Desolée...

Okay, so I’ve cheated already. I found out about an informal meeting of all the Anglophone assistants in Rennes and decided to tag along. My, but it was paradise. I wasn’t sure exactly where the rendez-vous was, so I simply traipsed around the general area, one ear cocked for any sign of English, until finally, hurrah! It was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard.

There were thirty or so of us, mostly American but a few British, and all chattering away excitedly. After three days of hearing and speaking nothing but French, it was the first time (aside from an extremely short phone call to my dad on the first night, and an even shorter and incredibly expensive phone call to my copain in French Guiana) I’d been able to hear the dulcet tones of the language of dear old Blighty. I hadn’t realised just how much of an effort it had been up until that point; it certainly explained why I’d barely been able to keep my eyes open past 10pm through sheer exhaustion. It felt as though I’d only just realised that I’d been standing on tiptoes for the last few days and finally let my poor aching muscles relax into a normal standing position. It was so liberating to be able to natter away without having to worry whether there was a subjunctive or what order the pronouns were meant to go in. Even better was the ability to prove that I do have a personality, that I can be interesting; I’m fairly sure that most people in my school know me only as the timid little English girl who smiles a lot but never says anything. If I didn’t think it would get me sacked instantly, I’d turn up in full bellydance costume, working on the principle that shaking your booty transcends all linguistic barriers when it comes to making friends.

So, after an afternoon of sitting in the one Irish pub in Rennes, talking about Monty Python and Yorkshire puddings, I feel like an ex-smoker who’s just had her first illicit cigarettes after having given up for six weeks: a little ashamed but not quite enough to forget just how good it felt. And it was an educational experience, at least. I learnt two new colourful terms from the Americans: to be on the ‘shit-list’, and to ‘bitch someone out’. It’s not quite what I had in mind when I decided to come to France to improve my language skills, but it’s a start.