When I was in my first year of university, my classmate (the one who is now my partner) and I devised a mischievous plan as part of our ongoing battle against our jobsworth, oh-so-patriotic French tutor. For our oral exam, we would debate the motion 'The French believe that the world revolves around France'. We would do it completely over-the-top, tongue-in-cheek, and annoy her so much that she would give us 2.1s instead of Firsts, but hey, it's first year and the grades don't count, so it would be worth it for the sheer entertainment value. Unfortunately, for a number of reasons (of which cowardice was not one) the plan never transpired. Now, two years later, I'm discovering that our proposition was not quite as ludicrous as we'd once believed.
When it comes to taking undeserved credit for things, the French beat Gordon Brown hands down. It is absolutely incredibly just how many things - small, insignificant and thus all the more frustrating things - that they will claim as French without a hint of irony. It struck me how much this was the case when my housemate happened to play 'A Whole New World' from Aladdin one day. It was in French and I didn't know the words so, as I was baking in the kitchen, I began to sing along with the English lyrics. She looked at me, open-mouthed: "C'est quoi, ça?"
I smiled. "Well, it's the original lyrics. You know, from the original film."
She snorted with laughter. "What are you talking about? The original film is French!"
"You can't possibly be serious. Walt Disney was American! All Disney films are American."
"Quoi? Disney is French. He built Disneyland in Paris, didn't he?"
In the end, it took twenty minutes on Wikipedia and a number of YouTube clips of the same song in German, Hungarian, Chinese, Arabic and so on to convince her.
Something like that is so ridiculous that I can laugh it off. I can even cope when, after promising my housemates an authentic English dessert, I made them an apple crumble, only to be told, "Ah, but apple crumble is French!"
What I cannot allow to slide is the heinous violation of my heritage that comes from a Frenchman claiming that they invented the sandwich. I am not proud of what I did, but there are some things an English girl has to do to protect the honour of her country. I'll be packing my suitcases, but when the Rennes police find the dead body of a Frenchman with a picture of the Earl of Sandwich shoved up his left nostril and, "Show me another French word with a w in it!" scrawled on his corpse with a board marker, they won't need too many clues to find the perpetrator.
Showing posts with label Colocation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Colocation. Show all posts
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
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!
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!
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
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...
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...
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