Pronunciation Predicaments

Despite having a degree in French, and despite having lived in la belle France for a decent amount of time, my English accent remains a persistent problem. However much I try to disguise it, my accent always reveals my foreign nationality, and is often instantly recognised as specifically English. Although there was a point where I thought I was making progress with my French accent this was short lived. After working two months as a receptionist  in a French camp site, one of my colleagues told me that although my accent wasn't exactly French, it certainly wasn't English. This was, at the time, great news, and I was feeling pretty proud of my progress...until she informed me that instead, my accent made me sound Russian. I have no Russian relatives, and I have never even been to Russia. In fact, the most Russian thing about me is that a vodka cranberry takes my fancy on occasion.

Poor pronunciation comes with a poor accent and this has on occasion provoked some pretty interesting situations. My housemate and I now have around 3 litres of cooking oil in our kitchen, because I attempted to ask for more noodles when she was popping out to the supermarket one day.  I pronounced nouilles - noodles in a way that you'd perhaps say l'huile - oil.  Another time, after a night out in a local bar which had a jungle theme, I was explaining that there were men walking around with snakes around their neck. In this case, I had everyone thinking I'd spent the night in a bar filled with Christmas trees, because I had pronounced serpents - snakes, as sapins - Christmas trees. However, that was nothing compared to the most serious  case of mispronunciation I have made to date. This occurred the first time I met my housemate's Dad, who asked me what my Dad did in his job. Not knowing the vocabulary for 'Traffic Policeman' I that I could make myself understood if I said he was a 'Road Policeman'. Unfortunately, I pronounced the French for road - route in the way they say erection - rut. Telling your housemate's Dad that your own Dad is an 'erection policeman' isn't exactly what makes for a good first impression. Merde.

The comprehension problems do not end there. With English being such a dominant world language, it is no surprise that the French have adopted English words into their everyday vocabulary, such as 'weekend' and 'parking'. Yet you'd be wrong to assume that pronouncing these words with an English accent would be correct.  I recently learnt this one hungover-day when I tried to order a smoothie with a Nutella crêpe in a café...

Me: "je prends un smoothie et une crêpe Nutella, s'il vous plaît" (I'll have a smoothie and a Nutella crepe please)

Waitress: (looks confused) Vous prenez une crêpe Nutella et....? (not catching my choice of drink)

Me (slowly repeating myself) " un smoothie, s'il vous plaît"

Waitress looks at me. She clearly has no idea what I'm talking about. I then used the  ordering  trick popular amongst English tourists; I pointed to the strawberry and banana smoothie on the menu. The instant comprehension was visible.]

Waitress: "Aaaaah, un smoooooziiie"

Me (at a loss): oui... un smooozziiie, s'il vous plaît....

Ironically, in France I am harder to understand when I pronounce my English 'th's correctly, than if I were to order un café, for example. Similarly, if I were to order a brownie, it would take more than one attempt if I were to pronounce it in the standard English way. 'Brownie' in French should be pronounced "broooonie" (think Carla Bruni).  Really, there is no hope.

Whether I attempt a French accent or proudly pronounce words in my own accent, my nationality is evident;I am no fille française. Never being able to pass as a born-and-bred Frenchie does bother me at times, particularly as it can detract from my credibility, yet overall I don't think this should necessarily be a negative thing. The fact that some people can never disguise their native accent, however well they may speak a language, is something to be embraced. It forces us to remain loyal to our roots, however far, and for however long we may stray from them.

Fookin Bruuuuges

Colin Farrell states in the film In Bruges, " If I grew up on a farm, and was retarded, Bruges might impress me but I didn't, so it doesn't." Well, Colin, I think you've got that a bit wrong. I was not brought up in a farm, and I am not (that) retarded, yet I thought Bruge was [insert Irish accent here] briiilliant.

I knew that Valenciennes was close to the border with Belgium, but I never realised just how close it was until I actually did the 20 minute bus ride. Stepping across the border, you realise straight away you are in smokers' paradise. It's pretty common for French smokers living near the border to hop across to Belgium to buy their tobacco and cigarettes in bulk, for a fraction of the French prices. The first street beyond the border testified to this, almost every shop being a tabac, and even the air itself smelling strongly of tobacco.

We arrived at the first Belgian train station after about a 10 minute walk, which turned out to be pretty dilapidated and deserted. With nowhere to buy a ticket we just got on the train, but had to nip off at the next station to buy a ticket, which stopped there for  a few minutes anyway. English people are fully aware that we are paying extortionate amounts of money for rail fares, but Belgium really puts National Rail to shame. We bought a special ticket which gives you 10 journeys to anywhere in Belgium for 50 euro. So the 5 of us got to Bruges and back for 10 euro each, which amounts to less than £4 for three hours of travelling each way. Seriously, David, sort it out!

After only getting slightly lost in the very crowded streets of Bruges, we came across our hostel. Great location, only a 2 minute walk from the main square, very young traveller friendly (only 19 euro for the night) with a bar open til 6am. Nice. After dumping our stuff in our 6 bed dorm we headed out into the city. First stop,  beer. I've only just started to like beer, after working a season in a French campsite last summer, I came to appreciate it for it's cheap-ness (or free-ness if you get to know the bar staff). We ordered a big Belgian beer each,  and decided that our first mission was to get chips. They're very into their frites here, and it's not just your standard ketchup and/or mayo combo that you are offered. Here, there are about 10 different sauces to choose from. I went for a slightly too spicy harissa mayonnaise sauce called Samurai, but there were tonnes to choose from.

Given that it was the last weekend of September, we were really lucky with the weather. We strolled around the streets and along the canals, looking at all the gorgeous buildings, stopping off for beer pit-stops frequently on the way. We of course took advantage of the shops selling hundreds of types of beer and posh Belgian chocolates. Just as the sun was starting to go down, we found some very cool looking  windmills which we climbed up (all be it a bit precarious getting back down), and a  few grassy hills just calling out to be rolled down. I personally loved acting like a 5-year-old, but my friend Hannah wasn't such a fan when her dress flew up, although the Spanish guys next to us thought it was great :p.

Dinner was an interesting experience. The first issue came when I asked for some water for the table. "Nononono, we are not in France any longer. No water in Belgium. No good", the waiter splurged out in an all too quick sentence. Not really understanding, and assuming they were making a poor attempt at a joke, we carried on ordering. When the meals came, Hannah asked for some mayo and ketchup, and I asked for some tap water (again) thinking they'd just forgotten. The waiter brought over the condiments, and a bottle of mineral water. "No, no sorry, tap water please" I explained. The waiter was not impressed by this "Whaaaat!? You no want water!? It open now, and now I must pay from my own poche (pocket)." His mate came over later too to shout at me for being an idiot. Uncomfortable? I think so. The bill proved surprising, with the condiments being an extra 1 euro charged for each. After such aggressive service, and not having been told before that condiments were an extra charge, Hannah decided she was not paying 2 euro for a tiny pot of ketchup and mayo.Fair enough. So after putting down 2 euro less than what the bill stated, we got up to make a hasty exit. Sam however, did not make it out, with the waiters grabbing him and nicking his coat. Luckily, before it went too far, Hannah and I realised he wasn't with us, and went back. The argument over the bill continued, until Hannah, at a loss, screamed "JUST LOOK AT THE KETCHUP!"(she had only used a tiny amount) The momentary distraction, as the waiters and other diners turned to see what she was on about, was all we needed to get away, with Sam, his coat, and not having paid. The rest of the evening was much calmer, and sampling some more beer got us back to loving Bruges. My favourite was one called "La Morte Subtile" (Subtle Death), a blonde beer flavoured with peach.

Bruges was beautiful, and definitely  a must see for anyone travelling through Europe. The beer was bon, the chips were spicy, and the waiters were mental.

The moral of the Bruges story: if you want to end your evening in one piece, always use a condiment.  

Getting Settled - a.k.a Circling the Drain of the French Administrative System

Whilst many people complain about admin and paperwork in England, what we have is NOTHING compared to what Frenchies have to deal with. All us foreigners joke that to get anything in this country, from a bank account to a gym membership, you need 5 copies of your passport, your stamped, translated birth certificate, and a urine sample of your next of kin. Although this is a (slight) exaggeration, the French themselves are fully aware that the nightmare their systems can present, calling the sheer amount of paperwork in life 'la paperasse'. During my assistantship, I quickly became acquainted with the unrelenting demand for our documents, so I knew that this time, I should come well prepared.  I brought with me around ten photocopies of my passport, my English birth certificate, more copies of it translated into French, some bank statements, old pay slips, my degree certificate, everything I knew that I would need to reinsert myself legally, financially, and practically into French society .This did not however ensure my immunity from 'la paperasse'.

To re-establish myself in la vie francaise, the first thing I sorted myself with was a job. Next on the list was housing. Check (See previous blog post). However, with said housing came the accompanying paperwork. A tenancy contract is a new form of 'paperasse' for me, given that with my previous landlady, everything was more or less off the books. In Valenciennes, my landlords are much more formal, which I actually prefer, as everything is signed and legally secure. What is more, I am lucky that they are friendly, organised, and thoughtful people living in a nearby town, and have been very understanding of my situation. My first month's rent and deposit were paid in cash upon arrival, and the contract was signed upon arrival also, without needing to prove I had a bank account or produce a pay slip beforehand. This is  not something everyone is treated to in France. Under usual circumstances, I would have had to get my parents to sign a guarantor document before moving in, having to prove their income with their own bank statements and pay slips. I know my parents would not have been happy to do this (for which I would not blame them) so I'm just thankful my housing situation is easier to formalise than most.

The next thing to tackle was banking. No bank account, no pay, no life. Simples.  I've realised that we really are treated in England to such a cheap and accommodating banking system. Most French bank accounts charge you monthly to hold an account with them, cash back in shops is illegal, and checking your balance at any old hole-in-the-wall is not possible.  Being more financially aware on a day to day basis is a must. Not getting on well with my previous French bank, I chose a new bank, one of the only banks in the town that doesn't charge you monthly. The day my fellow-lectrice friend and I opened our accounts, we were sat in a lovely posh office, where all our papers were checked, stamped, photocopied, etc. Everything was going very smoothly, but just before signing the final document, I noticed that my nationality had been put down as Finnish. Really. So I queried this, to which the bank assistant replied that she understood I was English, but that she couldn't find 'English' as an option on the computer, assuring me it wouldn't be an issue (c'est pas grave). This was very odd considering that my friend had just been processed as 'English' even though she is in fact Irish. It didn't end there. I was recorded as having been born in Cambridge, when I was in fact born in Cambridge Military Hospital in Aldershot.  I could understand the confusion there, and decided not to bother  questioning my identity twice in one day. I don't mind where I'm supposedly born, what nationality I may be,  as long as that version of me is paid at the end of each month.

To further complicate matters, we kept being asked to give a contact phone number in order to open a French bank account and get a debit card. However, without a French debit card, I can't start a French mobile phone contract, and I can't get a French Debit card before my first salary instalment at the end of September, which of course, requires a bank account. Complicated? I think so. So, feeling a bit cheeky, I thought  I'd attempt to get around this issue. I explained that we would not have a contact telephone number before getting a debit card, so if we could get a debit card before our pay cheque, that would make matters a lot easier for the bank...and us. The queue behind us was growing, so the bank assistant spoke very quietly and quickly...she had relented. She said she would discretely send us each our pin numbers and that we could come in to get our card next week. The only conditions were that we too had to be discrete and we had to see only her about it. Feeling suitably chuffed at manipulating the system ,  my friend and I exchanged high-fives as we left the bank.

So it seems the age old question of "What came first, the chicken or the egg?" has found a more frustrating application. What must come first? The housing contract or the bank account? The phone contract or the debit card? At times us newbies in Valenciennes have felt as though we were precariously circling the plughole of the French administration system, at any point in the position to fall into anonymity. Each necessity relies on the other to exist, and starting from scratch means that to get into the system, the rules have to be bent.

The Build Up to Leaving Bad Luck Britain

You know the build up has begun when lists are everywhere. Lists of every chore that is still yet to be done before making the big move. Lists which only ever get longer, rather than shorter. Lists which you have no desire to attack. Lists of tedious tasks such as banking, stocking up on prescriptions, seeing the dentist. Eventually, when only a couple of days remain, you are then forced to face the music, and sort your life out.

Feeling probably a bit too nonchalant, given that I am not unaccustomed to moving location, I thought I had definitely left enough time to sort out the necessaries. This was, however, without factoring in the spell of bad luck, which obviously, I must have been overdue.

I left England on a Thursday, and the Tuesday before, I had one of those days where EVERYTHING went wrong . The Monday was a Bank Holiday, so I couldn't try to sort out international banking or get my Euros. This didn't bother me tooo much, because that still left Tuesday. But not this time round. I went to the Post Office on the Tuesday, and due to a technical error it was shut. Great stuff.  However, I tried to take it in my stride, and with  only slight annoyance, I assured myself that  I could just sort my banking in town anyway and then drive 5 minutes down the road to the next Post Office.  Slight change of plan, but nothing life threatening.

A few shops down the road, I breezed into the bank I believing that, from the information on their website, they would give me international transfers for free. Oh no. It was only then I was informed me of the small print: you have to pay a monthly fee to get free transactions...(because of coursethat makes it...free??) So no banking sorted yet. Although this was annoying, this was not essential. So... Not. To. Worry.

Euros, however, are essential to living and settling in France. Unfortunately, at the (thankfully) open Post Office down the road, things did not go smoothly. When it came scraping the barrel of my pitiful  student account, for the hundreds of pounds I needed in liquid Euro, I hit a problem. One of the student/graduate's most dreaded phrases flashed up on the card reader:  "card declined". NOOOO!! I was relying on my disgustingly large overdraft to see me through, but I had forgotten that you had to arrange for such a large amount to come out all at once. Settling to exchange less money, I still managed to get some Euro notes. It would not be enough to live off until I receive my first pay cheque, but it would have to do for today. At this point, I let it go, and went off to London where I was meeting a couple of friends.

As I strolled through Hyde Park with a friend from Uni, I began to relax, trying to ignore these setbacks.  But I couldn't escape my Bad Luck Bug even in Hyde Park. One of my old housemates called to inform me that our student housing landlord had decided that he wasn't giving back our deposit, after having finally agreed that he would do following two months of dispute.  Not exactly the best news the same day your card gets declined. Still, I was lucky in that she kindly offered to take care of that, and have 'words' the following day. Surely now  Fate had had its way with me for one day, and I could relax knowing nothing else could go wrong. Oh no. After a call to my phone company, I learnt that they had kindly failed to mention that they had messed up transferring my contract to a pay as you go mobile, so I would still be paying £15 a month to be hardly using my English phone. With only one full day left in the country, things were starting to look tricky and stressful.

After some much needed Nandos and wine, I put the day, and myself to bed. Wednesday was my final full day in England, in which I had to pack, say goodbye to family, transfer my phone contract and get Euros. Luckily, after extending my overdraft, which made me want to cry inside, everything went a lot smoother . I packed, exchanged, transferred contracts, and managed to see some family. In the evening, to put the nail in the coffin of my Bad Luck,  I still had to endure a tooth filling at the dentist. I had been dreading this, but by the time I was lying back 'thinking of Barbados' in the dentist's chair, I had accepted my spell of bad luck. I just hoped that upon leaving Blighty, I would be leaving my Bad Luck behind.

Watch this space.

The House Hunting Mission

Having a job is all well and good, but no accommodation comes with the lectrice position.  So, over the summer I have been searching online for somewhere to call home from September.

Looking for an apartment in France whilst being based in England is definitely not an ideal situation. Although the internet provides the opportunity to see flats up for rent, and to meet other people looking for flatmates, I knew that the best thing to do would be to go out there and look the old fashioned way. After much um-ing and ah-ing over the financial cost of train tickets and a night in a hotel versus the benefits of seeing some places, I bit the bullet and fished out my debit card. Having 4 potential house viewings/flat mate meetings, I thought it would definitely be worth it. After all, I need to use the student overdraft while it’s still there!

Potential # 1 – house share of 9 people, most of whom already living there for at least a couple of months

I arranged to meet Olivier, someone already living in the house, straight off the train. At the time, this seemed like a good plan in the sense that I was not left to wander the streets of an unknown town, looking for an unknown house.  I changed my mind once I got there.  I realised that Olivier had no idea what I looked like, I had no idea what he looked like, and to there was now a tipsy train station tramp stumbling towards me. As I dialled Olivier's number, I was ready to dash if the tramp’s pocket rang. Luckily a nice, clean and sober man answered, and he greeted me before taking me to see the house.

I didn’t get the best feel for the room which would be my bedroom. At the time, I didn't really know why this was, other than it it was right next to the living room. However I remembered the next day that I didn't actually see a window in the room. Funny how subconsciously your mind recognizes these things. More importantly, it was a bit too far out of town, and with the tram stopping at around 9pm every night, I could foresee problems.  Not to worry, one down, two to go.

Back at the hotel, I met my ex-housemate Peter, who said he’d join me in Valenciennes. I was so grateful for a friendly face in a town which was still unfamiliar, yet would soon be my new home. I logged into my emails to check up on the people I was meeting the next day. A fourth potential had cancelled, but I wasn't too bothered about that one, potential number two emailed to confirm our meeting (yay), yet potential  # 3 now posed a problem.  He was trying to make up a group of 5 people to move into a great house, but had emailed to say that the house he had his eye on was now gone. However, I still agreed to meet him, just so I had a back up option for the apartment of potential #2 the next day.  

After a meal out with a lot of lovely French vin rouge and a sleep, the real day of house hunting began.

Potential #2

 I had printed out googlemap instructions to find the apartment, and after locating the first boulevard we needed to walk down, Peter and I strided off triumphantly. In the wrong direction. Although we did eventually realise our mistake, we still couldn’t find the place in time for our meeting, so I gave in and rang the landlady of the apartment. Luckily, she offered to come pick us up from where we were (example number one of the French generosity - there will be more to come I am sure). The apartment itself was in a great location, 5-10mins walk from the town centre with a Carrefour supermarket 2 minutes away. The last place I lived in France was a 3 mile round trip to the nearest mini supermarket, so this was certainly an upgrade on the convenience front. I had a good feeling about the place from the moment I walked in, even though the kitchen was tiny, comprising of a sink, draining board and two hob rings, with no cooker or counter top. My bedroom is also tiny…but it does lead out onto a balcony (who cares if it’s overlooking a car park…tarmac will only aid sunbathing!) Despite all of this, my positive feelings about the place dominated the bad and I decided that I was happy with to compromise space to go with my gut instinct.

Potential #3

Although I was convinced that I wanted to take the apartment,  and potential #3 was still sans maison, I still met Jules. We sat in the square having a Monaco (shandy with grenadine in…try it, you’ll love it) and talking about the house share he’s trying to sort. He was a lovely guy, and I felt really bad having to tell him I’d probably go with the other apartment. However, he was very understanding, and said we should catch up again in September. So, although I did not gain a housemate, hopefully I now know someone else in Valenciennes.

All in all, I spent £99 on the return Eurostar ticket, 50 euro on the hotel room, plus all my food, drink and extra train tickets, but it was definitely worth it to have gained an apartment, and potentially someone else to know in Valenciennes. Mission accomplished.

Je me presente

Although I graduated this year from the University of Leeds, I am not completely done with the University life. Now that I have finished studying my own degree, I am going to be working from the other side of the system, on the other side of the channel. For the  next academic year, I am going to be  teaching English conversation classes to French University students, at the University of Valenciennes, situated in the North of France. I am going to be a ‘lectrice’. 

Having spent my year abroad as a Language Assistant in a school and a college in France,  I know what a challenging, exciting, and ultimately amazing experience living and working abroad can be. During that year, I learnt to not only speak fluent French, but live fluent French. I worked my way through exciting, odd, and scary situations, discovered  new  vocabulary in the strangest of circumstances, and found out that speaking French all day can give you a very real, physical headache. It was a steep learning curve, one which I am sure is not going to plateau this year in Valenciennes. It’s certainly going to be interesting, and this time, I am going to share everything as it happens.

Anyone thinking about working abroad, this blog aims to give you a taster of the real deal, not only the good, the bad, the ugly, but also the beautiful. Anyone who has lived and worked abroad in the past, you can empathise with me, as I reveal all the crazy highs, scary lows, and embarrassing inbetween points. This blog will follow my new life,  as I laugh, cry, eat, drink, groan, cringe, party, work, rest and play my way through another year living and working in France.

My year living la vie lectrice.