "he got me drunk!". You got yourself drunk. You may have been facilitated, but you did it to yourself.<br />
<br />
Having said that, and I know that I am a day late with this pondering, but one thing about American culture (a fairly recent addition to America culture) I just cannot physically stomach, is the reaction to 9/11. Here we go, another year, another saccharine round of Facebook statuses and pop prayers. People utterly unconcerned with world events and the monstrosities of the world we live in have suddenly developped big, watery-eyed hearts and self-effacing voices. Where were you when it happened? How did YOU feel? Because it often seems that American society is based on the YOU. How did the tragedy make YOU personally feel? Not what consequences does it have for our society or our economy or our community make-up, but how have YOU, important YOU, digested this event, and are you feeling bad enough about it?<br />
<br />
It has been said over and over again, and let's face it, nothing anyone ever says is going to change the way the whole nation have chosen to deal with this human tragedy, but: is America not aware of the absolute horrors it has wreaked the world over? "Yeah, I get that, but it doesn't take away from what happened on 9/11," the American you're discussing it with might drawl casually. No. You're right. It doesn't. But why don't you have a bit more respect for the world you live in and the world you inhabit, and stop throwing your sobs in everyone's faces, when you've drowned out other countries' sobbing YOU have caused?<br />
<br />
It's true that when 9/11 occured, it was one of those jaw-dropping moments, where you feel overwhelmed with sadness and terror and anger at what has happened. For Americans, because it happened in their backyard. For Europeans, because it made us all think: "America is not infallible. If this can happen in AMERICA, in AMERICA of all places, what the HELL is going to happen to the rest of us?". And yet we forget that the British Isles has suffered internal IRA terrorism attacks for many decades now. We forget about ETA in the Basque country. We indulge America's paranoia and gratuitous self-pity and romanticised sorrow, forgetting about WW1 and Nazi Germany, forgetting about Kosovo and the destruction of the Balkans and the troubles in Northern Ireland. We forget that we, Europe, as a continent, have been touched by all of this in the last 100 years: two world wars, terrorism, regional warfare, all within our own tiny continent, whilst America has yet to suffer anything of the kind. Perhaps there it is, that which is so guiltily grating - the idea that the world has suffered at the hands of the bestiality of what mankind is capable of, and yet somehow America has escaped this fate, whilst having no qualms regarding imposing the fate on others. No army has reached American soil in recent history. No terror of foreign dominance has lapped at America's shores. Perhaps this is where the hysteria concerning 9/11, the cinematic proportions of the emotion bestowed on this one event, a decade later, comes from. In the same way that so many Americans you meet cling to a particular nationality ("I'm Irish", or "I'm Polish") to procur themselves some wispy sense of identity in a grander scheme, perhaps this attachment to the memory of 9/11 is burrowed deeper into the American psyche than we (or even they themselves) realize: perhaps to hold firmly onto the terror of 9/11, as opposed to remembering it but moving on, is to give themselves that which they have never had - a sense of victimhood ("see! We're not just bad guys! We can be hard done by too!") which draws them closer to being a nation with a past. America, the youngest country in the world in many ways, through 9/11, now has a richer history, a history that could only be fully complete with a chapter on "Suffering".<br />
<br />
I'm sure that Americans do still feel some fear. But really? Do they? Do they live with daily fear of a terrorist attack? I find it very difficult to believe that the vast majority of Americans are sitting in their houses, paralysed with panic and anguish at the prospect of terrorism striking them down. I find it difficult to understand because there were the 7/7 terrorist bombs in London too, but I don't know a single British person who now lives with an under-lying concern of terrorism. It doesn't even cross my mind when I've been on the underground. Granted, the casualties in London were ''only'' of 52 people, but I'm fairly sure the American reaction would have been the same, had the death toll been 52 or close to 3,000, as it was for 9/11. And 52 or 3,000: what does it matter? Deaths are deaths. Deaths by terrorism, are deaths by terrorism.<br />
<br />
Still - to those families who lost someone on that fateful day, I sincerley wish them strength in finding peace in themselves, because no matter what analysis we throw on it, it WAS a terrible thing. I'd also like to say that I hope I haven't hurt any feelings. These are, after all, only my personal ramblings, and like most of my ideas, aren't particularly fully-formed. Not being American myself, it is very possible I haven't grasped the true emotion behind 9/11. Unfortunately, as for all of us on a multitude of topics, I have only the media and my own instincts to rely on. <br />
<br />
If any American readers care to share their thoughts, then feel free!iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-61035918638414189972011-09-11T01:59:00.000+02:002011-09-11T01:59:20.775+02:00In which I read some books, get even with the Algerians, and get hit on by a lesbianAlrighty fellas, in a nutshell, voila a few things that have been going down since I last posted:<br />
<ul><li>Last night went out with some of my 'friends' here (strange: we went out again tonight, and I'm beginning to settle into what I imagine one might term a 'friendship' with these people).</li>
<li>Marcel's place has become a sort of stepping stone between 'town' and my place. It's situated just behind the uni, so basically exactly midway between the two. Most nights, whether I've been out with him or not, I'll send him a text and drop by, or accompany him to his before heading on. A great thing I've discovered about Marcel, is that although he may not be the "fuck yeah!!11 Let's PARTAY!" type, he has a knack for concealing hidden talents. Ever since I picked up a backpack on leboncoin and told him about my amazing find, he has become obsessed with the website, and will often tell me he "can't tonight, I've got to go and pick up a lamp". One of his talents, is he seems to be pretty good with DIY. He found some old planks and turned them into shelves for his (shit) wardrobe. I showed up this evening on my way back from a few drinks, and we sat on his doorstep, as we normally do, and he produced juice and freshly made coffee cake. Excellent. Just the sort of fuel I need for my laborious cycle home. I say laborious, but in all honesty, the novelty hasn't worn off. I love that bike, and getting on it is never a chore, however tired I may be feeling (read: however wasted. Nearly mowed an old man down the other day. lulz!)</li>
<li>Cleaning up this shit hole of a room. One thing I'll say for myself, is I'm not lacking in imagination. It's what makes me so paranoid about, say, being left at home alone. Unfortunately, it also means I often have 'memories' that I cannot say are 100% accurate, because I wonder if over time I have embellished the truth slightly. I do have a fairly confident belief in the memory of my mother shrieking that my sister and I's shared bedroom looked 'like a brothel' once. And most days, as I gaze around my studio, I realize that in 10 years, nothing much has changed. The place does look like a whorehouse. The worst part is, I do regular damage control initiatives, putting on 'inspiring' tunes and blitzing the place, only to find that 5 minutes later the incense holder is over-flowing with cigarette butts again, and the floor is once again littered with discarded clothes, deemed too staid, or too slutty, or too trampy or too formal, or too teenagery or too thirty-something, or too WHATEVER - just too something, to be worn out of the house. </li>
</ul>Having given you a brief outline of my fascinating activities over the last few days, let's talk about some specifics. Thursday night, as I cycled home, my eyes taking in the airy boulevards and shuffling trees, I heard from behind me a faint yet consistent 'shhh' sound. I began to notice that it was becominjg more and more of a strain to pedal, so got off the bike to realize that my back tyre was punctured. FUCK. Words can't describe how pissed off I was, as I pushed the stupid bastarding thing the 30 minutes back home, resenting every cyclist I passed, glaring icicles as they whooshed past, their tinkling laughs trailing behind them. Obviously no-one else had ever had a puncture before, I was obviously all alone in this situation, the only person in the world to experience this inconvenience. I got the bike home, stomped up the stairs, fell asleep, and the next morning called the guy who sold it to me. Luckily, he's a pretty decent guy and had given me a one month guarantee, so I flung the bike on the tram and headed into the 'petite France' quarter to get it sorted out. He got it all fixed up in under 10 minutes, and I told him that I really wanted to learn to deal with this sort of thing myself, and so he said that in October (this month is his busiest month, understandably...all the students [myself included] want to get their grubby, poor little paws on a bike) he would have me over to his workshop and let me take apart an old bike so I could understand how it works, and then he would show me how to deal with punctures. As someone who has never been very 'manual', and who made the mistake of displaying total disinterest when faced with her father's DIY projects, I am now in the unfortunate position of basically not having a fucking clue on how to do just about most things. Lightbulb changing is something I can do, although tentatively. I feel proud when I open a tin or a bottle of wine. That's the extent of practical things I can do with my hands. So I think it would be pretty interesting to get to grips with something like dealing with bike punctures.<br />
<br />
The bike repaired, I headed down to the train station area to join the library. Much to my joy, they had a proper, full English section, a far cry from the meagre collection found in Val. Having spent the past year resigned to taking out Patricia Cornwell novels, or worse, those 'classics' they insist on stocking (I mean, yeah, "Moby Dick" is a literary staple....but who's read it, and more to the point, who actually enjoyed it?), it was a complete and utter pleasure to have a whole new world of books spread out in front of me. Two books I just finished reading are:<br />
<ol><li>"L'étrangere", by Bess Nielsen: the tale of a Danish girl who goes to Algeria aged 16 to marry her charming Algerian husband, who turns out to actually be a massive dick. He tries to force her to become Muslim. She is forced to walk 3 steps behind him, is locked in their flat in Alger, has her child removed from her since it is customary for the first-born son to be given to the grandmother, is emotionally abused by the women of the family, and is forbidden from leaving Algeria without her husband's written permission. I must say, it was pretty enlightening, and made me immediately stop bitching about my punctured tyre. The day after I finished this book, I cycled through the streets of Strasbourg, wind in the proverbial hair, feeling light and so free, free to do anything I set my mind on. There's a little shop run by Algerians on the corner of my street, and they shout and whistle at all the women who go by ('Hey! *whistle* Hey you! My friend wants to talk to you chérie! Come on! Come here!') and I must admit, after reading this book (although I don't want to judge a whole society on one woman's account, I think I trust her), I felt appalled at not only the way they would treat their women, but how they would think it would be acceptable to treat women HERE. Since, I have developped a different technique when dealing with these guys - rather than walk past, eyes lowered, I shout back, nothing in particular, I just whizz past and screech the same incomprehensible animal sound they make to us, and turning the corner I clicked my tongue at them and laughed. Let THEM feel belittled, because I won't.</li>
<li>On a much shitter level, I read "Eat, Pray, Love". What a load of absolute bollocks. I read it because of peer pressure. I feel like every woman on the planet has read it, so I should at least give it a try. If you haven't yet: don't bother. It's not even okay in a casual beach read sense. Dull, self-pitying, self-absorbed, arrogant, and worse of all - not funny. Sounds a bit like this blog, eh? ;) The first part of the book (Italy) was okay. As a self-confessed PIG (had a whole melted camembert this evening, following on from lunch's rich and cheese-laden carbonara....must stop....maybe next week...) I enjoyed hearing about the luscious food and gorgeous men. That's about it though. Particularly hateful part: when she tells us about a gorgeous Italian 20 something guy on a train hitting on her. Not sure if believe. The second part (India) was I-want-to-slowly-strip-all-my-skin-off-my-body BORING. Do I give a FUCK about your chanting and meditation? No. No I fucking don't. She goes to an Indian temple to sit there and pray for 4 months. She adds a Texan character in there for good measure, but he's neither endearing nor funny. His nickname for her (I find this difficult to believe, btw) is 'Groceries'. Maybe she found it touching and 'we're so close now!' at the time, but....seriously? If your nickname is longer than your actual name and is also a very dull noun, then it ain't a good one. Particularly hateful part: when she goes to see the temple leader (forget technical word for), and tells him she finds one specific daily meditation session boring and would rather not do it. ARE...YOU....FUCKING...KIDDING ME? Last part (Bali), mildly better than second part (although perhaps because nearing end?) in which she goes to the island to essentially leech off a generous old man. She, a rich American writer, is to teach this medicine man English (which she never gets round to doing, natch), and he is to teach her to meditate (which he does, basically out of the kindness of his heart, not seeing a penny for his troubles - which is irritating, since let's face it, the woman is wealthy enough to go fucking around Europe for a year without working). Particularly irritating part: 2 years previously the medicine man had read her palm and had said 'you should come to learn from me in Bali sometime'. So, after 2 years, she rocks on up there, without the least thought that maybe, JUST MAYBE, he might have forgotten who she was. Because no, obviously a mind so perceptive, a spirit so pure, a face so dazzling, could not possibly be forgotten. JESUS CHRIST WOMAN.</li>
</ol>Aaaanyway. Where was I? So I suppose I can wrap this post up with a brief account of what I got up to tonight. Headed out with 2 other girls I met, and we ended up in this gay/lesbian bar. The head waitress took a shine to me, and as soon as we walked in said "are you here to pull tonight?" [throaty, bawdy chortle]. We had some pastis, went to pay, and: "Where are you going? You should stay! It's early!". I explained we had no money left, and she said "It doesn't matter! You can pay with your body..." [raucous chortle]. We left, but not before she insisted on kissing my hand. Mkay!<br />
<br />
I stopped off at Marcel's, comme d'habitude, and cycled home. As I was putting my bike away, I noticed a guy standing there in the dark listening to music, with bleached blonde hair and a pork pie hat. We greeted each other, and he said he was heading out, but he didn't know where, because he didn;t have any friends. Then we got talking about the pressure and social responsibility of actually having friends, and how we didn't really mind being alone. I sat down for a bit by the bike cage and we finished smoking the end of a spliff he had, whilst listening to some old French classics on his music player thing (how old am I??). I began to think he was slightly and endearingly odd, and here are the reasons why:<br />
<ul><li>He kept stroking my arm and hair and saying I was pretty</li>
<li>He was delighted that I knew 'Highway to Hell' when it came on (ummm...doesn;t everyone? Maybe not in France?)</li>
<li>He loved it when I said (can't remember context) "We aren't limited by anything at all, not even our own universe" (fairly throwaway bullshitty phrase, no?)</li>
<li>He kept muttering "What can I do tonight? Who can I see? No one. And I am happy about that."</li>
<li>He clung to my arm and said "No! NO!" when I said I had to leave, but also refused to exchange numbers because he said he "didn't want the social pressure of having to get in touch with someone, and anyway, I believe what happens happens in an evening, and doesn't neccessarily have to be a continued thing". I totally got him, and was relieved by that!</li>
</ul>Anyway, it made me think: we need to be open to the idea of people not neccessarily acting the way society has deemed normal, or talking about acceptable things, because I can understand where these people are coming from, because my basic instinct is to be similar to them, it's just I have pretty good social intuition and feel more pressure to conform than they do. 'Normal' people are very simply conformists. If we weren't concerned with conforming, we'd all be out and about punching people in the teeth, not speaking to anyone else for days, and sleeping with our best friend's boyfriend. How refreshing to be able to spend these fleeting ephemeral moments with people though. How sad but wonderful at the same time, to remember how different we all are, and yet how similar in our foibles and insecurities. And let us do away with those who judge these people, less 'normal' than the norm. Do away with the people who would mutter a quick 'bonsoir' and then scuttle off into their rooms, especially people our age. Because how desperately sad, that you prefer the comfort and safety of those banal 'around a beer' conversations about "my first impressions of France" and "what I studied at university, and how it makes me better than you", than the wonderful ideas you can get from those who are just ever so slightly 'unhinged'. <br />
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Now, I must go to bed. And resist the urge to cook more food beforehand.iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-42496730619817189182011-09-07T19:36:00.003+02:002011-09-13T12:40:31.508+02:00In which I meet Yannick<span style="font-size: small;">First exciting detail to report - I finally met <a href="http://i-flyastarship.blogspot.com/2011/08/lavender-fringes-cigarettes-where-hell.html">the infamous Yannick</a>. And guess what guys? He's hot.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">This morning, I begrudgingly set the auld alarm for 7.30am, determined to beat the crowds and to head down to the CROUS for when their doors opened. I was ushered into a tiny backroom, and told Yannick would come and find me. Here are a few things that made this experience so much more enjoyable than your normal average French admin experience:</span><br />
<ul><li><span style="font-size: small;">It took Yannick less than 60 seconds to come and get me</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">He had my paperwork ready and waiting, and opened our conversation with 'we've been expecting you'</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">He asked me to provide just 2 documents. My passport, and my bank account details.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;">The whole process took ten minutes.</span></li>
</ul><span style="font-size: small;">I sat, dazed by the early morning sunshine filtering through the broken blinds, and allowed my mind to wander. I began to ask myself the kind of existential question that torments the mind of any foreign student ploughing their way through the sheafs and deadlines of bureaucracy. What document would I be missing, today? How will I have inadvertently fucked up? What error in my application process will be uncovered, like an oily slug sleeping amongst the leaves of a lettuce? Never fear. There will be no errors, not if Yannick has anything to do with it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">He appeared suddenly, and greeted me. Under his cool green gaze, and due to the early hour of the day, I was unfortuantely only able to express myself by muttering 'Me...Hannah. You...Yannick? Yes? It is?' Anyhow, we stepped into his office, filled out the paperwork, and I walked away with everything sorted.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> Now all I have to do is gather up the courage to slay the giant monster that is the CAF. I submitted all my paperwork which included proof of medical insurance (why? what's it to you? Anyhow, wonderful Yannick sorted that out), a letter stating I can look after myself financially, and proof of the scholarship. Done, done, done. Handed it in, now all I do is sit back, relax, and wait for the whingeing, stuffy "there was a problem with your application..." letter to come through.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-79775041514622200532011-09-04T00:20:00.001+02:002011-09-04T00:21:35.110+02:00100 % knackeredThe biggest piece of information I have to impart is - I got a bike, and am in love with it! Any excuse to get it out, and I do. I'm literally obsessed with it, and with the idea of taking it anywhere I can. Before I go on to describe my biking habits - as I'm sure many of you are desperate to hear about that particular aspect of my life - let me begin by sketching out brief outlines of the 'friends' I have come to acquire over the past 3 days. Before I begin, I'll give you a 'too long - didn't read' breakdown: it's pretty shabby.<br />
<br />
<ul><li>Marcel - NB: not his actual name, but a name I have chosen to give him due to his grandfatherly like ways. This is a guy I met when sitting the entry exams back in June, along with a second guy (T-Bo), who will be moving down here on the 12th. Anyway, we started chatting, kept in touch, and have basically been spending every day together. For those of you who like to put a face to a name - he's basically really tall, with hair down to his waist, a mad kind of goatee thing (I'm afraid I'm not au fait with men's facial hair terms), and wears stuff from army surplus. Here are a few interesting facts and things about him:</li>
<ul><ul><li>He hates bikes with a passion, because they go too fast and are wobbly</li>
<li>He is anti-social, apparantly</li>
<li>He plays electric guitar</li>
<li>He's French </li>
<li>He has a pretty shit studio, but it's right next to the university. Seriously, I went to visit this place, and...it's quite dismal. It's the same kind of structure as mine, except it's ground floor and reaaaally dark, and to get to the bed you climb up this shaky weird ladder, and downstairs is the kitchen, a desk, and a space you can just about turn 360 degrees in. Anyway, this guy seems like a nice, generous person. We've been striding/cycling around town together everyday, setting ourselves objectives ('today, we will fight the CAF system', 'today, we shall locate the book market', 'today, we will find a park that isn't covered in dog shit'). The reason I say in my title that I am physically broken, is due to all of this pavement-pounding. We have literally been covering the town for 4/5/6 hours at a time without stopping, mainly due to getting lost. Not only that, but it also happens to be 30 bloody degrees out here, and I cannot STAND it anymore. Especially when surrounded by golden-skinned cool as a cucumber French women. I'm just standing there, melting into the road, my uncooked-chicken-style English skin slowly fizzing under the beating sun, hair plastered to my head. I caught a glimpse of myself in a car window, and the only adjective that came to mind was 'florid'. Shudder.</li>
</ul><li>Erfal: this guy is from Iran, and lives on the same corridor as me. We first met when I was outside having a smoke and he was moving a box into his room - his room, which just so happens to be the worst room in the world. The door faces right onto the fire escape, so basically you get everyone coming in and out all the time. The window faces out onto the main road, so you've got the traffic noise. And it's also right on the corner of the building, so the wall where the bed goes is at an angle, so the bed actually doesn't fit. Nevertheless, he seems like a pretty cheery chap. He comes out to sit with me when he hears me going out for a smoke, which is nice. He's 26 and studying graphic design, but is also working part-time so seems quite busy. He also seems to have this massive group of Iranian friends here in Strasbourg, so obviously when I mentioned shisha off he went, inviting me to a shisha bar his friends go to near the train station. Doesn't sound shady at all. He took me into his room to discuss the angle problem with me ("what is solution? None is here! What can I do, Ali?"). Yes, he seems to think my name is Ali, so this evening I wrote it down on a post-it for him, despite his protests of "but I know your name!" No. No you don't. So he showed me this video he made for his friend who is leaving Strasbourg. He showed me all 8 minutes of it, a photo montage set to a wailing, slit-your-wrists Iranian trad song. 8 minutes is a long time when you're trying to keep smiling. Then he gave me a glass of milk, and I left. This morning, he wanted to know about my bike, and wanted to see it so he could judge whether I paid a good price for it (I had). Then he asked me if I'd used my door key to open the bike shed, to put my bike there where he keeps his. Actually, my key doesn't work in the lock, but I realized that I could fit my child-like wrist through the metal wiring and turn the lock from the other side of the door. He found this hilarious, and went on a "aren't the French just SO fucking stupid?" rant. Then he tried, and his hand fit through too. Conclusion: the bike shed lock is bogus. This evening, I staggered in from yet another day of exhausting physical endeavours. My feet look like the feet of animals: dirty, hoof-like, but hooves with CLAWS. I have these massive weeping blisters on my feet, I mean they look like the feet of an actual tramp (UK meaning, not US). So I dragged myself up the stairs and onto the fire escape, where I had a smoke, and Erfal came out and gave me some peaches, and had a great laugh over today's escapade: me and Marcel left my bike somewhere in town, crawled around under the hot sun like bloated ageing lizards for 3 hours, and then spent 2 bad-tempered hours going round and round that fucking cathedral trying to find the side-street where I left my bike. Everyone we asked for directions was a tourist, and did that big smile "hahaha, I'm a tourist, I can't help you, isn't that funny?" thing that just made me want to punch them in the fanny pack. Erfal enjoyed that story, and much laughter was had. We spoke for a good hour about Arabic and Persian, and how Europeans assume they're the same just because they use the same alphabet and numbers, like how Iranians assume Italian and English is the same. Crazy.</li>
</ul><li>UK Girl: here's a new one. There's this English girl coming to be an assistant, and she arrived today. We casually arranged by Facebook to meet for a drink when she got here, except this evening I was checking my messages and saw one that read 'Hi Hannah, this is UK Girl's Mum. She can't get internet working, she's in Strasbourg, here's her number, please text her she wants to meet tomorrow'. Mkay! Soooo: tomorrow I'll be meeting someone new! Will take the bike, bien sur. I'm not gonna lie - having lived with S, I am finding now that I miss being able to speak to someone in my own language, to natter away naturally. I don't want a big gaggle of anglophone friends, it's not what I'm about, the whole cliquey 'brits abroad' scene, but...it would be nice to have someone who understands where I'm coming from culturally, and who you can have that easy relationship with.</li>
</ul>So there you have it guys. It always starts off slow when you move somewhere, and cobble together the beginnings of a life. Rest assured that I am exhausted, but vey happy. I will leave you with some images of what I cycle by every day to get home:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Orangerie park right next to chez moi!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Random EU buildings on the way into town - I can almost smell the over-priced EU-approved packed lunches wafting on the air as I whizz past the men in suits chomping away on those grassy banks</td></tr>
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iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-26915328768110748102011-09-01T01:42:00.000+02:002011-09-01T01:42:26.101+02:00In which I become the proud owner of a new studio (and a moth phobia)Well guys, here I am - yours truly is now an established member of the Strasbourg community. The underground, foreign, totally lost and ''wtf''ing their way around town community. Let me take you back, through the mists of time, to 3 days ago.<br />
Vatti arrived in jolly old Val, and it just so happened that on that very day, the town was actually <i>lively</i>. There were people there, in the streets. Some of them were even having fun. And it was all in celebration of the illustrious BinBin, a massive wooden statue of a man that gets paraded around in every town in Northern France, accompanied by a selection of brass bands from around the world. Here's the star himself:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.va-infos.com/IMG/jpg/PICT0038-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://www.va-infos.com/IMG/jpg/PICT0038-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Terrifying, isn't he?<br />
Vatti and I ate at a local brasserie, met S and D for drinks afterwards, and then hit the sack early so as to be fresh-faced and bright-eyed for our big trip the next morning. I spent a rough night tossing and turning, consumed by some sort of eerie anxiety. People say moving gets easier the more times you do it, and I suppose that's true in a sense. I wasn't worried about not being able to manage in Strasbourg, but I felt an unsettled feeling at leaving Val: more because of the people I was leaving behind.<br />
The next day didn't allow much time for wallowing, however. I overslept, and jolted awake to find myself with precisely 20 minutes to haul my ass up to Pa's hotel and direct him to the flat. It was also at this point that I said goodbye to S, which was a sort of hazy moment considering I was definitely not awake by this stage. Vatti and I arrived back at the flat, where he enjoyed a cup of coffee and a chin wag with D, as I raced around stuffing my overflowing piles of pointless shit into plastic carriers, bin bags full of incense and odd socks bursting at the seams, plates and cutlery hastily wrapped up in my old holey jumpers, books and lidless pens gathered up in bed sheets. We threw everything into the car, and away we went!<br />
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The drive up to Strasbourg was long, although luckily we had the company of Maura O'Connell and the German GPS woman. At around 11, both Vatti and I suddenly started fantasizing about getting a McDonald's, our eyes desperately searching for a glimpse of some golden arches up in the distance, as we regaled each other with images of Egg McMuffins and sausage burgers. In fact, 'La Croissanterie' seems to reign supreme on French motorway rest points, and the idea of biting the claw off a stale, dry croissant was about as appealing as...that. We struck gold when we stumbled upon a restaurant that served bacon, hash browns and a fried egg, the 'Brunch Complet' as they so charmingly named it. Ever the anglophone tourists abroad, we turned our noses up at the finer local fare, and stuck with what we really wanted: grease.<br />
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Eventually, the landscape began to turn more and more Germanic (pines, wheat fields, umlauts and -burgs on the road signs) and we arrived in Strasbourg. We got to the hotel there, and may I just say: SWEET! Is there any feeling more luxurious than enjoying a high water-pressure shower, finished up with a soft, fluffy massive towel, and slipping into a bed the size of your kitchen back home, as you flick through TV channels? Find me something more luxurious than that, because I just cannot think.<br />
Here is what Vatti and I mainly enjoyed during our 2 "holiday" days in Strasbourg:<br />
<ul><li>The fine cuisine of Alsace (and its many beers)</li>
<li>The fascinating architecture</li>
<li>The beauty and pleasantness of the city itself</li>
<li>The Germans in our hotel</li>
</ul>I am very sorry to get back onto the subject of bacon so soon after you thought we had moved past it, but my favorite food was present at the breakfast spread laid on by the hotel. There, just for me, was scrambled eggs and bacon, as much as I could eat, in fact - as much as I could ever wish for. The Germans seemed to be more preoccupied with the cold ham and cheese selections, which suited me just fine. Vatti and I were bemused to see that there was a certain level of elbowing and paranoia displayed by the Germans at breakfast time: their beady eyes scoured everyone's plates, checking to see who had had too much, and of what, and of how the supplies were looking. Was the quantity of fresh fruit dwindling? Nervously, they looked around to make sure a member of staff was aware of what was going on. Did that man there take too hefty a slice of black bread? And more importantly, what was to become of the muesli container, now full to just 32% of its capacity?<br />
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We both agreed that Strasbourg seems to be a simply beautiful place. It reminds me of half Amsterdam, half Paris, on a smaller and friendlier scale. We stopped many a bewildered Strasburger to ask for various directions, and we were always met with polite friendliness. There was one waiter who was a total DICK WAD, but Vatti soon tamed him, via some pointed and well-timed sarcasm. We went to eat dinner in this square under some <i>platanes</i>, where we tried the regional '<i>spatzle' </i>which as far as I can gather is like gnocchi but lighter and much finer. Like potato noodles (but are they even potato, or are they just egg? That's one for Google). I had mine with meatballs and mustard sauce, and Vatti had pork knuckle (I think) and choucroute. Just wonderful! We were sitting by the canal, and at one point this strange street band began to play some vaguely gypsy-ish sounding music, which added to the all-round festive yet relaxed atmosphere. We both agreed that Mutti would LOVE this place, and we wistfully expressed our desire to share this time with her. Apparantly, there is talk that the family might come to Strasbourg for Christmas. As the saying goes: if Mohammed cannot make it to Christmas, Christmas must come to Mohammed.<br />
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So on the 30th we went to get the keys to the studio the CROUS has allocated to me, and I must say, it was not without trepidation on my side. For a number of reasons: it could turn out to be awful. But then, I've lived in some shit holes before. No, my anxiety was more to do with the fact that this was it: the tourist part is coming to an end, and I now have to face reality. We got the keys, the whole process went seamlessly. I think the fact that I have this special 'BGF' status helps a great deal: they were expecting me, and even gave me a few keys so I could go and check out the rooms and decide which one I liked best, which was quite nice. They are all exact carbon copies, so it wasn't like I was checking which one had the jacuzzi in it, however the one I ended up getting was cleaner than the others, plus had more stuff in it that the previous girl had left behind (including a heart-shaped England sticker on the fridge. Hells to the yeah!). The one I chose is on the top floor (only 3 floors) and faces out onto these verdant gardens belonging to "real people". Always good to remember real people. I'll try and take some photos tomorrow, in daylight, but to give you an idea, the studio is 19m2, and here's a vague (and shit) diagram:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BumE-ql2yQwQ6PUVwy45d4yk2zAaCTDJKhRg6SNLn9r0ycfWeFsCun73DPXseaTY71AlKbsIBxo6lhG6nBj8j8bHZMncfP65ke9JG5lJQTFgrbe7EBnFWsiiw9Etv9oPpFgVah5x8WY/s1600/studio.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BumE-ql2yQwQ6PUVwy45d4yk2zAaCTDJKhRg6SNLn9r0ycfWeFsCun73DPXseaTY71AlKbsIBxo6lhG6nBj8j8bHZMncfP65ke9JG5lJQTFgrbe7EBnFWsiiw9Etv9oPpFgVah5x8WY/s320/studio.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
After we'd moved my stuff into the flat, we went shopping for some essentials - my kind and generous Vatti bought me the staples: rice, pasta, porridge, eggs, milk, coffee, saucepan, frying pan, washing up liquid, sponges, bleach, onions, pasta sauce, etc etc etc. We took it all back to the flat, put it away, and then headed back into the town centre. My residence (not as in "my Strasbourg residence, dahling", as in, my halls) are a 10 minute tram ride from the centre of town, so let's put that as a 15 minute bike ride. Strasbourg is so bicycle friendly, that seems to be how most people get around, and I'm becoming more and more obsessed with the idea. I've been trying to buy one off this guy who specializes in second-hand bikes, but he's so <i>serious</i>. He wants to know my inner leg measurement so he can contact me when the right size bike comes through (I've heard that one before, Alain). In all fairness though, that;'s cool, he's not going to just sell me any old shit, which is good.<br />
<br />
For our last night, Vatti and I went to see the university. It's a fairly big, modern campus, and I'd been there before to sit my admission exams, but it's something of a warren. We had a walk around and checked out a few of the maps to get a feel for what all the buildings were, and then went to this great little bar that I really enjoyed from some reason (there wasn't anything particularly unique about the bar, it just seemed like a great vibe) for a blanche and a glass of cider. Afterwards, we had a stroll through the university quarter, which seems to have shit-loads of ethnic food joints: Turkish, 'Persian', Mexican, Lebanese, Greek, Italian, Japanese (I think you get the picture, yeah?!), but really we wanted to have a last good 'Alsacian' meal. We went to one of the main squares where I had a tarte flambée and Vatti got pig's foot (Umm, EWW? The war's over, yeah?) and choucroute, washed down with 'Storig' beers and some Pinot. We had a good old chinwag, as we did for all of our 'holiday', about literature (the American classics), life (are people too hard on themselves? Is modern life constantly coloured by materialism?), linguistics (what is a dipthong, anyway?) and just the generally easy, good-nature musings and laughs you really only ever have with family.<br />
<br />
The next day, we checked out and headed to the studio by tram, where Vatti had also left the car. We grabbed a coffee together at the local café (where my 'residence' is resembles something of a village, in the sense that it is fairly self-contained, and also mainly populated by OAPs who dawdle in the boulangeries taking about 67 hours to order a single pain au chocolat and an egg). The weather is beautiful at the moment, and the sun truly was beating down on us. I started to get that horrible ominous feeling you get: although we were chatting away breezily, in the pit of my stomach, I knew there were only a few minutes left and I didn't want dear Vatti to go. Eventually and inevitably that moment came, and so we walked back to the car and I waved him off. Then I turned around and walked back to the studio, thinking "well, this is it now", and I thought about what a good time we had had spending time together and discovering a new place, and how much I love my family, and how kind and generous a soul Vatti is, never complaining or acting fed-up, even at times like when I lost the hotel key (whoooops!), and how so many people have done nice things for me, but none more so than dear Vatti and Mutti, and so walking back to the studio in such nice weather but feeling a tad alone and slightly unworthy of so much generosity, I started to tear up a bit, and I got to the studio, sat on the bed a little weepy, as I gorged on Crunchies, and then I thought: okay: so I wonder what I should start with.<br />
<br />
In actual fact, today I started with the insurance I was forced to buy in order to get a signed contract I can use to get CAF (housing benefits). So I've got that sneaky little card in my pocket, ready to pull out and slam down on the counter in front of me whenever the need for counter-slamming may arise. Tomorrow I need to go and show it to the woman who deals with our studios, and then once I get the contract I'll head out for more admin stuff which, bien sur, I will then recount in pain-staking detail. I'll give you an account tomorrow as well of meeting up with SPP and who he is. Let's just say: I think I'm really going to love it here. I already really love the city and all its charms, the friendliness of the people, the proximity to Germany, my studio, the course programme, and the fact that I have a few more social dates lined up. <br />
<br />
As a closing point, let me briefly (ha) discuss something that those of you who know my chain-smoking ways may be wondering. How does she cope, balancing living in a studio and keeping up the habit? As you may have assumed, it's impossible to smoke in here, it's so tiny. I cooked spag bol for myself tonight (twas great), but the whole place smelt of dead animal and onion for about an hour afterwards. So: I go out to smoke on the fire escape, which is a safety hazard in itself considering:<br />
<ul><li> there's no light switch except from at either end of the long never-ending corridor</li>
<li>the room needs to be locked, which involves shoving the fag into my mouth, with my reading material under my arm, a cup of coffee in one hand, the key in the other, and relying on basic luck that I actually get the key in the hole</li>
<li>there are bats outside. One flew right up near my face, so close I could feel the gentle breeze of its mad, hysterical papery wings. SHUDDER.</li>
</ul>In fact, I've had quite a brush with nature this evening. Swanned back in from one of my cigarette trips to realize that I'd left my window open and the big strobe light across the window on. Enter trembly, unpredictable moths and their spastic midnight dancing. Taking my courage and my book firmly in both hands, I began to attack, swinging blindly at them, crushing them with the weight of "An Artist's Guide to Perspective" by Janet Shearer, hurling unneccesarily mighty blows onto their frail, pathetic little bodies. But they just kept coming back for more. The small darty ones I dealt with fine, but as I took a step back to survey my work, I realized that there, next to the bin, lay a gross, embalmed-looking BEAST of a creature: its hideous, bloated body unmoving under my shadow. I approached it with a broom and thwacked away as if my sorry life depended on it. Then, not bearing to reach out and gather its fragmented corpse with anything resembling paper, with anything that left mere millimetres between itself and I, I ushered the pieces out with the broom, and pushed it all the way to the fire escape, where it reunited with nature, and is probably in the process of reincarnating itself as a mad rabied fox, lurking amongst the bins, just waiting for its time to come.<br />
<br />
Problem is: now cannot bring self to open window lest a moth revolution should storm the place, so will have to wait until daybreak. In the mean time, it's smelling like a mix of coffee, shower steam and stale incense. Not altogether too unpleasant!<br />
<br />
P.S. Spotted in the corridor: spider the size of a fist. AHHH! Okay, need to grow a pair, seriously. Every time my hair touches my neck I'm going ape-shit.iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-47382184357199362502011-08-28T13:29:00.000+02:002011-08-28T13:29:10.515+02:00Lectrice positionsIf you're an anglophone who wants to live the dream of being in France for a year or two, and if you want to earn a bit more money than you would working as a lowly English assistant, but with the same general lack of actual work, why not become a lectrice? A lectrice (or lecteur, for the guys) is essentially a language assistant for a university. Most universities will hire more than one, so if you play yours cards right, you're in with a shot. You don't necessarily have to speak much French at all to get by, and in fact many places seem to prefer a lower language ability as it reduces your chances of talking to students in French. By the time November came around, I, for example, was so fed up of repeating ''WHAT....DID....YOU....<u><b>DO</b></u>.....THIS....<u><b>WEEKEND</b></u>?'' to a class of gaping 22 year-olds, so resorted to simply speaking their own language.<br />
<br />
<i>The Pros of working as a lectrice:</i><br />
<ul><li>Unlike the assistantship gig, you will definitely be in a city or a large town, removing that "congratulations, you've been placed in village X, population of 17!" moment</li>
<li>Salary around 1200 euros a month</li>
<li>Around 10 hours work a week </li>
<li>Paid holidays: October, Christmas, February, Easter, countless other Catholic saint days and France's many bank holidays, and (the biggest seller of all): paid summer holiday</li>
<li>Renewable contract: you can stay for two years</li>
</ul><i>The Cons of working as a lectrice:</i><br />
<ul><li>The students </li>
<li>I joke. Sort of.</li>
<li>More responsibility than an assistant. In other words, playing hangman for 11 weeks running isn't going to wash. Although I did try.</li>
<li>Meetings (some universities won't expect you to attend, others will)</li>
<li>Extra-curricular stuff. As an assistant, you go in, take your classes, you leave. As a lectrice, you have to mark exams, supervise exams, hold oral exams, possibly organize trips away and hold weekly English nights. You get the drift. </li>
<li>It may just have been the particular university I was at, but I found the experience of teaching university students incredibly boring. French students are definitely not as mature as their anglophone counterparts, possibly as a result of staying in their home town for university, and worse, living at home for the duration of their studies. Instead of having interesting conversations and getting a reaction out of bright, inspired, anglophile kids, it was like being in a room full of 17 year-olds, when many of them were, in fact, my own age. And it was definitely not my choice of topic. I did political music (Bob Dylan, Lennon, Billie Holiday), <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/This_Is_England">This Is England</a> and the skinhead movement, Banksy, reggae...nothing. Give me a class of unruly 13 year-olds who are still completely dazzled by the mere <i>concept </i>of a foreign language any day.</li>
</ul><i>How to get a lectrice job:</i><br />
By and large, I have to say it is a generally positive experience, can be enriching, and makes good financial sense.<br />
<ul><li>If you're a final year student in the UK and you study French, your university probably has links with one or two French universities, in which case around March/April-ish you will be informed that your university is holding interviews. If you pass the interview, you get sent to work at a French university. Simple.</li>
<li>If you're not British, or if you are but don't study French, or if you DO study French but want more options, you have to go down the good old fashioned application route. I was waiting to hear back from my home uni as to whether or not I'd gotten the job, so decided to do my own applying in the mean time. I sent off approximately 40 lectrice applications, and got 3 offers (1 from the home university, 2 off the basis of my application). </li>
</ul><i>Applications</i><br />
<ul><li>First thing to do - remember that France has a whole fucked up education system I don't even want to begin delving into. But basically, you have the universites, the ecoles, the instituts...we're all internet-literate here, I don't need to guide you through a Google search. Make your searching as thorough as possible. Personally, I only bothered with the universities, because I thought it would serve me better to work within an actual arts and languages department. </li>
<li>Where are you sending your application? Go through t<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_colleges_and_universities_in_France">he list of French universities</a>, each time finding the postal address for their English department (sometimes listed as their 'anglophone' department, or other variations). Some people will tell you emailing your CV and cover letter is fine. Well, yes except that sometimes in France, they don't like applications to be sent by email. Some of them even want a <i>handwritten</i> cover letter, for Christ sake. So play it safe: post it. If that means hand addressing and posting 40 A4 envelopes, then so be it. Yes, an email might be fine, but maybe the person recruiting is of the email-hating persuasion. I don't neccessarily agree with it, but I can understand where they're coming from, in terms of effort. It takes no effort whatsoever to sit on your fat ass slurping a chocolate milkshake with your right hand and repeating 'Ctrl A, Ctrl C, Ctrl V - send' over and over again with your left. To actually get up, research an address, print stuff out, put it in an envelope, skip down to your local post office: it shows a bit more 'I'm really into this'. So I would say - using the French uni websites, find the postal addresses, and send your applications.</li>
<li>The university websites might actually visibly advertise vacant lectrice positions on the department page. Otherwise, keep checking back on <a href="http://www.assistantsinfrance.com/forums/viewforum.php?f=83&sid=bb0cd404a7398dea5b371efd1bc6fd15">the assistants in france forum</a> </li>
</ul>iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-65940201127189522742011-08-27T00:37:00.000+02:002011-08-27T00:37:53.608+02:00Giving to the homeless and taking from the landlordsIn the early hours of the morning, I was awoken by horrendous thunder and lightening. It was about 4am, I sat up and watched: truly amazing. The sky was being lit up for seconds at a time, a greenish-yellow: like being in a fantasy world, on another planet with different light. I really, really wish it happened more often.<br />
<br />
<br />
So. My room stretches out in front of me: a blank canvas, a bleak tundra of space. The clutter by the mirror - decluttered. The mothballs in the corners: exterminated. The sad, pathetic little rags that used to hang from the ceiling in an attempt to create a wall seperating my room from the front door: gone.<br />
<br />
Let me cut a long and boring story short. As you know, I'm going to Strasbourg in 3 days. My (American) flatmate, has found someone to replace, if not my dazzling personality and abundance of charisma, then at least my physical presence in the flat. An Australian assistant. Which she has explained to our WWII-obsessed landlords.<br />
<br />
Anyway, at 4pm, my flatmate goes out, I sit on the window ledge simultaneously gobbling down a roll-up and ripping layers of skin off from around my thumbs, and then the landlords arrive. They struggle up the stairs, I usher them in, and try as best as I can to get the ball rolling. "So, what paper do I need to sign?" I bleat, over and over again. But no - they want to speak to 'Mademoiselle' (my flatmate) about the 'situation'. What bloody situation? I'm leaving, she's getting a new roommate in October. You get me blud? But no, they insist I ring Mademoiselle up and say in a fake, breezy voice 'Hiya! Could you just come back round for a minute? They want to speak to you', hoping the flatmate senses the fed-upness.<br />
<br />
In the mean time, back down we hobble, to read the water and electricity meters, Monsieur striding along, getting things done, with Madame screeching "Mais Michel! Miiichel! Tu as bien vu, hein? Tu as bien noté?" Back up we go, in comes the flatmate, and here's where the mind-boggling nightmareish nature of the whole thing began. Madame unravelled an ancient contract, written in the gently looping italic hand of an 18th century bard. And she begins to read it out loud, over...and over....and over, again. " 'Mademoiselle is reponsible for the full amount of rent'....you understand, hein, Mademoiselle? You are responsible, yes? You are responsible for the full amount! Where was I....yes, so. Mademoiselle is responsible for the full amount of rent." Jesus Christ, woman! She made a few notes, and then, finally, it was over. Except: "Michel," Madame began, "We should re-read this, and rewrite it out, now." Oh God please, please, show some mercy, do not make me sit here discussing the war whilst Monsieur's shaky hand embarks on the lengthy process of transcribing this...MANUSCRIPT.<br />
<br />
Luckily I had the bright idea of whipping out my mini computer, seeing their eyes widen as I flippantly suggest I type it out. A scuffle ensued, when I reached over to take the contract, but Madame's iron claw clutched it ever tighter. She seemed to be suggesting she read, and I type. Well, I'll be fucked if I sit there whilst she re-reads paragraph 47 over and over again, changing her mind as we go along. I won, but not before she managed to belittle me by insinuating I can't count.<br />
<br />
Here's a list of things old people are good at:<br />
<ul><li>Darning socks</li>
<li>Making victoria sponges without using a recipe</li>
<li>Plucking chickens, and generally dealing with animal to plate processes</li>
<li>Mending things</li>
<li>Being casually racist</li>
<li>Counting in their heads</li>
</ul>She was trying to force us to subtract the original water meter count by the new one. "Just simply subtract 2167 from 3694!!!" she chuckled. My flatmate and I looked at each other, and 'get your phone out' I muttered under my breath. "Are you not capable of doing that in your head?" she snorted, obviously appalled by the fact that I was still breathing without being able to do this. She looked at her husband, absolutely gob-smacked. "Well, to tell you the truth: no, I'm not", I felt like retorting. "I might, if you weren't staring right at me, watching every tremble of the pen's nib. But right now, I'm not capable." Also - can she roll a cigarette when walking up a hill in rain and a gale? Didn't think so.<br />
<br />
So anyway, I typed out the contract, keeping one ear on Monsieur's story of fighting 'the Krauts', and how brave the American soldiers were, and how noble the English, and how this one time an American gave him a clementine and a walnut, and how this one time, the Americans got caught in a storm near Val, and a tree fell on their tank and crushed them to death. I chortled away. SHIT. You know that moment where you're not really following, and then the other person's like: "It died, Hannah. The dog died. Of cancer." and you feel awful? In all fairness though, don't ask me to type out your wordy, cursive French contract AND expect me to follow 'The Empire of the Sun: The French Version' too!<br />
<br />
Sorry, got a bit carried away there. So I got my deposit back, and all is well. Just earlier I was sitting outside Dog Shit Park, when I saw a homeless man huddled in the doorway of the church. I was wondering what he could have done the other night, when the massive storm was on. Where did he go? Then it occurred to me: I'm moving and have stuff I won't be taking with me, which he might like. Here's some of the stuff I have for him:<br />
<ul><li>Some raclette cheese</li>
<li>Some tomatoes</li>
<li>Some turkish delight</li>
<li>A scarf</li>
<li>Two long sausage shaped cushions</li>
<li>Some lemon squash (obviously will fill it up with water too)</li>
<li>Will buy him some bread to go with it, maybe some fruit too</li>
</ul>I hope he isn't offended, or worse, just doesn't want it. That would be a bit tragic. I hope he's still there tomorrow, too. I took my books to this local bookshop that had a sign in the window saying "we buy your old books. Ask inside for pricing". I had about 20-odd books. Went inside, and the owner, this dirty man with a fag hanging out his mouth, curled his lip at me and turned away.<br />
"Umm - hello?", I said, "I've got some books to sell."<br />
He sighed and dragged himself over.<br />
"Ah bon?" He rummaged half-heartedly through the bag. "Thing is, I haven't got any room for them." I looked around me - surely he could make room?<br />
"So you won't buy them, then", I said. <br />
"Well, no."<br />
"O....kay," I thought for a moment, "Well in that case, I'll just give them to you."<br />
"Pfff", he scratched his head impatiently, "well, you know. I haven't got room."<br />
"Okay, fine, I'll give them to the library." I picked up the bag.<br />
"The library won't take them. They haven't got room."<br />
For fucks sake, honestly. What sort of warped capitalist bullshit society do we live in, where you go to a BOOKshop, stick a bag of FREE BOOKS in the guy's face, and he actually has too much? Let's just hope the homeless guy isn't going to be all "you're alright mate, actually. Got some raclette cheese in just last week, it'll do me a good while yet. Cheers for the offer though." <br />
<br />
P.S.: Might be a bit AWOL in the next few days as my big move is coming up. Hope everyone is well xx<br />
<br />
iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-51068985797190286542011-08-24T20:10:00.001+02:002011-08-24T20:11:18.268+02:00Lavender, fringes, cigarettes, where the hell am I going to be living next week?This morning I woke up and decided to stop smoking. It lasted about an hour and a half, and I was surprised by the grit and determination I felt billowing out from inside me. I will stop smoking. I will become one of those rosy-cheeked, healthy, wholegrain girls who sits there calmly, watching those pathetic smokers cobble together their anemic roll-ups, and think to myself "God, I'm glad I'm not an addict. I'm glad my lungs are like pink marshmallows." But then, I started thinking about the harsh realities of giving up, and it frightened me. Still, I have a very thorough knowledge of the electronic cigarette industry now, and I think on that terrible day when I do have to give up (perhaps if ever I conceive a child, or when the doctor tells me I have the beginning of some kind of awful smoking-related disease, or when the social pressure to stop becomes too unbearable), then electronic cigarettes will be the way forward for me.<br />
<br />
In other devestatingly exciting news: I cut my own fringe. Goodbye trips to the hairdresser, hello preserved bank account and dignity. I don't want to shell out for a few millimetres of hair, nor do I want to sit in a chair staring at my own face under harsh lighting, revealing every fine line and clogged pore, whilst two hot 16 year-olds in black catsuits grab handfuls of my hair, screeching "What is this? What *is* this? Do you use conditioner? Do you know what that is?". Surprisingly easy to do, cutting your own fringe, once you get past the idea that with just one small movement, you could gouge your own eye out. It's like when you're looking over a bridge, and think to yourself: "What if my brain suddenly rebels, and I throw myself off, without wanting to?". I went to the Aran Islands a few years ago (wonderful, by the way), and there's this cliff you can look over:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.irelandofthewelcomes.com/wp-content/uploads/iStock_000003542938-med.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://www.irelandofthewelcomes.com/wp-content/uploads/iStock_000003542938-med.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
You have to crawl to the very tip, get down on your stomach and hang yourself off the edge, and look at the black waves crashing against these giant rocks, and there is that moment where you're inexplicably drawn to destruction. Same with having scissors near your eyes. Or maybe that's just me.<br />
<br />
Anyway, here's a picture of how I did:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgikhmRbJt_PVq4suf6qY6xYFd0AmERJydDyNyW50kvszTrcTbxvM96H8J2dATsYEw8CYxtLXgXRVG9zJzZe2PJmEgOwlXltjfxb7WRIaZgRmHe7HjzUcROnBaoGBATDiXPeHa3lvPgz0U/s1600/20110813183401972.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgikhmRbJt_PVq4suf6qY6xYFd0AmERJydDyNyW50kvszTrcTbxvM96H8J2dATsYEw8CYxtLXgXRVG9zJzZe2PJmEgOwlXltjfxb7WRIaZgRmHe7HjzUcROnBaoGBATDiXPeHa3lvPgz0U/s1600/20110813183401972.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
So here's something you might want to try, if you're the sort of person who enjoys frivolous, pointless stuff that's pretty (I know I am). Lavender scent bags to put in your wardrobe. Free to make, satisfying, and makes your clothes smell really nice.<br />
<br />
The other night, under the cloak of darkness, I embarked on a midnight trip to go <span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">lavender</span> </span>harvesting, dragging my flatmate with me. If you live in France, you're never too far from some lavender, even in the gloomier regions. My local lavender patch is situated across a massive congested bridge, on the side of a roundabout. So that's where I headed. The time of day meant I wasn't afraid of the flower police descending on me and arresting me for theft (although let's face it, they let their dogs shit all over the place, so don't tell me taking a few flowers is destructing my community, please), and as such, had the pick of the crop. You'll need to pick a few stalks of the stuff, try and find ones that are plump and laden with flowers (obviously). Pick them off with a fair amount of stalk, you'll need those at the later stage. I also passed by some wild <span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-size: small;">roses </span>and took one for good measure. This is the sort of thing one might have been burned alive for, a few centuries ago. Those poor witches. Murdered, for creating pot pourri.<br />
<br />
Next step, be as gentle as possible with them and get them home. Ideally, you should try gathering them at the end of a warm, dry day. I got mine after a thunderstorm. Get two sheets of <span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-size: small;">newspaper</span>, and sandwich the lavender between them, gently pressing to dry. Leave them to dry a little, say for an hour or so.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCrySSEeG_7jpkYEn1VfoekboFQINJR05UATmcqP8YW6dRMPVuh1IqLDNcMmejC41dNUJEQ2ErHsPVwuPHv_UQYBQwHQSocqxKYeWssyR8zZS871fXQ1O3wt9ZmDPXWCU83s6L2v57YzU/s1600/20110824002103521.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCrySSEeG_7jpkYEn1VfoekboFQINJR05UATmcqP8YW6dRMPVuh1IqLDNcMmejC41dNUJEQ2ErHsPVwuPHv_UQYBQwHQSocqxKYeWssyR8zZS871fXQ1O3wt9ZmDPXWCU83s6L2v57YzU/s1600/20110824002103521.bmp" /></a></div> For the next part, you'll need an <span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: #ffe599;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">elastic band</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">.</span> </span></span>Now, I was that annoying kid who used to burst into the classroom ten minutes late, skulk over to my seat, and eyes lowered, flushed, would frantically and pleadingly badger my neighbour for a pen. I never had my books, or my gym kit, or a ruler, much to the irritation of classmates who got sick of bailing me out, and my mother who thought the teachers would assume she was a bad parent. So - if you're anything like me, you won't have an elastic band casually lying around waiting to be used, perhaps in a stationary drawer, or in a special box marked "elastic bands". In which case - use a hairband. Gather the lavender in a bunch, tie it together with the band, and hang it up to dry somewhere darkish for a few days (should be something like 8/9/10 days, I get impatient and call it quits earlier). If you're using rose with it, just leave it to dry up on the newspaper - rose petals dry much quicker anyway.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoTvK1pmFcPGriR-dtSC7MJoEH6IdTvOm66Fy-gkyrJDnt2SmKqu-EzZe0RxLAo0i9M0RoEjIpktSv2OvSU-lEeeXBUZlFJvWv4vwt51-J3BT-hhWkBEI4BIdzzZVnpevdJerATx37c-4/s1600/20110824192346674.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoTvK1pmFcPGriR-dtSC7MJoEH6IdTvOm66Fy-gkyrJDnt2SmKqu-EzZe0RxLAo0i9M0RoEjIpktSv2OvSU-lEeeXBUZlFJvWv4vwt51-J3BT-hhWkBEI4BIdzzZVnpevdJerATx37c-4/s1600/20110824192346674.bmp" /></a></div><br />
<br />
When your lavender is dry, take it down, let it fall apart (cut up the stalks as well), and put it all in whatever you want to go in your wardrobe (I have a lace <span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-size: small;">bag </span>I made awhile ago, but you can also just cut the toe off a pair of old tights, and use that with a bit of string around to close it - works well!).<br />
<br />
In other news, I am now one week away from being allowed to move into the student residence. Two days ago, I contacted good old Yannick (you remember him!), saying "Hello Yannick. It's me again. Now I *really* need to know my address, as aside from actually needing to move in in 7 days time, my landlords here and my bank want a forwarding address. I also need to know how much the rent is, and how to get the keys. I will be staying in a hostel whilst waiting for the room. Thanks for all your help." Almost instantly, I get an email back: "If it makes life easier for you, perhaps I can ask the residence if you can move in a few days early?". My heart leaps: you absolute STAR! I reply saying that would be fantastic, but I understand if not possible. And then....well, then I heard nothing at all, and as I say, it's been 2 days. Yannick, you old prick tease!<br />
<br />
iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-1960299020450058402011-08-23T00:15:00.000+02:002011-08-23T00:15:37.293+02:00Down and out in London and Leeds!So on the 16th I decided I would hit the road, due to a lethal combination of boredom and self-hatred. Self-hatred may be too strong a word, but let's face it, I've spent the past few months getting paid to not work, and the last exciting thing I did was ordering underwear online. My life was lacking a certain energy. I'd been mulling over the idea of heading back to good old Blighty for awhile now - numerous reasons (the need to see family and friends, the need to get out of a country where sales staff refuse to put change in your hand), so I decided on the sort of last minute trip that fills you with a real sense of purpose, and fills the people you're visiting with a sort of dread ("Oh for fuck's sake, right, okay, so you'll be here tomorrow....right....").<br />
<br />
Being, somehow, in a continuous state of borderline poverty, I opted for the glamour and panache of travel by coach. Lille to London with Eurolines takes about 6 hours, so on I hopped, off I hurtled, towards England's drizzly shores. I enjoy travelling by coach because I like the sense of distance covered. I like to look out the windows, read the signs, visualize where I am on the map, watch the landscape change, look at the houses and countryside and the people, and imagine their lives. I chose the seat just behind and across from the driver, and settled in with my pauper's picnic, the paltry remains of salvaged food from my fridge that ''had'' to be eaten: a piece of cheddar, two pears, and a hard, stoic bread roll. Well, guess what people? You don't put pears in with other food, as my grandmother later - and uselessly, at great length - informed me. You know why? Because it TURNS THE REST OF YOUR STUFF TO SHIT. I opened my plastic bag to find a mushy purée of brown pear and sweaty cheese congealed around that trusty old bread roll. Picnic = fucked. I settled back into the chair, and prepared myself for the journey ahead. A peaceful, relaxing, mind-clearing journey. Except not, because in that unique, special way I have, and despite myself, I made friends with the bus driver, who spent the whole 6 hours jabbering away about his views on university fees, the London riots, different parts of London ("Camden? It's full of witches and that!"), DIY techniques ("See, now when I didn't have a shower at my old flat, I just used a hose-pipe and the sink"), places to live ("Amsterdam! Amsterdam is where it's happenin' mate!"). Arriving in London, he then took the coach round the long way, through Lewisham, so that he could point out and stop in front of each and every little shop that had been disturbed during the riots, slowing the bus down and, "Do you see the boarding? Do you see that boarding there? Riot, innit!" over and over again. In all fairness though, when we stopped in Milton Keynes, he bought me a muesli and honey yoghurt pot. Now that's what I call service.<br />
<br />
I hung around Victoria waiting for my friend C to get off work. I squatted down by the side of the station rolling a cigarette, and he arrived, dressed smartly, with an umbrella and gold-tipped cigarettes. The thing about C is, we were at uni together but never really hung out very much at all. In fact we probably only every really saw each other 2 or 3 times, and yet we've kept up contact which has always been very easy. He made me a present of a packet of cocktail cigarettes - incredible things, a work of art, to be honest: they come in pastel shades, purple, green, pink, yellow, all mixed up together, in a sumptuous box. I almost felt bad smoking them, like writing on a book, or kicking a little white Persian kitten. We took a bottle of wine to outside the Queen's house, and sat there for awhile, catching up, drinking, checking out the various feats of nature (squirrels, ducks, etc), and then off I went to Oakwood, to meet my friend B. C accompanied me, and so we were on the tube, gawking (at least I was, provincial peasant that I am) at a huge man sat opposite us, his multiple stomachs spread across the seat, his bloated tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, a web of drool vibrating in time to his snores. Ah, London. You get some crazy folk round those parts.<br />
<br />
And so I was at B's, which was a fairly bittersweet experience. Unfortunately, the B-ster has fallen upon hard times. A far cry from the glamour and excitement of the London she had dreamed of, she hates her job and is living far out in a neighbourhood that seemed nice enough, but which wasn't perhaps as close as she'd hoped. I felt completely useless in terms of being able to make her feel better: we've all been there, dissatisfied to some extent or another with how our lives are. It's passing moments, and is a dissatisfcation no one but yourself can cure. Hopefully us catching up had some soothing effect, at least that's what I'd like to think. She did say it made her feel much better to see a familiar face, and sometimes that's all you need to start feeling more positive.<br />
<br />
After a night on B's sofa, up I got to continue on, further into the wilderness of England, into that dark, dismal, yet strangely soothing land - Yorkshire. Ah, God's Own County, as it has been called - the sweet, vaguely depressing, yet despite that, somehow cheery stuff of my memories. I was off to see my dear old Gran, and Mad Aunty Pip, as she's known in the family. Onto another coach with me, this coach a far cry from the socialist 'life's too short' vibe of the punchy Lille to London crew. This coach was more like a state living under a dictatorship, as we sat there, clutching our Ribena bottles to our chests, cowering under the bellowing of the Yorkshireman dictator who would be driving us up to Leeds. This total knob cheese of a man came to relieve the initial driver, about 45 minutes into our journey. The old driver said "Alright there ladies and gentlemen, there will be a driver swap now if you'd like to get out and stretch your legs. We will be departing in ten minutes". Up we got, off we hobbled, except the doorway was blocked by this huge, towering, beef of a man, who screamed "Where the bloody hell do you think you're going?"..."T-t-the driver...he said....well, he said we could get off for ten minutes, you see". "SIT BACK DOWN!", the new driver roared, "this is a driver swap, not a stop!" Jobsworth!<br />
<br />
Anyway, I arrived in Leeds, got on the train to Skipton, populated by it's usual mix of housewives right out of the 70s and weird, chavvy results-of-incest people, and off I stepped, in Skipton, into Gran's car, and away we go, to the fair land of Barnoldswick. Let me tell you something about this area: you should go. Okay, sure, you're bound to get bored, if you stay up in those parts for anything more than, oh, say, a day. But the countryside is truly beautiful. Dark, gentle, wet, OLD. I love it. And I love staying at my gran's. The thing with me and my gran is, we haven't had a particularly smooth relationship in the past. Memories of her chasing me round the house with a broom, calling me the devil child, and I laughing in her face and screeching "you can't catch me though, can you?!" But with time, people mellow, and people become more accepting of each other. She has relaxed a lot these past years, and I'm also not a cheeky, difficult 8 year-old anymore (right?). The thing with Gran is, she's very political, and a feminist. In fact, she said to me in the car, on our way to one of those never-ending shopping trips, "Do you know, I think I would have been very happy to live without a man. Very happy indeed. In fact, if I were of your generation, I don't see that I would have married at all". Fair play Gran! I spent two days there, watching programmes like 'Village SOS', and 'Totnes: discovering life in our towns', eating comfort food, and just enjoying being with her. I wish I could see her more often, I really do. My panic "Holy fuck, what was that, is someone trying to break in?" mode kicked in, but I think it may have something to do with the book I was reading before bed (about a killer who preys on a psychologist's patients, driving them to commit suicide....OMFG!)<br />
<br />
Gran, my uncle who lives down the road, and myself all went out for tea at the pub (bangers and mash, bien sur), I struggled with law and order in small village England - two different shops refused to sell me rolling papers. The second one was in a petrol station, and when I was refused since I had no ID on me, I leant on the counter, smirked knowingly at the shop girl, sniggered, rolled my eyes, nodded my head towards Gran who was coming in to pay for the petrol, and said "Well, I'll just have to get my Gran to buy them then, won't I?", to which the girl told me she would then have to refuse my Gran. Uhhhh-----whaaaat? My gran was fuming and I could see she was about to embark on the trusty old war path, so quickly huddled her out. She was even more pissed off than I was. In the end, I old her I'd just have to use her St John's Bible paper to roll, she nearly had a bloody heart attack.<br />
<br />
The next morning, my uncle came to pick me up to take me back down to Leeds (which was a wonderful time for a heart-to-heart, and a beautiful morning), to stay with Mad Aunty Pip and Uncle B. These two I love. They're both artists, and therefore live by their own rules, in a way. They're both individuals who reject a lot of the values modern society tries to impose on us, and for that I love being around them. It's just amazing to be able to share ideas, any ideas, to discuss all sorts, art, politics, to be around two people who are so happy together although life isn't always easy when you've decided to make your art your living. They were back from a work trip to Japan, and it was fascinating to hear their take on what they saw over there, the differences in the way their culture operates. I truly love staying with them, because I feel so free. They also cook some amazing food, especially their home made pizza, and I tried ribs for the first time (it was actually at their house that I stopped being a vegetarian, after 12 years...that roast lamb was my downfall). We had a film day: we went to stock up on food and snacks, and then got out 4 films: one had Liam Neeson in it (Uncle B's review: 'shite'), one was about a soldier coming back from Iraq ('shite'), one was about the deportation of British kids to Australia in the 60s ('alright'), and the most interesting one, and one I heartily recommend for some good old-fashioned family viewing, is called "I Spit on Your Grave", and features two parts. The first part, lasting an hour, shows a girl getting raped over and over again whilst being forced to act like a horse. The second part involves her getting her revenge on the gang-bangers, by putting them in bath-tubs full of acid and raping them with guns. You should check out the trailer! I also made the most of being in Leeds by catching up with my old friend DJ W, which was nice although faintly disappointing. I've perhaps moved on from smoking spliffs in the park and necking down pints of cider in old man pubs. Still! No harm in a quick sashay down memory lane, every now and then.<br />
<br />
<br />
With deep sadness, I departed Leeds, after 2 days of relaxing, warm company. Back on that old coach, back down to London, back to Victoria, for a brilliant Sunday with C. I think, to be honest, that Sunday was possibly the best Sunday of my life. Waking up in Leeds with my aunt and uncle, eggs and bacon in my belly, homemade cheese sandwiches (this time, sans the pear), and then the afternoon/evening that followed. The first thing was, C presented me with an Oyster card. I held it up, dazzled by the rays reflecting off its shiny blue surface. Now, I could pretend to be a real Londoner. I could sneer at the noobs using their single fare £5.60 tickets. I could roll my eyes at people blocking the escalators, and give world-weary sighs whenever I bloody well felt like it. This is such a useful thing to have, but more to the point, what a thoughtful thing to give. We wandered around Spitalfields Markets, which if you haven't done yet, you should. It was the first time I'd been there, and it was incredible - these mazes of little clothes stalls, and street food...we stopped off for a pint at this big outdoor beer garden thing in the street, and then carried on walking, through this area which is such a far cry from the usual London haunts you normally end up dragging yourself around. We went for cocktails (I picked the right ones, ones that seemed to be basically 100% alcohol) and had some trendycool snacks: 'cheeseburger crostini', and mini cumberland sausages with chilli. We then moved on to this simply amazing bar - from the outside, it appeared to be an old, rundown pub, but when you climb up to the very top of the building, you emerge onto the rooftop, and can see all the lights of London....and I saw a shooting star! So corny, I know. But still, those little things never cease to bring out the childish wonder in me. The main thing I loved about that night, however brilliant the atmosphere, and the drinking establishments, and the life of the people we saw in the streets, was just being with C - how magical. We talked about everything and nothing, it seems. My hatred of Anne Hathaway (must watch One Day to get more bitching material), quantum physics (let's get real - he talked about that, I was more like ''oh really? (clueless), religion, socialism, university, just having a laugh. It was wonderful, so fluid, it makes me sad to think we live in different places, but then that sadness is fleeting, because I know we can do it all again, especially since I've got an Oyster card now, right? I remember at one point we were talking about where we would love to live - what kind of place would we imagine is best? And now, all I can think is - I would love, wherever I end up seriously living, to have a sumptuous guest room, so I can give back to people who have welcomed me, that same warm welcome and kindness. Aside from the gift of the Oyster, C also gave me his bed, wine and strawberries when we got home, breakfast in bed (I mean, I can't remember the last time that happened to me), and most touching of all, a luxurious coach picnic, my third, made up of a chicken salad, some tasty berries, and - so heartbreakingly thoughtful - a fork. I had checked out the salad, thought ''Hmm, there's no plastic fork'', and considered my options. Should I eat it with my fingers? The Indians do it. But I'm not Indian, and would probably fuck it up. Could I work out some kinda chopstick way of doing it, using a pen and the end of my toothbrush? Or should I just dunk my head into the tray, and chomp it up, like a goat? No need to worry. C had thought of it. Reader - he gave me a fork.<br />
<br />
And now I'm sitting here, as the rain pisses down over the arsehole of France, hearing the apeish guffawing of the men outside, watching in awe as the lightening crashes down over the town - I actually stared into the centre of the lightening, like I was looking into the eye of God! And the thunder just set off a car alarm. A coincidence? Maybe. But I prefer to think it was His will.<br />
Strasbourg in a week!<br />
<br />
P.S. That was fucking long, I feel like I deserve to get paid for this.iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-21030866975580300932011-08-11T19:24:00.000+02:002011-08-11T19:24:57.115+02:00London's Burning!So I'm back in the arsehole of France, aka Val, and am distracting myself from the horrors of the barren landscape outside by organizing my life. Have managed so far to:<br />
a) Put my clothes in my wardrobe properly and hand wash some stuff<br />
b) File all papers, throw out the massive amount of old newspapers and enveloppes that have been serving me as a bedroom rug for the past 6 months, and<br />
c) Get the deedpoll and birth cert sent off to be translated<br />
Have also bought a foot file and anti gum disease mouthwash. Now that I'm single, it's time to take care of the actual health problems, and stop with superficial niceties like, you know, leg shaving.<br />
<br />
Vatti (our name for our dear old father) and I decided that he <i>will</i> take me to Strasbourg after all. He's flying in to Brussels on the 28th, and we'll head down on the 29th, and he'll go back home on the 31st. All I can say is - thank fuck for that, Vatti. Thank fuck for that, and for you. Because I mean, I've done the whole backpack and binbags on trains sooo many times before, and the effort of it is awful but manageable. The real sadness of it is the masses amount of stuff you have to leave behind. Bedding, big heavy books, kitchen stuff. I thought S might be able to take the train down and help me, but I checked ticket prices and she'd have to spend around 150e for the train and hostel - a bit much to ask of somebody. So - this is great news. Happy face. Plus, I'm sure Vatti will just LOVE the Alsace cuisine. Bad for the cholesterol, good for the soul.<br />
<br />
So anyway, got back yesterday as I was saying. Mutti (aka Mum) was flying to Leeds at the same time, so we thought we could grab a coffee at the airport together, but we were flying from different terminals. When I got to Brussels, I met a woman from Alabama on the train, whose husband is with the Dutch army, and who lives in some small village somewhere in Holland. Her suitcase was pretty bloody heavy, so she needed my help getting it on and off trains - always happy to oblige, plus my train to the deserted border town between Belgium and France comes pretty regularly. Had a grand old chat with this woman, who managed to tell me a huge amount of anecdotal info concerning her life and emotional state, in a suprisingly short amount of time ("Ah jus' <i>lurve</i> 24 hour shoppin', what is <i>wrong</i> with Europe? In the States, ah go shoppin' at Walmart at 4AM!", and "Ah made sure my husband got me saddelite TV and ah have an AHCE-MAKER on mah FRIDGE"). She was really nice, I felt a bit bad for her, doing this journey on her own, and getting back to a village all on her own (husband is back in the States, she doesn't speak Dutch). It must be very lonely. We had a chat about Ireland ("Hey! AH'M Ahrish!") and she decided she might try and take the car up to Dublin. Fair enough, and fair play!<br />
<br />
<br />
Spoke to the ex today, after being bullied and bitched at to call him ''comme promis'', ''pour en discuter''. Took some light abuse: ''you are <i>capricieuse</i>, you are moody'', gave him answers to his 'why?'s: you are actually from the fifties and are spoiled. I feel a little sad about it, not for myself, but more for the fact that I have been on the receiving end of break-ups before, and I remember how painful it is, especially when you feel like it's come out of nowhere. Anyway, that page is now firmly turned.<br />
<br />
So let's talk about the London stuff that's going down. The first thing that's a shame, is as my friend R points out, the fact that:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><blockquote><i>"It seems that if you're an ignorant racist knob-hole, you can blame it all on immigrants (aka the Sarkozy approach), if you're an old person you can blame it on the Youth of Today and their Lack of Respect, and if you are a Labour politician you can blame it on the government."</i></blockquote><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">Why do we have to choose camps here? Why do we have to be either 100% 'this is awful, these people are despicable, gun them down', or 'let's really <i>understand</i> where they're coming from here, let's feel sorry for them'? I have personally changed my mind over this a few times in the past few weeks, and obviously no-one has an answer to what's going on - maybe the situation doesn't even require one. Here are a few things I'm thinking in regards to the situation:</div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li> I do feel sorry for the family, and I don't understand why the lad who apparently started the whole thing off was shot to be killed (the bullet went to the chest), but my sympathy is not total, because I just keep coming back to: what the FUCK were you doing walking the streets with a gun in the first place? Had he not be in possession of an illegal firearm, the whole situation would not have occured (the shooting, not the riots). I also believe that the matter should be looked into, but at the end of the day, let's just remember that police are human. Think of how many times you fuck up at work on a weekly basis. This doesn't excuse the killing of a human being, but I think it should be remembered all the same. Perhaps if you were put in a uniform and came face-to-face with a person wielding a gun, you might panic. I also want to know why communities go ape-shit when someone is shot by the police, and yet remain silent in the face of gang shootings, that occur more frequently and with more casualties.</li>
<li>There is no blatantly political message behind these riots. As far as I can understand, it's the reaction of certain communities (no, let's get it out in the open, a certain CLASS) in the face of blatant wealth and 'stuff'. In other words, kids who have grown up with nothing, living with a future full of nothing, thinking "fuck it, why should we go without?" and taking. And I can understand that. Their message isn't outright political, because how to voice/express their experiences to people who don't want to hear it? Maybe our government should start stepping up to the plate.</li>
<li>It doesn't make sense, as has been pointed out, to attack their own communities. Why burn your own street down? Why break your own toys? Maybe if your toy is shit, you don't care. "But it will take so much money and time to rebuild what they've destroyed, in their own communities!" Well, yeah. But if you're broke, no education, no job, no real future, let's be honest, who gives a fuck whether you lose your local Footlocker, or your local community centre? Maybe your commuity centre was crap. If you don't have anything to lose, you don't mind losing it.</li>
<li><a href="http://epetitions.direct.gov.uk/petitions/7337">The most ridiculous thing in the world</a> has just been brought to my attention, an e-petition put out by the government. When you click on that link, you get this message:</li>
</ul><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The e-petition entitled “Convicted London rioters should loose all benefits” has now passed the threshold of 100,000 signatures and has been passed to the Backbench Business Committee to consider for debate. It will continue to be available for signature once the site is re-opened.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Are you a MENTALIST? <span data-jsid="text">If rioters lost their benefits, they would riot 1000 times harder, and more of them would join - this time, they'd probably move it OUT of their neighbourhoods into wealthier suburbs, and they'd be hitting up the supermarkets and more ''essential'' shops whilst they were at it. I'm disgusted at this reaction, and particularly the reaction of a certain type of wealthy young person who thinks 'these people' are 'horrendous', and should just be able to claw their way out of generations of poverty, generations of abuse, absent families, lack of education. It's alright for you love - you were brought up on poached salmon and trips to St Moritz. Naturally you just 'fell' into a university degree and a smooth life - your parents made that possible for you, whether that be through finance, encouragement, or simply 'you WILL go to university'. What if you hadn't had that pressure or support? Maybe you would be sitting on the dole right now, because let's face it, you're neither especially bright or innovative as it is, and that's <i>with</i> the £100,000 private secondary school. *breath* Sorry, I sort of lost it for a minute there. I just think it's unfair to say 'some people escape their background', because yes, some people do. Just like some middle class kids grow up and turn themselves into millionaires. Most don't. Most just stay middle class. Why? Why don't they become millionaires? They must not be working hard enough.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span data-jsid="text"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span data-jsid="text">I DO think the rioters are wrong, I DO think it's a stupid, violent and criminal reaction to life's injustices, but maybe slating them, fining them, imprisoning them is the wrong response. Maybe the very fabric of our society should be reconstructed. Maybe, just as the French were required to take a hard look at the level of sexism that exists in their culture following the DSK scandal, Britain needs to look at its inflexible, condemning class system. </span><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div></div>iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-89231934939338005182011-08-11T13:47:00.000+02:002011-08-11T13:47:53.949+02:00Boeuf bourguignonHere's what I do for <i>boeuf bourguignon</i>. <a href="http://chaunoise.blogspot.com/">S, my flatmate/psychiatrist</a> will bear witness to the genius level of this dish.<br />
<br />
For 4 people, you need:<br />
<ul><li>3 big carrots</li>
<li>1 big onion</li>
<li>1 clove of garlic</li>
<li>Just under a kilo of diced beef</li>
<li>bay leaf + parsley</li>
<li>1 bottle of red wine (any will do)</li>
<li>New potatoes (4 biggish ones per person should do)</li>
</ul><ol><li>Put your meat it in a bowl. Add salt and pepper. Pour wine over it until meat covered. Put in fridge. [In France you can buy meat for bourguignon, or ask the butcher. I imagine in the UK any kind of stewing meat will be fine].</li>
<li>Leave meat to soak in fridge for about 2 hours.</li>
<li> Finely chop onion and fry until translucent. Put aside.</li>
<li>In one of those big massive stewing pots, cook the meat with a bit of oil, turning all the pieces over until browned on all sides. NB: Make sure you use a draining spoon to move the meat from the bowl to the pot: we don't want the wine in there yet.</li>
<li>When meat is all browned, add the onions, garlic and sliced carrots. Add a ladle of water. Wait for it to 'reduce'. For this whole process, it should be on a medium heat.</li>
<li>When that happens, take it off the heat for just a minute, while you stir in a tablespoon of flour. Put back on heat.</li>
<li>Now add all of the wine that had had your meat soaking in it. Pour it all into the pot, and if there's any left in the bottle, pour all that in too (keep just enough for a small glass for yourself!)</li>
<li>Stir, reduce heat to a low setting, add parsley, more salt and pepper, your bay leaf. Cover, and let simmer for minimum three hours.</li>
<li>In the last half hour of cooking, peel your potatoes, get the water on and boil them. The consistency of the whole meal should be ''melty'': you want your carrots to fall apart on your plate, your potatoes to cut open seriously easily, and your meat to be very tender. You cannot leave this dish to simmer enough, the longer the better.</li>
</ol><u><b>If:</b></u><br />
<ul><li> <i>You put in too much flour:</i> why?! I said a tablespoon. Add more water.</li>
<li><i>You put in too much wine:</i> you can't really overwine this, but I get what you mean: add more pepper and a bit of sugar</li>
<li><i>You put in too much water:</i> add a little bit of flour, although even better I discovered: gravy granules. Thickens the sauce really nicely, and adds a bit more seasoning (plus I don't know why this happens, I'm not that knowledgeable in the kitchen, but sometimes when you add flour to cooking dishes it can turn bumpy and taste weirdly floury.) - so yeah, onion (or beef?) gravy granules work great</li>
<li><i>You like:</i> you can add mushrooms *shudder*, and you can also remove the bay leaf after it's been in the pot for an hour. </li>
</ul> <u><b>The cost (Ireland):</b></u><br />
<u><b></b></u><br />
I bought: a bottle of wine, 4 carrots, 2 bags of new potatoes, 900g of Irish beef = 18 euros something.iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-5211510207579730182011-08-05T10:44:00.001+02:002011-08-11T13:50:18.710+02:00Admin admin adminIt's a beautiful day here in Dublin, which is all the more precious because it's so rare. There's nothing more wonderful than a good summer's day in Ireland, in my opinion. The sky is a deep blue, there's a light breeze, you can hear the faint cry of gulls. It has none of the pressure of a summer's day anywhere else. It's warm, but still refreshing. No one expects you to be out in a bikini and sarong. People make a point of mentioning it wherever you go, at the post office, in the supermarket<br />
[ - ''Ah it's a beautiful day today, isn't it?''<br />
- ''It is, yes.''<br />
- ''<i>Wonderful </i>weather!''<br />
- ''It's pretty warm out.''<br />
- ''Ah sure, it's <i>gorgeous</i>!''<br />
- ''Yep'']<br />
You can't deny people in Ireland are friendly. In fact, it often makes me feel guilty, having been conditioned to display a tight-lipped sort of secrecy in my dealings with strangers. The other day, whilst making a boeuf bourguignon (<a href="http://i-flyastarship.blogspot.com/2011/08/boeuf-bourguignon.html">recipe to follow</a>), a guy came to get me to sign for a letter, and said ''Are ye makin' somethin' nice, are ye?''. I just sort of looked at him, startled. ''I'm sorry?'' he grinned, ''I said, are ye makin' somethin' nice fer yer tea?'' I signed his little digital thing, and said coolly: ''Yes. Stew.'' And shut the door. He probably thought 'frigid British cow' but it wasn't actually me being rude - more just taken aback by a question that to him was simply being friendly. It happens a lot - someone in the shop comments on something you're buying, or the bus driver interacts with you, like the other day when I got on and he shouted at me: ''Stop playin' with yer feckin' phone, you can count your money on the bus, now GET ON!'' It's sort of nice. It feels natural and more human. Not like in the UK where everyone keeps a physical and emotional distance from everyone they come across. Perhaps I should have invited the letter guy in to sample the stew (not innuendo).<br />
<br />
So anyway, in an attempt to find out more about my housing situation in September, yesterday I emailed Yannick, and got this reply:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Je suis absent du 13 juillet au 16 août.</i><br />
<br />
<i> Pour les BGF-BGE vous pouvez contacter [Madame X]</i> <br />
<br />
<i>Bonnes vacances."</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">So I emailed Madame X, and got this reply:</div><blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Bonjour,<br />
je suis en congés du 29 juillet au 5 septembre inclus.<br />
Pour tout urgence concernant les BGF et BGE vous pouvez contacter [yannick] à l'adresse suivante : [email address]</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> très cordialement"</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">Then, the scholarship woman forwarded me a document about what to do to get set up financially, and she included a letter from the CROUS, which, at the bottom, includes the following line:<i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Compte tenu du parc de logements disponibles, il ne peut y avoir d'engagement formel du CNOUS et du CROUS pour assurer un logement en résidence universitaire a l'étudiant".</i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">Which, despite the non-sensical wordiness of it, basically means 'we can't guarantee you 100% that we will have somewhere for you to live'. For fuck's sake France, honestly. What is the *deal* with this naffing off on holiday for two months of the year? I'm not too worried though, will just see what happens when they're all back from their 7 week holiday in the South of France. When they sashay into their office, mocha frappucinos in hand, crisp white shirts buttoned loosely over their trim, freshly-tanned bodies, blowing the dust off their monitors as they turn the computers on, honking away at each others' jokes and accounts of encounters with the peasants down in Draguignan, and then BAM. That's right, it's the annoying English girl who has flooded your inbox with irritating emails. NOW DEAL WITH IT.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The thing is though, I can't get through to them so I'm guessing it's just not going to be possible for my Dad to take me down there, which is a bit sad really. I feel like I've let him down somehow, which is ridiculous because there's nothing else I could do. He did suggest us going down earlier and me staying in a hotel for a few nights whilst waiting for the room, but....that sort of defeats the purpose, plus I think I'd feel lonely then. Anyway, we discussed him coming to visit in the last week of October, which is when I have a break. And Mum is going to a conference in Zurich, which turns out to be a 40 euro, 2 and a half hour train ride away - not too bad! I'd love for both of them to come and visit. It was great when Dad came to V/Paris to see me and Beefa, and then when Mum came to Chartres....although I remember one day in Chartres, where we had a fight, and I think out of all the days in my life, that's the day I regret the most. She was crying and upset, I can't remember why, but I remember being a total MEAN BITCH to her, and whenever I think back to it, I do that thing where you cringe and actually physically shake your head a bit in an effort to bury the memory. Bit melodramatic, eh? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Another thing I have to deal with today - the uni were asking me how I wanted to pay my fees, and they demanded a response by the 24th of August. The only options on the sheet I have to send back are:</div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>''Go ahead and take 3000 out of my bank account - here are my details''</li>
<li>''Go ahead and take 3000 out of my bank account in installments of 800 - here are my details''</li>
</ul><div style="text-align: left;">In fact I can do neither of those, as the scholarship pays for it. So I emailed scholarship woman asking what I should do (the uni being closed until the 24th of August, naturally) and she said to ask them to invoice her, or for me to pay it and for her to deposit 3000 in my account, upon receipt of payment. I don't want to do that second option, since I don't have 3000 lying around, plus even if she fed the mulah into my account, it would result in a budgeting catastrophe for me. So today I'm going to email her and ask her to write a brief letter that I can attach to the stuff to send back to the uni, saying that she will be paying the fees, and to invoice her. That should do the trick! I wish I didn't feel so awful about asking people to do things for me, it makes me feel dreadful, even though I know this is this woman's sole job. I feel like a beggar.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Good news on the shoe side of things - the boots have been shipped to good old Barnoldswick. Which means a phone call to my dearest grandmother is required, so I can casually mention that yet again I've been ordering shit to her house. Oh, other good thing - finalized deed poll came! I am now who I say I am :D</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Other things to do include finding my brother a job, making an uncomfortable phone call to ensure that my ex understands he is my ex, getting the balls required to send the scholarship email. Infected eye still being a dickhead. Why won't it just LEAVE ME ALONE?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div></div>iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-82018322504422576872011-08-03T09:54:00.000+02:002011-08-03T15:58:37.769+02:00Sole searchingEye infection alert! Get them all the time. Woke up at 5 in the morning, blinking, trying to shift the cruddy film that had developed across my right eye. Feels a little burny, but nothing I can't handle. Eye infections tend to look particularly grotesque on blue eyes. Makes you look a bit mad and junkie-esque. Considering I can't put my lenses in and have lost my glasses (MUST get some....as soon as I get that holy grail of French society, the Carte Vitale), I'm essentially blind for the moment. Got told by Mum to go to the pharmacy, but I'm considering using old-fashioned techniques to try and rid myself of the gunk. Compresses, salty eye washes (might want to google that, sounds like could possibly have opposite effect?), etc.<br />
<br />
Because we moved to Ireland in my last year of secondary school, and because once I'd finished that I left the country, I don't have any friends here. Which means that my time at home, such as now, turns into the life of a housewife minus the being a wife part. I get up, grind some fresh coffee using my Dad's loud and ugly 80s coffee grinding thing (which he has kept for sentimental reasons, because he had it when he lived in East Germany, or something). I then glide around the house alternating between reading books, flicking through glossy magazines, napping on the couch, and making bacon sandwiches. Occasionally I might do a little light laundry, and half an hour before everyone comes home from work, I go on a massive clean-up operation, brushing off breadcrumbs from various counter tops, de-fatifying the frying pan, plumping up the couch cushions. <br />
<br />
So I've got not much else to do other than cook for people (tonight - <i>boeuf bourguignon</i>) and organize some Strasbourg stuff. It's quite sad actually - my Dad didn't help me move to Sheffield for uni because I said I would do it myself. He didn't get to come to my graduation because I didn't go myself (might have been a bit weird had he turned up all by his lonesome). So he really wanted to fly to Paris, rent a car, pick me up in the one-horse town I now cannot <i>wait</i> to be rid of, and drive me down to Strasbourg. Except the CROUS are being anal about the whole thing and have told me my room will be available from the first of September. Grr. My Dad checked at work, and he has a meeting on that actual day. So my options are:<br />
<ul><li>Make the move alone (no big deal, but quite sad as it was something he wanted to do)</li>
<li>Go down earlier and stay in a hotel for one or two nights so he can drive me down and then get back to Dublin on the 30th</li>
<li>Hassle the CROUS to see if there can be any give on the date</li>
</ul>I'm going to start by attempting option 3, and if that fails - I'll cross that shaky bridge when I get to it. Email has been sent to dear old 'Yannick', the guy in charge of us BGFs - I've received an email from him before, which was very cool, dismissive, and uninformative. I realized that his signature has a link to his email address: except the html is wrong, and links up to someone elses email. I thought about adding that as a P.S., except I realized I could use this as a secret weapon based on his reply to my dates enquiry. If he even so much as DARES to get shirty with me, <i>WHAM!</i> I will destroy your htmling confidence, Yannick. Hehehe. HeeeeeHEEEEEHEHE. BWAHAHEHEHEHEHE! [/end evil laughter]<br />
<br />
Anyway! I'm on a mad desperate frenzied search for these boots:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.izideal.com/img/product/9713799/l/uk/office-kiss-and-tell-748359501.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://images.izideal.com/img/product/9713799/l/uk/office-kiss-and-tell-748359501.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Don't ask me why, they aren't particularly special, but I just *want* them, you know? That's one of the horrors of having your family living in Ireland: a whole world of Britishness is spread out in front of you, but without the access to the perks. They've got (practically only) British shops here, so you can only use the British website, but inevitably there's always some sort of stupid fucking problem, because newsflash, Ireland isn't in the UK.<br />
So I got an email saying (in a nice, jovial tone): "Thanks for your recent communication, Hannah. Your order has now been cancelled". Noooo. Called up pleasant Glasgow call centre. In this particular case, the Stupid Irish/British Problem was...they ship abroad from warehouses only, and they don't stock those particular boots in their warehouses. <b>Why don't you just get your own shoe shops, Ireland?</b> Same with telly: they have RTE, their Irish channel, but it's shit and no-one watches it. People watch BBC Northern Ireland instead, but their papers give normal BBC listings. So you think you're watching the <i>Grumpy Guide to Food</i>, and instead end up watching <i>The Impressionists: let's learn more about them, and their boring works.</i><br />
<br />
So once the nice woman at the call centre gave me the downlow on the warehouse Irish/British Problem, I cheated the system by ordering them to my gran's address in Barnoldswick. Felt pretty self-satisfied, until I logged on to my 'account' on the Office website, and it now has the same 2 pair of boots as 2 different orders, both with the status: 'PENDING', which over the last 3 days has been modified to 'pending', 'Pending' and 'PENDing'. Very descriptive, Office.<br />
I suppose all I do now is sit back and wait for the fuckers to arrive. Maybe I'll get two pairs. Maybe I'll get one. Maybe I'll get none.<br />
<br />
I vote the last option.iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-65751475165916872812011-07-28T13:04:00.001+02:002011-08-26T14:57:48.420+02:00Identity ChangeOK, not too sure what the deal is here, but I've been checking out a few random blogs using the "Next Blog" function, and have been coming across a disproportionately high amount of Jesus Creepers. Now, you want to be a Catholic - go ahead and be a Catholic. But blogger.com? What is going on? I refuse to believe this is pure coincidence.<br />
<br />
Annnnnyhoo, today is a fairly big day for me, because I am finally making my identity formal. Having lived with the ghost of my bastarding biological roots permanently haunting my existence (note: administratively, not emotionally), today is the day the papers have been signed, and my name is now officially the name I want and have been using anyway for all these years. Which is important as:<br />
<ul><li>France has up until now refused to give me any respect whatsoever, due to this birth cert/passport mismatch debacle: goodbye social security, and with it, free healthcare. I also just <b>know</b> the university is going to want to know my blood group, my grandfather's shoe size, and countless other all-important details before they will let me enter their grounds, so I'm glad to be gathering all this documentation now</li>
<li>It allows me some freedom psychologically, and allows me to make a permanent statement of the rejection of 50% of my blood 'family'. All I need to decide now is whether I should inform them of this change (and whether they'd care).</li>
</ul>Changing your name is surprisingly easy. You order the deed poll documents, they come, you sign, you get a witness to sign, you send them off. I'm at the stage now where I'll be sending them off today/tomorrow, and then sitting back and waiting to get the actual official document, which I can then spend yet more money on getting translated. This Deed Poll Service has:<br />
<blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"> "<span class="BodyText"><i>issued Deed Polls for fun names such as Jellyfish McSaveloy, Toasted T Cake, Nineteen Sixty-Eight, Hong Kong Phooey, Daddy Fantastic, One-One-Eight Taxi, Ting A Ling, Huggy Bear, Donald Duck, Jojo Magicspacemonkey and James Bond."</i></span></div></blockquote>If you were looking for ideas to get you started.<br />
<br />
So anyway, because I live abroad, my 'witness' needed to be a notary or solicitor. I emailed a couple, and started talking to this one woman who suggested we meet at a local cafe at 10.30pm today. Bit weird, but who am I to judge? Maybe she's an insomniac? Maybe she's the sort of person who starts work around 4, and finishes up at midnight. Maybe she's a psycho killer luring me into her psycho killing trap using a 'oh I'm a solicitor, let's meet in a dark alley way so I can sign your documents' facade. Or maybe, she's just a flake.<br />
I got a call at 10.30am saying she was at the cafe, and where was I? Ummm, sitting in front of the telly eating Craves? She apologized, she'd meant to say 10.30am in her email. I ummmed and ahhhed, basically not wanting to say "Look, you're a working woman, and I...well, I'm actually still in my pyjamas, so can you sit there and make your coffee last another half hour please?". The best I could manage on the spot was a weak "Oh, I just need to put my contact lenses in...." but luckily she suggested coming over to my house, which is just next door (or as I disgustingly put it via email, 'a spit away').<br />
So, she came over, gave me her life story, waxed lyrical re the holiday value of cottages in county Wexford, which was embarrassing, as just minutes before I'd been discussing Wexford, in the context of: "Who the hell would ever want to go there on holiday?" Apparently it's the 'Irish Riviera'. We talked about how she is the 'poor one in the relationship' with her partner, about her struggles career-wise during the recession, about house prices in the Churchtown area, and finally, almost as an after-thought, we signed the documents.<br />
She needed to check my photo ID first, and she held the passport up to my face (thought people only did that in films?), and said "It's funny, you look different here". I completely froze. Personally, I always feel suspicious when I am in an environment in which people are looking for suspicious people. At airports, for example. I feel convinced they're going to put my bag through X-Ray, pull me over and say "Now, I'm just going to have a quick look in your bag if you don't mind", and pull out a million dollars worth of crack along with a selection of firearms. When I walk through the metal detector, I don't know what to do with my eyes - look frankly at the officer? Look away? I usually end up doing some weird 'oh, look how relaxed and unguilty I am' smile whilst simultaneously scanning the other side for signs of my bag.<br />
It's the same with banks. I walk into a bank, I automatically feel like some shady pauper, even if I have money in my account. And even if I didn't - who cares? Not their problem. And yet, I'm always slightly on edge, as if the guy behind the desk could any minute now say "I've got some bad news Madam - your account is overdrawn by 10 grand, and my sources are indicating that you spent it all on lingerie and cigarettes. I'm afraid I'm going to have to close the account, and issue you with a court date if you do not pay back this money within 24 hours".<br />
<br />
So anyway, after feeling suspicious and getting the documents signed, I stood up (fairly brusquely I might add), and essentially frogmarched her out of the house, calling after her as she wobbled her way down the drive, making futile promises of checking out holiday rentals in Wexford, before slamming the door and immediately striding out the back for a cigarette. It made me think how well I handled this situation, compared to when I was 18 and starting out in Germany. Jesus Christ, I was such a pushover back then. I would listen to life stories for hours on end, out of a fear of hurting the other person's feelings if I showed a little impatience/fed-upness. I listened to this little old lady's life story on a train in Germany once - it lasted an hour and a half, and I literally understood not a SINGLE WORD. She didn't seem to mind though, and took my occasional "Oh ja?", and "Oh ja!" and "Oh....ja."with grace and style.iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-18234195513485311672011-07-28T10:31:00.000+02:002011-07-28T10:32:02.869+02:00Entente Cordiale ScholarshipHere's something that may be of interest, and something that is allowing me to spend the upcoming year studying in France: <a href="http://www.ambafrance-uk.org/Entente-cordiale-scholarships">the Entente Cordiale Scholarship</a>. You can have a little click and find out more about it yourself, but the basic gist is:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><blockquote><i>''Long term <span class="spip_surligne">scholarships</span> cover a whole academic year and are best suited for students wishing to study for a Master 1 or a Master 2 in a French university or grande école. Scholars receive a maintenance award of £8000 (in Paris) pa or £7500 (outside Paris) pa and a maximum contribution of £3000 pa towards the payment of tuition fees. Please note that the <span class="spip_surligne">scholarship</span> is for one year only and is not renewable'' </i></blockquote></div>It's also only for British applicants, although there is an equivalent for French students wanting to study in the U.K.<br />
<br />
<ul><li>To apply, you need to download the documents at the bottom of the page - and FYI, it is seriously time-consuming. The questions are fairly indepth, and abviously if you want to get past this step in the process you're going to need to make sure your answers hold some weight. Once you've filled it all in, stick a photo on it, attach your CV, cover letter and copies of your degree, post it, and wait. I believe the deadline this year was the 15th of March, so I'm assuming roughly the same will apply for next year. You're also required to provide two (academic) references. The application form is a bit strange in that the questions jump from English to French. I played it safe and replied in whatever language the question was asked in.</li>
</ul><br />
In the third week of March, I received a letter inviting me to interview in London on the 3rd of May (btw guys: I'm not an OCD time-obsessive: am just looking up the dates in my inbox to give you as precise timeline info as possible, because I know when I was applying for all this stuff, everyday was a ''FFS when am I going to find out, I can't stand this wait'' day).<br />
<br />
<ul><li> Next comes the interview. I'll admit - I was terrified of this interview. You generally are, except I knew this one was going to be pretty intense since the panel is made up of five people, and more precisely, five academics. I arrived in London the night before, and the next day had a bit of a total disaster. Firstly, the new shoes I had bought were a size too big (never thought I'd see the day when this would be the case). So I shuffled my way through one of London's posher areas, met up with a good friend and had a great day - pub, BLTs, catching up. Then the time for the dreaded interview arrived. Except I'd gotten the wrong place. For the love of Christ, future applicants: make sure you're in the right place. After a stilted gallop down a few miles of broad, bustling street, I arrived at The Place. Luckily, the woman who greeted me was incredibly nice. She put me at ease straight away, ushered me up the stairs, and plopped me in front of the jury. I shook hands, sat down, and the interview began. I started with a presentation of my path so far, my goals, what I want to do, and how I'm going to achieve it. I started - and then faltered. The combination of nerves and having ran/panicked my way to the interview meant I was completely out of breath, and I couldn't get my first 2 or 3 sentences out without gulping for air. I had to excuse myself and start again. Then came the actual interview. I'm not going to lie - it was quite tough, in that they were constantly keeping me on my toes. Nothing I said went unquestioned. Any answer I gave was immediately picked up by another member of the jury, and I was asked to justify it. The questions were a mixture of the personal (but not banal), and academic/cultural. I'll say this: it was the most interesting interview of my life. And when I came out, as you always do, I had a few facepalm moments where I regreted answering a question in a particular way, or I found solutions to their queries that hadn't come to me on the spot. But mostly, I felt like I'd had an interesting exchange with the panel, and it was something that was challenging. What was inspiring about it, was the fact that I didn't feel like I'd just given them the usual pre-formatted corporate answers, because that's not what it was about. I'd had to show a bit more intelligence and provide a higher standard of thinking than in any job interview I've had.</li>
<li>I found out the result by letter in the second week of May.</li>
<li>The subject you want to study <u>does not </u>have to be French, or even French-related, although I imagine that would help (?). The interview is, however, all in French, including the mini-presentation you have to give, so if you're interested in applying I would recommend starting brushing up now.</li>
</ul>iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-66341944482788645382011-07-26T21:20:00.000+02:002011-07-28T10:33:24.741+02:00DSK syndrome 1See, the problem I'm starting to have with this whole ''French men, ooh la la'' thing, is - well, it's bullshit.<br />
When I first came to France, I thought men asking me to suck their dicks whilst on my way to the boulangerie was sort of sweet. They must just be more liberated than their awkward Jeykll-Hyde, drunk-sober British counterparts, I thought. Now, after quite a bit of time here, I've finally had it.<br />
Don't even get me started on what it's like to actually engage in a relationship with one of these men. Let's start at street level, or DSK Syndrome part 1.<br />
<br />
This week has been fairly hard on the old blood pressure. I wasn't a nervous child, but I was the sort of child who, when asked to babysit her younger siblings at the age of 10, would sit on the stairs, eyes fixed on the door handle, waiting<br />
a) for some leather-jacket wearing psycho to break in and perform the Human Caterpillar on me, and<br />
b) for my selfish parents to come home.<br />
My eyes literally did not leave the door. I sat there, my body crisp, jumping at every sound, resenting my heavy-sleeping sister, and my parents who, I imagined, were sitting in a bar somewhere laughing their heads off, oblivious to the terror suffered by their eldest daughter.<br />
What's my point? My point is - I do not like being in houses by myself. I plan escape routes. Note which objects are lying around that I could use as a weapon. Calculate which neighbours would hear my screams. My imagination runs wild, when I'm left home alone.<br />
<br />
So imagine my fucking FEAR when, walking home to my empty flat a few nights ago, I pass a group of guys a bit older than me, guys I don't know, who say ''Oh, c'est la petite anglaise du coin'', ''eh, do you like ze franch kiss honey?''. Firstly - how do they know I'm English? Secondly - AHHHHHHHHHH! So I call my flatmate (on holiday in the South of France), and start ranting in a way that makes me sound seriously deluded, and she tells me about how one night when I wasn't there, a group of guys threw stuff at the windows and started shouting my name. Couple this with the usual light sexual harrassment you get in the streets, and the fact that this one ex-student of mine has been calling, and calling, and CALLING all day (he's literally calling right now as I type, had to put the phone on silent), and I have had JUST ABOUT ENOUGH of this.<br />
<br />
It's not even like it's because I'm some irresistable sex elf: it's just because men here feel like they have the God-given right to have any woman they want, and it's just a matter of pressure and time before they get them. That is the basic psychology. And it's a psychology that is beginning to infuriate me. The other night, I heard guys throwing pebbles against the window, and based on my flatmate's story, I'm guessing it's the same guys as last time. I couldn't do anything other than cower in the shadows, pulling my holey jumper tighter around my bony, shaking shoulders, because what am I gunna do? Storm up to window, cheeks flushed, throw it open and in a high-pitched reedy attempt at salvation tell them....what? ''Arretez! Qu'est-ce que vous voulez? Je vais appeler la police!'' They'd fucking love it!<br />
<br />
Now see, if I were a man, the problem wouldn't exist. I would feel I have every right to walk down my street, and ain't nobody nowhere NOHOW gunna make me feel afraid. I would walk up to that window, get my shotgun out, and tell those muthafuckers to muthafucking beat it. (I would, obviously, be a very mannish man). <br />
<br />
<br />
It's going to be a long time before France gets something <a href="http://ashcampaign.org/">like this</a> RESPECTED and SUPPORTED by the majority of the community. Try and talk about this sort of sexual intimdation to your average French man, and you just get a snigger and a ''ah, les anglo-saxons...''.iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-20003566198484267062011-07-25T23:24:00.000+02:002011-07-28T10:33:43.846+02:00Having a beautiful home on a trampy budget<div style="font-family: inherit;">[Isn't it interesting how my T9 dictionary will allow me to type 'ing': basically approving the customisation of the English language. You can '-ing' up anything you like. I love that about English].</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">My fantasy is to one day live in a place that is comfortable, cosy, and clean. A lavish fantasy, I know, but a girl's gotta dream. Having spent the past few years living in places ranging from rapey 'foyer' rooms, to dingy student flats, I think I'm ready for it. I don't want a kitchen table that wobbles. Or to sit cross-legged on an over-sized cushion because I can't afford a couch. I don't want to watch television on my computer, or have people over and resort to binge drinking on my bed because the minute living room is taken up by my Italian flatmates and their pasta orgies. I don't want to handwash my shirts, because the nearest laundry place is a half hour walk away. I don't want to use a tray as a coffee table. So many student rooms, so many little comforts. I want a big massive plaid throw on top of a big massive soft couch. Carpets my feet sink into. Heavy linen curtains. A huge Arabic coffee table made out of an old mosque door. A giant bed with a duvet the thickness of a bouncy castle, and pillows stuffed with the biggest and most luxurious feathers known to man. Crisp white sheets, and thousands of cushions strewn across the vast expanse of the bed. A massive armchair I would sink into as I sipped on my fine Italian espresso, produced by my hand-assembled swanky hotel-style coffee machine, whilst sitting in my opulent living room. Oak bookcases, crammed full of literary staples such as the latest Douglas Kennedy and Jodi Picoult. A washing machine. A dishwasher. A balcony, with ivy framing it's beautiful stone carvings, a (non-tacky) swing chair nestled between two wide pots of lavander, in which I would sit on summer evenings, my Siamese kitten purring in my lap as I gently smoked a cigarette and took in the balmy summer breeze.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">Unfortunately, that doesn't look very likely in the forseeable future, so I'm going to have to make do with the sort of transient, peasant treats that companies like 'Yankee Candles' create in order to make all of us plebs feel that little bit more luxurious. Yes, I've been trawling the web, gorging on glossy photos of beautiful candles:</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.threelittlebears.co.uk/ekmps/shops/heavenlyjew/images/yankee-candle-clean-cotton-large-jar-22oz-3380-p.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><a href="http://thriftytexan.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/Yankee-Candle-Spring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="http://thriftytexan.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/Yankee-Candle-Spring.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><a href="http://media.puresenses.com.sg/catalog/product/cache/1/image/500x500/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/y/a/yankee_candle_votive_garden_sweet_pea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"> I just want them. I want my bedroom to smell like a garden sweet pea, and if I have to pay €22.90 and €5 shipping to make that happen, then bring it on.</div>iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-32234510768072134222011-07-25T23:07:00.000+02:002011-07-28T10:34:05.051+02:00My mood<div style="font-family: inherit;">On April 7th of this year, I wrote a post because I thought I'd start a blog. I never actually felt like I wanted to continue with it. Here's what I wrote:</div><blockquote style="font-family: inherit;"><blockquote>This is a place for me to talk purely about my thoughts and moods.<br />
<br />
<br />
I have made a lot of progress over the past few years, but still I am weighed down by uncontrollable feelings and mood swings. It usually seems to worsen during times of particular stress.<br />
<br />
Lately, I have been under a lot of pressure. My family are in another country, which I should be used to, and yet somehow I can't help but feel isolated, like I'm alone dealing with these issues, although I know it is by choice. Currently, I am applying to Masters programmes, which is extremely competitive and requires copious amounts of paperwork, applications, exams, interviews here there and everywhere. My job is coming to an end, and although I am working on getting a Masters, nothing is set in stone yet, and I feel a bit lost at sea.<br />
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It's an exciting time, but also a bit nerve-wracking. Yesterday, I lost a pen that I had bought just a few hours earlier. It cost me €2.85. I had been having a good day, but losing this pen made me sink into a foul mood. ''Why do I have such bad luck,'' I said to my flatmate. ''My life is completely pointless, I can't see any good in it.'' This darkness stayed with me for about 2 hours, until I eventually got back into a positive state. I have been seeing a guy I'm really, really into for the past 4 months. These last 2 weeks, I have noticed myself becoming more and more irrational with him. I jump down his throat and misinterpret things he says. I am by turns sullen and enraged if he comes over 10 minutes earlier than planned. I can be harsh and hurt his feelings out of frustration, anger, fear. I would use the word ''irrational'' to define myself when under extreme pressure. It is difficult for people close to me: my mum, The Guy - they can never predict my moods, and neither can I, and I feel guilty and angry at myself for it. I always think ''what is WRONG with you'', and ''next time, I will be nothing but calm and collected'', and yet of course, rarely does that happen.<br />
<br />
I decided there was only one thing for it: I need to help myself. The only way I can see that this might be possible, is to slowly try and re-train my outlook on life. Correcting myself when I feel myself slipping into a dark mood. Checking myself when I think something angry. Ignoring completely irrational moods. So far, it seems to be working.<br />
<br />
I think I'll use this blog to record my moods, and to talk myself out of some of the worse ones whilst remembering the good uns :) </blockquote></blockquote><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">A few things:</div><ul style="font-family: inherit;"><li> I've actually been doing a lot better emotionally since I found out I got the Masters. Obviously stress had been weighing on me.</li>
<li>All of what I said above is true, apart from the feeling shit about The Guy - he is a dickhead, and therefore I think it was completely normal behaviour for me to feel 'sullen', 'enraged', and 'hurt'. In fact we're no longer together. It's sometimes difficult when you've got emotion-streaming issues (sounds way better than 'mental health', no?) to accept that maybe you're justified in feeling a certain way. The tendency is to blame your own perceived irrationality.</li>
</ul>iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-21911087677428295982011-07-25T22:54:00.000+02:002011-07-27T04:18:20.500+02:00Becoming an assistant + CROUS accommodation<div style="font-family: inherit;">So the money I will be receiving from the scholarship clocks in at a ''not-too-shabby-but-not-too-glamorous-either'' €800 a month. I'm getting a room from the <a href="http://www.crous-strasbourg.fr/">CROUS</a> in a university residence - which is apparantly a privilege, since they are very hard to get. Essentially, the way it works in France is getting government-owned university accommodation is linked in with getting government grants. Around April, you fill in a hefty pile of papers, send it off, and if you're poor enough, you get:</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">a) grants, and</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">b) a CROUS room.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">Because all French parents look after their children financially (food, accommodation, cinema tickets, trips to Subway, holidays, new clothes, pocket money, etc) until they are 32, you could be 18, or you could be 23: the CROUS don't care. They want to know what your parents earn. If your parents are poor enough, you could be eligible for a grant. Only if you're French though. You can still be eligible if you're an EU citizen, but you need to prove your parents have been working here in France for 2 years. So basically - not very many of us foreigners are going to get the gift of government aid during our stay here in this delightful country. Which means that I am extremely lucky with this room.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't know this was part of the deal, so was surprised when I got a random email from a CROUS person informing me of the situation. As far as I can gather, here is what you're likely to get in any CROUS residence:</div><ul style="font-family: inherit;"><li>A studio: pretty self explanatory. The most expensive (although all CROUS accommodation is cheap)</li>
<li>A 'renovated' room: this means a room with bed, desk, storage space, shower and WC</li>
<li>A 'non-renovated room: as above, but with shared showers and WC per floor</li>
</ul><div style="font-family: inherit;">What I'm hoping for is a renovated room - I don't mind sharing a kitchen, but I have been down the dark, dingy road of shared showers, and I do NOT want to wash my hair in a little box full of floating plasters and leg hair. Having said that, since I am also not a pussy, I will not be totally freaking out if I do have to.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway, that little info de-tour did have a point, the point being: my rent isn't going to be very much. I'm going to estimate it at around €300 a month, but I'm fairly sure it'll come to less. This gives me €500 to play with, which is already not bad going (I can get by on €100 a week), but let's face it - I want to buy stuff. Which means, one of my best options is going to be picking up that trusty (rusty?) old card: being an English assistant. There's two ways you can get this gig (and if €700 a month for 10 hours work a week sounds like a good gig to you, then give it a go):</div><ul style="font-family: inherit;"><li>A programme. You apply through the <a href="http://www.britishcouncil.org/languageassistants.htm">British Council </a>if you're, you know, BRITISH, or <a href="http://www.tapif.org/">TAPIF</a> if you're American. No idea what the Irish/Candians/Australians/Jamaicans/South Africans/New Zealanders/you get the idea do. But I'm assuming you could just type 'language assistant france [your country]' into Google and find out. How do these programmes work? I can only speak for the British Council, but as far as I can gather, it works the same for everyone. You apply (don't sit around picking at your fingernails: do it a.s.a.p). In your application, you select your preferred areas/towns. You wait for their letter. You get placed somewhere. You go.</li>
<li>If you forgot to apply/couldn't be bothered/didn't know in time it would be something for you to do, you apply through the more chilled out yet more precarious way: you go directly to the 'rectorat'. Think of the 'rectorat' as the local education authority. Basically, do a google search for the rectorat in the region/town you're interested in, and then send them your CV and cover letter (non EU people need to have their carte de sejour/visa shit sorted. No one will be taking care of that for you). If you're EU, no worries, just send your stuff off. To be honest, I'd advise calling (as much of a pain in the ass as that is) first, or at least emailing, so the woman in charge of English assistants has a vague idea of who you are. I'd also advise POSTING your application and not emailing it, because for some reason French 'fonctionnaires' don't like to use their email (or don't like replying to emails, rather). The crap thing about this system, is that you are basically a second-class applicant, in the sense that you will only be offered a job if there aren't enough assistants coming through the programme. Or if an assistant drops out. Or if a school suddenly decides they want an assistant at the last minute. Which means you will only find out whether you have a job or not in September or October.</li>
</ul><div style="font-family: inherit;">So I sent my stuff off today to the rectorat in Strasbourg. If I can secure an assistantship, I'll be doing something I quite enjoyed when I was in Chartres (much prefer teaching kids, as opposed to the supposed 'adults'of the university), as well as something that will bring my monthly income up o a quite comfortable figure - AND, with 18 hours of lectures, and 10 hours teaching, I will definitely not be rushed off my feet.</div>iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-29423004552361361142011-07-25T22:32:00.000+02:002011-07-28T10:33:00.490+02:00Resolutions<div style="font-family: inherit;">I wonder at what point my life will stop being ruled by the academic calendar? When ''next year'' stops meaning September? For the moment, that is how it seems to be.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">As all good years start,this one will begin with a few resolutions:</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><b><u>Stop dating fuckwits</u></b>: the past....6 years, have been spectacular in terms of the amount of absolute total douchebags I have met and started relationships with. I used to blame them. Up until my last break-up, which was 4 days ago, at which point I started blaming myself. I'm not buying into that California Sunny D Smile psychology shit: yeah, sometimes you do need to blame yourself. From this year forward, I am not going to engage in romantic relations with anyone who isn't <b>spot on</b>. Perhaps a summary of all the knobs I went out with is in order, so that I can assess where exactly I'm going wrong.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><u><b>Stop buying retarded clothes:</b></u> pretty trivial really, except not when your wardrobe only consists of weird clothes. I buy stuff like orange beaded handkerchief tops, and bizarre dresses, and jumpers and t-shirts that are a colour that goes with nothing. Need to make an effort to buy clothes that go with at least one other item of clothing I already have, and avoid looking like homeless woman/half-teenager half-grandad/mentalist.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><u><b>Sort out money shit</b></u>: Must get a better handle on finances. Pretty straightforward, really. Spend less, check statement more.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><u><b>Smoke less:</b></u> Some types of smoking are fine (albeit lethal). Other types are also fine, until you reach the stage where they are having the following effects on your (shaky) psyche: light paranoia, apathy, disconnection from reality. Don't worry - I'm not going mad. I'm just realizing it may be better to take a bit of a step away from the old rolling papers.</div>iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4610304016591392042.post-35104394515434301902011-07-25T22:17:00.000+02:002011-07-27T04:19:54.383+02:00Take off!<div style="font-family: inherit;">Following a long few months of filling in application forms, going to interviews, sitting exams - the verdict's out, and I am heading off to start my Masters at the good ol' university of Strasbourg. Or Strazzyburger as it shall now be known.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">Not only that, but in my pocket I have a scholarship which will allow me to pay the (pretty damn high!) fees, as well as be able to scrape by living-wise.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">This blog will hopefully allow me to document some changes that are coming up. I want to be able to look back on this, and see whether any improvements have been made. I'm generally happy with myself, but I realize some things need to get straightened out as I move faster towards the terrifying world of fully-fledged adulthood. In no particular order: my mental health, my appalling way of handling money, my catastrophic relationships with men, my conflicting desire for change and stability - you get the idea. The sort of trials and tribulations that affect all 20-somethings the world over, I'm sure.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">The other point of this blog? To vent, to remember things, to give some sort of structure to my inane thoughts, and possibly to provide help to others in a similar situation. I'm not sure how I'm going to go about it just yet, but being the sort of person who embarks on an adventure or path, and then spends as much of her free time scouring the internet for tips on how to pull it off, I think perhaps my experiences could be useful in some way. Information on the scholarship programme, for example, which I was completely unaware of until just a few days before the application deadline. An account of living in student residences in France, help with particular procedures when moving to France...that sort of thing. There's going to be a bit of binge posting now - just so that I can get the foundations set, and begin keeping updates on situations as they unfold.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">I'm not going to worry about it, and rather - let the blog take the form it does.</div>iflyastarshiphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07200437954223720298noreply@blogger.com0