Zoe: Maîtrise De Crime

Oh God. Five days in, and I’m already a felon. Don’t come to Rennes or you’ll surely find my face plastered on ‘wanted’ posters on every wall.

After a stage d’accueil – an induction course run by the académie but in practice, another great opportunity to speak English – I decided to follow a group of Spanish assistants who were taking the métro into the town centre. Rennes isn’t actually big enough to warrant an underground system, but apparently it decided it wanted one anyway, so as a compromise it built just the one line, largely overground, from one side of town to the other. The distance was walkable (at least by my standards but then, as a friend once pointed out to me, I see Brighton to Chichester as walkable so you can draw your own conclusions) but I figured it would be part of the French experience so I tagged along. They all chattered away in Spanish, one of the languages I don’t speak*, but it didn’t really bother me; I ambled along behind them quite happily.

As we got to the station, I was surprised to see that there weren’t any barriers, nor ticket machines; just a machine for swiping the equivalent of Oyster cards (which also have their counterparts for trains and buses; a very efficient system). I didn’t have a card for the metro but the Spanish girls didn’t appear to have one either so we all walked through and boarded the train. I figured that maybe we could buy them on the train or at the other end or something.

Five minutes later, as we approached our destination, I started to get a bit worried, so I asked one of the girls in French where we could buy our single-journey tickets. She gave a broad, conspiratorial smile and replied, “C’est impossible. Nous prenons la risqué.”

My heart stopped. We were taking the risk? I don’t do risk! In fact, the only risk I want in my life involves rolling lots of dice and trying in vain to keep hold of Asia. I felt my cheeks flush and my face take on a guilty expression against my will as we walked through the barrierless station the other end, certain that I would be arrested at any moment. Fortunately, the ticket (well, card) inspectors at the station were French and so naturally seemed more interested in complimenting each other on their shoes and discussing their next strike than actually doing their jobs, so we passed through sans histoires.

In other news, I’ve decided that the gift horse does need a dental check-up after all. I’m seriously considering renting an apartment or shared house in Rennes. It’s not the quality of the studio flat – I can live with a tiny space, an oven that’s too far away from the wall to be plugged in, and hundreds of faucheux**. It’s the fact that Montfort appears to be entirely populated by old people and children, so it’s extremely difficult for me to make friends here. There isn’t much to do in the evening; put it this way, when I asked one class for suggestions of fun activities available in the town, the first thing they came up with was the Eco Museum. And I can’t even go into Rennes because the last bus back is at 19h15. As for clubs and societies, I’ve been rather disheartened after discovering that the local badminton club requires a signed medical certificate before they let you join, even just for a knock-about. For crying out loud, I shake my booty for a living; do they really think a light bit of the sport that was designed for people who are too girly to play tennis would hurt me?

I’m here to improve my French, and the only way I can do that is by speaking it. If I stay in Montfort, I can see myself buying a mobile broadband connection, sitting in my room on Facebook every evening for want of something better to do, and occasionally going out into Rennes with the English crowd and crashing on someone’s floor. What I need is to share a house with some French students so that I can truly immerse myself in the culture – including the grottier side of it.



* And, strangely, on the list of languages I have no intention of learning. I can just about understand written Spanish from my knowledge of French, Italian and Latin, and what I know of it, I dislike. I distrust any language that is so disrespectful to its punctuation as to turn it upside down at will.

** Daddy-long-legs, or spoinks as I’ve always called them. The French word literally means ‘reapers’ (as in the Grim persuasion). You may draw your own conclusions from this.