Well, as the great host of Looney Tunes characters would say: that's all folks! My stint in France has officially come to an end; chalk dust is gathering on my lesson plans, a few more much-neglected plants have died (although Basil the Second is bursting with health) and Chez Nous is all hoovered and tidied in preparation for Stage 2 of the Unwelcome Ant Invasion of the kitchen.
I've had a fantastic time pottering around in France and have certainly honed my Franglais skills. I hope this blog, which has been cathartic to the extreme in times of beaurocratic and linguistical crisis, has served to record a few of the lessons I've picked up along the way. I thoroughly recommend that you forget all of them if you should ever find yourself in the same situation; it's just so much more fun to experience them for yourself!
Back in September, in my hazy days of squinty optimism, I set myself the following aims:
- Climb lots
- Ski lots
- Eat lots
- Learn lots
- Become fluent
Have I been successful? In a rather Soviet fashion, I set myself high targets, with the hope of getting at least some way towards achieving them. Of course, being an arts student, I managed to avoid any numbers and left the vague quantity of 'lots' in the majority of my aims. This is such a gloriously flexible and quaintly cosy figure that I can't help but embrace the feeling of having reached it.
Climb lots
I've bouldered in Fontainebleau, ice-climbed locally and in England (quite an achievement in any year, especially when I'm meant to be in France!), danced up multi-pitch routes in Savoie and the Calanques and thrutched my way up (and sometimes rapidly down) single pitch delights on some of France's finest limestone offerings: French ethics in Orpierre, with its generously bolted offerings; naps below the Dentelles de Montmirail with its razor sharp holds; and an utter spanking at Buoux, with its unpronounceable name and technical pockets. I've carried a trad rack across rivers and over barbed wire fences, which almost counts as climbing trad, and I've successfully dodged droppings by smoking belayers or confused Frenchies who didn't quite understand my panicky shrieks of 'SHIT, BOLLOCKS, SorryforswearingSHIT-I'm gonna fall-watchmewatchmeTAKE! TAAAKE!'.
I've bumped up my indoor lead grade, thanks largely to the relentless enthusiasm of my retired Grenoble climbing partner, and I've mucked around on a fair amount of via ferrata with nimble non-climbing friends. It's going to be difficult returning to trad, particularly grit, but my newly-adopted backup of resorting to French ethics in times of stress must be discouraged by British tutters.
There can never be enough climbing, but I was fortunate in being in a climbing area and meeting lots of enthusiastic and welcoming people. I never did manage to convert them to going to the pub after training, but I did stolidly defend British climbing against their dismissals of 'But zer are no mountains in Eeengland!', and have done my bit for promoting British traditions: watch out for a host of French people leaping to tearooms nationwide for cream teas with fresh strawberries.
Most important lesson learned: If it says it's 5c, eet eez 5c!
Ski lots
For two months, I slid down mountains on wooden planks at least once a week. I still find it a very strange sport, but I've managed a few black runs, a couple of which I even chose to do, and I've had the privilege of watching lots of very good skiers whizzing around looking über-cool. I've had a good tour of Alpine ski resorts, with hot chocolate sampling in Val Thorens, Les Arcs, La Plagne, La Norma, Val d'Isere and many more. Whilst I can no longer join in the faux-snobbery of the Savoyards, as they take the piss out of 'les touristes', I am quite the expert on the nursery slopes of the main resorts. Nobody need know I should be much better...sssh...
On a different note, I've become a real fan of 'skating' - the most recent development of cross-country skiing. Sure, it's full of people in lycra tights and another great place to be utterly shown up by OAPs, but it's really good fun whizzing through snow-covered forests and collapsing in front of a crepe, utterly exhausted after a few hours of intense exercise.
Most important lesson learned: Skiing is intrinsically silly and illogical, so all instincts and reason should be ignored: lean downhill, don't think, don't look at things you want to avoid, lean into your skiboots until your shins are screaming, and embrace the madness!
Eat lots
Well, on the plus side (in every sense of the phrase), I've now got an excuse to buy new clothes! Expanding wasitline aside, the past few months have been an absolute delight. I've worked my way through various delights in the patisserie, have had the obligatory frogs' legs, escargots and foie gras (yes, I know, don't worry: I'll save an orphan or something for my ethical sins) and have been fed more fondue, tartiflette and other combinations of cheese, potato and bacon than I could ever have imagined. I've also had some pretty traumatic food experiences and am now slightly more wary of ambiguous meat dishes.
Most important lesson learned: French meals start and finish late. It's a fine line between devouring your bodyweight in pistachios and aperitifs from hunger, as it's gone 9pm, and eating beforehand, but being stuffed to bursting when your lovely host insists on giving you 'just one more helping' of the fourth pudding to be brought out, when it's approaching midnight and there's still the cider and coffee to go.
Learn lots
I've learnt lots about French culture. Some cultural events I had no idea about, such as le Tirage des Rois (finding little trinkets in a special cake on Twelfth Night), Beaujolais Nouveau (festivities caused by a new wine coming out) and Carnaval. Other cultural stereotypes exceeded all expectations: strikes, dog poo on the streets, smokers everywhere, beaurocratic faffs and erratic shop opening times. Some stereotypes were sadly untrue: they don't actually eat that much garlic, I hardly saw any striped jumpers, and nobody really says sacré bleu any more.
I've come to love the French, with their apparently unanimous 'Fuck Sarkozy' attitude, their blunt ways with friends ('Yes, this meal you just cooked for me is rather crap') and their romantic offerings. I was pleasantly surprised to be offered nuggets of poetry by homeless people in the ghetto-etto near my house: 'You are beautiful, Madame', 'May you have a wonderful evening'. Try getting treatment like that from any stranger in the UK on a Saturday night.
I've also learned a lot about other cultures, through meeting people from around the world. It seems it's only non-French people who ever go out at night in Chambery. I've mingled with other assistants from the USA (West Philadelphia born and raised...you can do the rest!), Trinidad, Germany, Italy and even the exotic climes of Swindon. I've lived with people from France, Norway, Sweden, Moldova, Germany, Austria, Brazil, South Africa and Japan, and I've learned that almost all these people will always be better at English than I can ever hope to be in French. Apart from the Americans - we definitely don't speak the same language ;-)
Become fluent
I'm still hindered by being instantly obvious as a Brit. There have been times when I've entered a room alone, dressed in purely French clothes, a French carrier bag in my hand, and before even opening my mouth, I'm greeted with a cheery 'Bonjour! Anglaise?'. According to someone experienced in such matters, it's due to my face. Great.
Still, I've waffled unwaiveringly, have destroyed any last ounce of pride, and have made pretty much every linguistical blunder possible. It's still slightly surprising every time a French person responds to something I say - it seems these strange noises coming from my mouth actually mean something to some people. Must be a good sign.
As for fluency in Franglais, I'd say I've greatly improved. Strange things are now 'bizarre'; if I want to do something, I either 'have envy to do it', or 'have the intention to do it'. I talk about 'the car of my parents', rather than 'my parents' car', and I can swear quite convincingly at French drivers as I swerve around on the wrong side of the road.
Conclusion
I've loved every minute of these past few months, although admittedly some of the earlier minutes in the day required a little more oomph to fully appreciate. Never before had I experienced quite so many domestic crises in such a short period; from early morning drill attacks the other side of my bed, to firemen and gas leaks, to powercuts, to broken boilers and ant invasions. Never again will I live on such a busy road or have to put up a sign requesting a female housemate to stop peeing all over the toilet seat (still a mystery, and sorry to our lovely male housemate who we were ready to accuse!).
I didn't travel around France as much as I expected, because I just found far too much to do in Savoie. It was a mountain sport fanatic's dream and I wish I could have stayed there in the summer for more mountainbiking and, hmmm, I don't know...maybe a spot of rock-hugging...not that I'm really into that sort of thing, you understand.
I've made new friends:
This friendly furball jumped into the last ski lift down with me, panicked in a corner for a bit and then decided I was okay and smothered me in big doggy kisses all the way down.
...and seen some beautiful places:
1 comment:
Can you bring the donkey back with you?
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