What's In A Number?

As well as the variation in levels, another difference I noticed between schools in Guiana and Brittany is the demographic of teachers. The majority of teachers in my boyfriend's schools were around 35 or under; in my school, almost all of them are in their late forties and there's only one under 35. Bizarrely - and I think this is just a coincidence - a large proportion of them are in interracial marriages, that is to say, a white French woman married to an African, Arab or Asian man. I have no idea why all the non-racist people in France appear to have gathered together in one school, but there you go.

However, the age difference is unsurprising when you look at how teaching works in France. Unlike in the UK, teachers in France are actually civil servants: once they've passed their exams*, assuming they remain fit to teach and don't turn out to be paedophiles, they have employment for life. Hence why they go on strike far more often than their British counterparts.

The designation of French teachers works rather like the Army: instead of applying for jobs in individual schools, as we do, they instead get posted to schools by the government. They can choose the académie (academic region) or at least make a request, but they don't choose the school they are assigned to. In theory, each posting is a contract for a few years, but they can choose to extend it if they wish.

Unsurprisingly, the more experience you have as a teacher, the more clout you have when it comes to getting your preferred académie. NQTs almost always get the dirty jobs that no one else wants, while seasoned veterans can practically pick and choose. This is why so many new or new-ish teachers end up in the overseas départements. They know they're likely to get in because no one wants to go there due to the poor school results, but if they apply for anywhere better, they'll be lumbered with worse - ie the suburbs of Paris - so they hedge their bets and figure that at least they can get a tan. Or, if we're being less cynical, the teachers who choose to go to the DOMs are young, single and still looking for a bit of adventure and jungle trekking before they settle down in the south of France.

Brittany, on the other hand, is one of the most desired académies - supposedly due to its high school results but I'm tempted to believe that the amazing cider has something to do with it too. Which is why my school is populated with highly experienced teachers who have done their bit, slogging it in the ZEPs (Zone Education Prioritaire - basically ASBO Central), and are finally settling into probably their last posting in a cushy job in a nice Breton lycée, with kids who know how to spell Proust and who say, "Bonjour Madame," every morning to you.


I promise I'll stop blathering on about education theory and get back to the guess-what-my-students-said-this-week anecdotes soon.


* Which are competitive; in other words, if there are 50 places and 100 entrants, the top 50 will pass and the rest will fail, even if they get, say, 95%.

French Drivers

It's common knowledge that the French regard zebra crossings and pelican crossings as pretty stripes on the road that are there for decoration and little else. Even when the green man is lit up, cars are still allowed to drive over the crossing if they're turning right, so they're fairly pointless. You can't rely on any car to stop for you, regardless of whether you have right of way or not.

Of course, there are exceptions. I almost always have cars stop for me if I'm wearing a skirt; I have done several experiments and my findings are consistent on this one. Also, when my mother is in France with her walking stick or in a wheelchair (she's disabled rather than old, I hasten to point out), the cars always stop courteously for her. You're treated well in this country if you're disabled or a young female; everyone else can va se faire foutre.

Which brings me on to the single most French experience I've had in my four months of living here. Having finished teaching this morning (long live the French system of no school on Wednesday afternoons), I was on the bus back to Rennes when I saw a little boy, about ten years old, hovering at the side of road next to a zebra crossing. Holding two French baguettes, he was clearly trying to decide whether to cross or not. The bus driver had no intention of stopping - indeed she seemed to speed up - and she tutted, moaning, "Bloody pedestrians!" Then, suddenly, she noticed the baguettes, slammed on the brakes, saying, "Oh, wait, he's got bread," and smiled at him as he crossed the road.

I swear this is true. Only in France do vehicles stop for bread, not people.

Bisous

Let's talk about kissing.


The French do it a lot. An awful lot. No amount of swine flu paranoia can sway that near-stranger's lips from their inevitable path towards your defenceless cheek. It's just what's done.

I can safely say that I have kissed more people in the last four months than I have in my entire life up to my arrival in France. In fact, I probably broke that record in one night at a birthday party I bellydanced at just before Christmas, where I was shepherded round to meet everyone, complete with bisous.

I don't have any personal space issues but all this physical affection for people I've just met does jar a little with my English sense of restraint and propreity. There are people I saw almost every day at school for seven years of my life with whom I have never had any physical contact, and yet I'm expected to embrace every Jacques, Pierre and Jean-Claude that my housemates bring back to the apartment. Sometimes I'll forget, and when a random friend-of-a-friend is introduced to me as I'm chopping onions in the kitchen, I'll simply look up, smile and say, "Salut," then carry on with what I'm doing. Then I'll notice them hovering, a fixed smile on their face in an attempt to mask their thoughts about the rude, cold English, and remember where I am, before going over to faire la bise.

I hadn't realised just how important this was for establishing relations until today. Normally, when I meet friends/lovers/fuckbuddies of my housemates, it's very casual and we start off on 'tu' terms. This suits me down to the ground, because I hate the tu/vous distinction; I never know which one to use and generally end up talking in roundabout sentences to avoid having to say the word 'you' until I've worked out where I stand.* But today, I was in the middle of the delicate process of baking a banoffee pie when I was introduced to a housemate's friend, and so I simply greeted her from where I was. This was the first person I haven't kissed, and I don't think it was a coincidence that she was the first visitor to vouvoie me. I can only assume that she decided I'd set a certain level of formality between us by not doing the bise. The problem is that I refuse to offer tutoyer because of my age; I've heard too many horror stories about young people saying to older people, "Et si on se tutoie?" and receiving the crushingly civil reply, "Comme vous voulez". And so we ended up with awkwardly formal small talk until my housemate laughed, told us not to be so ridiculous and tutoie one another. All because of one bloody kiss.

Except, of course, that it isn't just one kiss; it's two. And that's just with reasonable people - it can be three or even four with some. It's incredible how much time this takes up, especially at work. I have to arrive in the staffroom at least five minutes early each morning in order to have time to do the rounds of kissing before classes begin. And if, on my way to a lesson, I happen to spot a pack of as-of-yet ungreeted 4-kissers (because they always seem to group together, like wolves), it's actually quicker to take a detour and go the long way round to avoid them. Then hometime comes, and it's the same kissy-kissy business again.

Bisous, everyone.



Update: according to Combien de Bises?, two is the average for my département, but if I go any further East, I'll be in dangerous four-bises territory...


* A while back, I was walking along the street in Montfort and met a woman who clearly knew me. I recognised her from somewhere, but couldn't think where. That would be an awkward enough situation in any language, but it was made worse by the fact that I had no idea if we were on 'tu' or 'vous' terms! The irony is that so many French people I've met must think I'm incredibly rude because of the strange way in which I speak and avoid asking questions, which is all due to my cringing fear of accidentally offending them...

Rule Bretagne

Last Sunday, I woke up feeling rather grumpy because the world had conspired to give me a boring weekend. I had wanted to go to Jersey for a day, but couldn't get a bus or train to St Malo in time to catch the ferry*. Then, my plans to go out with friends on the Saturday night were scuppered by my body's last-minute decision to be ill, so I ended up staying in by myself. So, on Sunday, I decided I was going to bloody well do something, which is how I ended up at the bus station later that morning, picking some random place to visit on the off-chance that it might be interesting. I plumped for a town called Bécherel, thinking it sounded like a cool name, plus I vaguely remembered someone mentioning in the staffroom that it was pretty.

That turned out to be an understatement. Becherel is a medieval town which has kept its cobbled streets and narrow snickleways, as well as its hobbled-together, topsy-turvey buildings for a quaint, eccentric look. Best of all, it is the French equivalent of Hay-on-Wye; apparently, it was France's first book town. Twenty-odd second-hand bookshops in a town the size of Stowmarket** - absolute heaven.

It managed to be sunny - that fantastic crisp-but-sunny weather you only get in winter - for the first weekend since I've been here, and so I had a blissfully nerdy cultural day, wandering the town, gradually filling up my rucksack with piles of books, and reading in a cosy café, in front of an open fire, with a steaming mug of hot chocolate. Life really doesn't get better than that.

While it's perhaps easy to be jealous of my peers who have swanned off to La Réunion, French Guiana or Nice for their years abroad, I am still glad I chose Brittany. There's just something about the communal spirit and the regional pride here that you don't get anywhere else. It really struck me that day when I was sitting in a crêperie for lunch, drinking Breizh Cola. It costs about twice the price of Coca Cola and is nothing special, but people still buy it here because, apparently, Breizh is best. Later on, in one of the bookshops, I discovered a collection called Breizh Noir, by a writer named R. G. Ulrich, who writes murder mysteries set in different towns in Brittany. I couldn't help but grin as I flicked through Peur Sur Dinard, Requiem A St Malo, and, my ultimate favourite, Fric-Frac A St Briac. I knew perfectly well they were going to be rubbish but in a place like this, it doesn't matter. In spite of, or perhaps even because of, France's past attempts to stamp out minority languages and cultures, the strong Breton identity is alive and kicking today.

And it's amazing how far this regionalism - tribalism, almost - goes. I was most amused to discover that the little town of Montfort (which is the same size as Bécherel, which is the same size as... well, you know the rest) has not one but five Christmas trees: one for each quartier of the town. As part of a tradition so wholesome and idyllic that it could have come straight out of one of Monsieur Ulrich's books (that is, before somebody poisons the mayor's galette complête), each tree is decorated by the people who live in that particular area, resulting in quite a bit of unofficial competition between the different quarters. Aside from the fact that this could never happen in England because somebody would nick all the baubles before you could say 'Tannenbaum', what I most love about this is that this micro-regionalism extends even to a fifth of a town with a population of 4,000 people. Which means that, not only can I say with a suppressed smirk and an unexpected sense of pride that I am Montfortaise, I can specify that I am Centre-Mairie Montfortaise. Y'know, just to separate myself from all those Tardivieres Montfortais oiks.









* French public transport is a lot like Fawlty Towers: it's absolutely brilliant, but there isn't a lot of it.

** Or, for my Brighton readers, Lewes. Or, for my Cambridge readers, Bar Hill. Everyone else can go get a map and work it out for themselves.

Finalement: Je Suis Rennaise!

I should probably mention, for those of you who weren't already aware of this by other means of communication with me, that I now have an apartment in Rennes. I went from being spurned by a French guy I never met (see previous post on this topic; I'm too lazy to find it and link) to having to choose between two offers. The first was from a very sweet guy who lives in an enormous flat in the Poterie quarter. I knew from the second I saw him that he used to play D&D as a kid and probably still kept his CDs in alphabetical and probably catalogue number order. In short, he was a geek, and that was fine by me. He quite clearly hadn't been this close to a female since his balls dropped and he was sweating nervously, but seemed nice enough. We ended up talking about the EU for an hour and a quarter, and he couldn't get over the fact that I was a girl who was interested in politics and actually had an opinion on important issues. I didn't dare mention the fact that I'm a bellydancer in case he jizzed his pants right there and then.

But in the end, I went with another apartment which was much closer to the town centre, already furnished and about 70 euros a month cheaper, plus with bills included. I thought dear Mr Geek was going to cry when I rang him up and told him, but it turned out to be the right decision. My housemates are awesome. I live with a bubbly* girl from Morocco, a French woman who likes to mother me and do my washing up for me, and a girl who's training to be a patissier and has to make tarte au chocolat for her homework, which obviously needs to be tested by all-too-willing volunteers.

Last weekend, they took me out to say welcome and I got to properly see how the French do Saturday nights. First, we went to a karaoke bar where I was surprised to find that half of the songs being mercilessly murdered** by the clientele were actually English. You haven't lived until you've heard Tom Jones' "Sex Bomb" done in a terrible French accent.

Later, we went on to a nightclub and, being much more of a pub person by nature, it was the first time I'd really enjoyed myself on a night out clubbing. The differences between French and English clubs are just incredible. Firstly, the most obvious difference is that the women are actually dressed; there are no fat chavettes bulging out of too-tight tops, who have clearly forgotten to put on a skirt and decided that a belt would suffice. Sure, the girls in the French club had clearly made an effort to look sexy, and they achieved it without looking slutty at the same time.

I also noticed that there was a greater variation in age; I saw several people in their mid-to-late thirties, whereas anyone who was too old to watch the Teletubbies when they first came out is likely to be thrown out of most British nightclubs. I was assured by my housemates that this is pretty normal.

The bouncers are much stricter in France than in the UK. Sometimes, this is a pain because they appear to take great pleasure in striding around with their important-looking Earpieces of Power, telling you to take your bag off the floor***, but it can come in handy, too. A few times, while I was dancing, guys would come up and attempt to dance behind me, their hands on my hips. This happened far more often that it ever has in British clubs, possibly because French men seem to be more confident. Most of the time, a smile and a firm, "Non," did the trick and they would back off without a fuss. One guy didn't seem to get the picture, but before I even had to repeat a word, one of the bouncers was already there, asking him to leave me alone. The situation was quickly and painlessly dealt with before it got out of hand, and there were no ugly scuffles.

All in all, probably due to a combination of these factors, the atmosphere was much more pleasant than in the British clubs I've been to, even despite the fact that they played Lady Gaga at one point. No wasted chavs bitching and fighting on the dancefloor, or giving random strangers blowjobs in the toilets for half a bottle of Lambrini; instead, just a lot of people having a great time on a Saturday night. Top that off with a fresh baguette, hot from the oven, from the local boulangerie on Sunday morning to soothe the hangover and you've got a damn good weekend.



* In the sense of having a colourful and extroverted personality, as opposed to the usual sense of being a polite way of saying 'fat'.

** The French might not binge-drink as much as we do, but they sure can't sing any better.

*** I'm English! I have to dance around my handbag - it's what we do!

Do You Hear The People Sing?

In the local weekly newsletter, Montfort Hebdo, it was announced that the municipality was about to commence a lutte contre les pigeons. Yes, you read correctly: a fight against pigeons. I'm not sure if this involves a physical encounter and fisticuffs* or something more longterm - a sort of avian war on terror, if you will.

In any case, I'm absolutely for it. And, as a Brightonian, if the revolutionaries are prepared to extend the recipients of their ire to include sea gulls, they can count me in.

"Will you join in our crusade?
Who will be strong and stand with me?
Beyond the barricades, is there a world you long to see?
Then join in the fight that will give you the right to be free!"



* Or possibly talonicuffs. Actually, I have no idea what 'fisticuffs' are supposed to be.

Colocation

The search is currently on for a house-share in Rennes, ideally close to the train station since I'm too lazy to walk too far at eight in the morning, but not too expensive. One of the biggest hurdles I've come across so far is finding someone who's prepared to live with a bloody foreigner, and an English one at that. Entente cordiale be damned.

Whilst perusing the small ads, a certain number of them can be crossed out straight away. A 57-year-old single man asking for a young lady between 16 and 25 to come and live with him? I think not. Anyone who specifies that they woud like a heterosexual housemate is suspicious in my books, too; either they're homophobic or hoping to get lucky, and neither appeals to me. As for the charming young man who decided it would be prudent to put up a naked photo of himself in lieu of one of the actual house, I thought it wise not to go there.

Eventually, I found one that seemed perfect: right next to the station, spacious, and best of all, they were asking for an English-speaking, female student! Let me just check a moment... Anglophone? Aye, aye, sir. Degree? In the pipeline. Two x chromosomes? Packed and ready to go. We have lift-off!

I arranged to meet one of the housemates, a Spanish guy, and he showed me around the apartment. It was absolutely perfect: decent rent, enormous room, clean and well-equipped kitchen, and brilliant location. I was over the moon.

He offered me a glass of water, and I panicked. He would read all sorts of things into it if I refused, surely: that I was too snobbish to drink from the tap, that I suffered from an eating disorder so acute that I refused to be seen even drinking water, or worse, that I was some kind of vampyric creature who did not imbibe the drinks of mortal men but instead would prey on their very life's blood during the night, sneaking into their rooms to feast upon their sleeping, defenceless flesh. I mean, you do get some real weirdos coming to look for house-shares.

In fact, the real problem was that I had always had it drummed into me never to drink the water when I went abroad. I have been on holiday to France every year since I was a baby, even if only for a few days sometimes, and not once have I drunk the tap water, except in tea or coffee. Avoiding it had become as normal and habitual as avoiding red light districts or bagpipe players. But suddenly, it struck me how ridiculous it was that the second biggest economy in the EU and home to 65 million people might not have clean water. I smiled, accepted, and drank the glass in one long gulp. And guess what? I'm still here.

I went home with a massive grin on my face, pleased that I had got on well with the two housemates I'd met so far. I was to meet the third one a few days later and then, assuming all went well, look into signing papers and moving in. And then... nothing. He never turned up at the meeting. I called, he promised to call me back, and never did. Texts, calls and emails went unanswered. Finally, yesterday I saw that the advert had been reposted on the website. I still have no idea why. Maybe I shouldn't have told them I'm learning to play the drums...

Bon Marché

Every so often, most cities and large towns in Britain will have a visiting 'French market'. These events give British people the chance to wander around a small number of brightly-coloured stalls, cooing with delight over baguettes, cheeses and crêpes, all at hyper-inflated prices, and giggling as they try out their best, "Murky bucket" or, "Sivoo-play" on the slightly smug French merchants.

Real French markets are nothing like this, as I discovered today in the Place des Lices in Rennes, which is home every Saturday morning to an enormous, sprawling collection of stalls spilling out into narrow streets and snickleways. I shall take this opportunity to apologise to the several hundred people I nudged, trampled and walked into today, because I was far too enchanted with the sights and smells around me to concentrate on something so tedious as looking where I was going. Along a road almost a mile long were stalls selling fruit and vegetables of every kind; many I'd never seen before in my life, and one stall sold no less than thirty different kinds of garlic. There were courgettes and marrows of all shapes and colours, many twisted and misshapen - the French, fortunately, do not share our prejudice against ugly fruit - but all irresistably fresh.

The market was huge and labyrinthic but simple to navigate by simply following one's nose, as a myriad of smells leapt out with each turn of a corner. First the cheese-sellers' quarter, a testimony to the French belief that the smellier a cheese, the better it tastes. Then the fishmongers, selling just about every edible creature that possesses gills or a shell. Suddenly, I turn a corner and the street bursts into bloom, announcing that I have reached the florists' quarter.

My stroll also brings many surprises, in the shape of the best buskers I have ever seen, even in London. The sound of accordions float through the streets, creating a wonderfully French ambiance. In one clearing, three talented young men, each dressed as Zorro, play twelve different instruments between them, switching several times per song while never losing their funky jazz beat.* At the next block is a group of young people dancing leroc to smoky blues music. I stand watching for almost half an hour, absolutely mesmerised. They're not busking - no hat is passed around - and they don't even seem to be advertising their dance school as there are no signs, no sales patter. They appear to be showing off their dance skills in the street for the sheer hell of it, and their obvious enjoyment is infectious.

The market has a charm to it that is missing from the typical English market with its cockney grocers yelling, "Gitchoor laaahvvly strawbs ee-ah! Paaahnd a punne'!" and burger vans selling lukewarm instant coffee in polystyrene cups.

Maybe it's the fact that the cobbled streets and half-timbered houses of Rennes are particularly beautiful in the sunshine. Maybe it's the fact that I've been mistaken for a local and thus asked for directions twice now - and have been disproportionately pleased about being able to give them. Maybe it's the fact that I am now on first-name terms with the people in the France Telecom shop because I buy so many phonecards, and also with the waiters in the Cafe Leffe near the station, where I sit, dipping a madeleine into a coffee Proust-style, and using their free wifi for hours on end. I don't know what it is about this place, but I'm starting to feel like this could be home.





* I was so impressed that I actually bought their CD, something I've never done with a busker before. If you're interested, they're called Guz II and can be found on MySpace.

Silver Screens

The French are renowned for their fine achievements in the world of film* so the next step in my quest for self-gallification was to visit the tiny little cinema in the town of Montfort. It really is rather adorable: it shows one film a week (usually an old one) and only at the weekends, one screening per night. I decided there and then to pay it a visit, not caring what the film was. It made for an interesting experience...

I buy my ticket from the woman in the box office – ‘box’ being the operative word – who also has a small selection of Haribo sweets beside her for purchase. No popcorn or little tubs of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream here. Then, the usher – who is standing so close to me in the tiny foyer that he could have actually reached over and taken the ticket straight from the cashier – carefully inspects the ticket that he’s just watched me buy, rips half of it and directs me to the single screening room. Fortunately, it wasn’t busy enough to warrant a lady with a torch to show me to my seat because I don’t think I would have been able to suppress my laughter for that long. Still, with only nine of us in total in the cinema – me, my friend and two families – we were rather spoilt for choice when it came to seating so naturally, we found the two shortest people in the room and sat directly in front of them.

The film turned out to be 'Julie & Julia', a fairly recent American film with Meryl Streep and Amy Adams, based on the true story of a woman who decides to cook all 524 of Julia Child's recipes in a single year. (Jen, you would love this film!) So, as if it wasn't weird enough for me already, I got to watch an English film dubbed in French, as subtitles are rarely used here. Everyone should, at least once, have the experience of hearing Meryl Streep dubbed by a crazy, drunk-sounding French woman.

A combination of France's love for American and British entertainment imports** and their reticence when it comes to subtitles means that most French people have no idea what many anglophone actors actually sound like. One student gushed breathlessly about the general loveliness of Johnny Depp, but in fact she is in love with Bruno Choël, his French voice-over double. She told me that she'd heard an interview with the famous Pirate once and didn't like his 'fake' voice - by which, of course, she meant his real one. I laughed when I read in The Kite Runner about two Afghan boys who thought that John Wayne was Iranian because he always spoke Farsi in the movies, but it seems that it is closer to reality than I believed.




* Namely, the ability to persuade an audience to sit through two and a half hours of 'characterisation' of characters they neither like nor identify with, and no discernible plot.

** And I'm not exaggerating this. In one of my classes today, I asked my students to tell me their favourite French television programmes, hoping to pick up a few tips about what might be good to watch. The answers I got? Friends, Desperate Housewives, Skins, The Simpsons and The X Factor.

Fest-Noz

This weekend was my first real taste of Breton culture: a Fest-Noz at St Brieuc. Fest-Nozes (or quite possibly Fests-Noz) are evenings of traditional Breton music, dancing, food and, of course, drink. And, my do they do it well. I’ve yet to find a people who can ferment apples better than the Bretons.

I was delighted to find that the large hall which hosted the Fest-Noz was absolutely packed with hundreds of people of all ages, from tiny children in their party frocks to elderly couples, and all manner of variations in between. Too often, the word ‘traditional’ actually means ‘only practiced by old fogeys’ but, happily, this tradition appears to be alive and well even among the young and trendy. Since this particular part of Bretagne is by no means the most ardent of purists – hardly anyone speaks Breton here, for example – this came as rather a welcome surprise.

The music ranged from old-school a capella renditions of old Breton folk songs to Irish-style accordion playing to a full 12-piece big band who interspersed jazzy sax solos with traditional local songs and even a guy in an Ali G-style tracksuit who rapped admirably in Breton over the top. The dancing, however, remained true to its roots: lots and lots of circles of people linked by pinkie fingers, shuffling, bobbing and kicking in a series of simple yet engaging steps. Oh, and every so often, an incredibly energetic couple dance involving lots of swinging around and switching places, rather like modern jive. I earn a living through dancing and yet even I was exhausted after approximately thirty seconds.

We didn't stay quite as long as I would have liked as the people I was with decided that they'd much rather investigate in depth the culture of the local Irish bar. So we abandoned the delicious smell of cakes and galettes and set off down a small country road. Suddenly, a car came round the corner towards us and the group instantly split into two: all the British girls automatically moved to the left and the Americans to the right. We Brits quickly righted ourselves (obviously, as I’m currently here typing this and not an interesting stain on the winding roads of St Brieuc) but laughed afterwards at our lack of adjustment to living in a country where the cars drive on the wrong side of the road. And yes, I refuse to pretend to have any kind of impartiality when it comes to traffic regulations; after all, we invented the car so we damn well know what side one is supposed to drive on.*




* Ed: Actually, I think you’ll find it was the Germans who invented the car and they drive on the right.
HUL: …
Ed: And don’t you think it’s rather sad that you’re pretending to have an editor solely for the purposes of humourous exchanges like this one in a rather sad attempt to gain the affection of your readers through the use of self-deprecation?
HUL: …
Ed: And worst of all, this editor you’ve invented is actually more quick-witted than you.

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.

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.

The Adventure Begins...

I arrived in Brittany, my new home for the next year, on Saturday and, frankly, the omens weren’t good. An eerie mist curled around my feet, rolling across the desolate countryside and snickling through narrow cobbled streets. Across the deserted street, I could see a driving school, ominously named Abyss. And at that moment, I swear the church bell chimed the devil’s chord itself, a diminished fifth.

But the day brightened; the sun sneaked out from behind the clouds and I discovered that Montfort-sur-Meu is, in fact, a beautiful little town set on a picturesque river. I was also pleasantly surprised by how modern the lycee I’m teaching at is: large, airy and generally welcoming.

My arrival at the lycee was not without hiccoughs, of course. Firstly, my attempts to make a good first impression with the headmaster were swiftly scuppered by the fact that his accent is completely incomprehensible and so I spent our entire brief meeting smiling and nodding in all the wrong places and asking him to repeat everything:

Headmaster, with a big fake smile: “*mumblemumblemumble* autres professeurs?”

Right, Zoe. Let’s try not to look like an idiot. Maybe he’s asking if I’ve met any of the other teachers yet. “Euh… non.”

The broad smile faded instantly.

Merde. I think he meant ‘do you want to meet the other teachers?’. “Euh, je veux dire oui…”

In the end, he passed me over to another teacher, asking her with a sigh, “Do you speak English?” Brilliant. So the headmaster thinks I’m a retard.

Second faux pas was that my responsable, whom I’d addressed in all my carefully-crafted-using-lots-of-typically-French-flowery-arse-licking-language-so-as-not-to-offend emails as ‘monsieur’ turned out to be a woman. Hurrah. Thankfully, she appeared not to hold it against me and was incredibly lovely, inviting me and my family to her house for tea and even complimenting me on my French. At least I don’t have to worry about being hit on.

As for my lodgings, I have a small studio flat on the school premises. It is fortunate that I have no cat, nor a desire to swing it; however, it is provided free of charge and that is one gift horse whose mouth shall certainly not be looked in.