Fancy a brew? Not so much a la Francaise... France's lukewarm attempt to match British Tea Time

I love the French wine, I love the French cheese, but if there's one thing the British can never be beaten on, it's their tea. Tea is magic. It picks you up when you need a gentle nudge to get moving in the morning and brings you back down to earth after a stressful day. How it manages to enhance whatever mood you are in need of I do not know, but in short tea must be drunk on a daily basis. Just maybe not in the way the French do it. Whilst they do attempt to imitate and accommodate for the 'Oh so British' tea drinking habits, they just don't quite get how it's really done.

For starters, their milk is a disaster. A lot of French people think it's incredibly odd that we put milk in our tea, some would even say it was disgusting. However to a certain extent I do not blame them. The milk here really isn't that great, and there is a definite difference in taste. Even if you do buy the more expensive 'fresh' stuff it still tastes like UHT. When my tea addict mother and  friends visited me, bringing along a stock of PG Tips or Tetley's they were shocked to find how different a cup of tea tastes over here.  This all may sound a bit lacto-obsessive, but any one that has known 'holiday milk' whilst staying in an apartment abroad will understand these qualms.

Head to a café and it just gets worse.  Tea does appear on some café menus but not all, and it is usually served in a weird manner. Order an Earl Grey and you will be presented with a cup of warm water, often with the teabag still in its package on the saucer, and no milk in sight. It seems that France attempts to offer tea in their own 'classy' continental fashion, but in fact what you end up with is a weak, luke warm substitute, literally. If you order tea in a French restaurant, the waiter usually brings over a very nice wooden box offering  a large range  of teas and infusions for your post-dinner beverage.  Personally, I'm not all that interested in choosing from a stock of 20 different teas, with flavours ranging from liquorice  to cinnamon I just want a normal cup of tea!!

Most towns boast fancy little boutiques selling dozens of varieties of loose fragrant tea leaves, beautiful tea sets and trays, but no standard tea bags. It's all very nice to look at, but it really does not correspond with what I expect from a cup of tea. No frills, no tea strainers, just a plain old builder's brew suits me down to the ground...I'm not really that interested in all this 'Ceylan' melarky.  

Despite my complaints about the serious lack of a decent cuppa,  I do actually find this to be a positive aspect of living away from home. In this multi-cultural world, where food, drink, and language are forever crossing borders and infiltrating neighbouring countries, Britain still boasts the best cuppa. France may attempt to infuse tea drinking into their own culture, but the best and most classic tea party will always be held on our side of the channel. Rant over, kettle on.

Le vin est bon à Beaune

Maxime...the epitome of French stereotype

When you think of France, what springs to mind? The Eiffel Tour? Cheese? Moustached men in stripey tops? True, but I’m thinking more of the bottled French stereotype. Wine. 

I recently realised that I have been living for far too long in the country of le bon vin to not have done some serious wine tasting. When some Valenciennes friends suggested that we drove down to the Bourgogne wine region (Burgundy in English) for the weekend I of course had to seize the opportunity. 

After a good 4 hour journey we had our lunchtime pit-stop in Dijon, capital of the Bourgogne region. Dijon certainly offers more to tourists than a decent pot of mustard, and it boasts some pretty unique architecture.

The brightly patterned roofs on many of the old buildings are typical to the Bourgogne region, and the lucky stone owls which can be found on the exterior walls of the Église Notre Dame, are worn down from many years of locals and tourists rubbing them for good luck. 

Taking in Dijon at our own pace, we meandered around the streets, picking up cheese, mustard and ham (6 euro for 4 slices from the market….!) for our picnic. I definitely went a bit over board with the mustard however, resulting in teary eyes, but a very tasty sandwich.

We took the scenic route for the final leg of our journey, passing along the ‘Route des Grands Crus’, (Road of the Great Vineyards). Every village along the way was focused around wine: growing, tasting, and selling. Before even reaching our gîte we decided to stop at Nuits-Saint-Georges for our first  dégustation de vin (wine tasting session).  

Dégustation #1:

Unfortunately, this was not too inspiring. The woman who led the tasting was clearly still in training and couldn’t really answer any of our questions. Although this was not her fault, Hannah reckoned that the boss took one look at us, saw a group of young people who weren’t likely to be buying cases of their good stuff and palmed us off with the trainee. It’s a shame, but I think Hannah hit the nail on the head there. Being young is not always an advantage!

We didn’t stick around long, but we did buy two bottles of wine on the way out (…when in Rome…) and we arrived at our gîte early evening in the town of Beaune. We received a warm welcome by the owner, Madame Ponard, who showed us around the spacious and well equipped gîte, which even had a stock of local wines for sale in the kitchen.

Dinner turned out to be incredibly late but incredibly tasty. Maxime had already been to Beaune so booked us a table at his favourite restaurant, and it was clear to see why he was so keen to return. The staff were lovely (even changing the wine when the taste wasn’t what we were expecting!) and the food, once it got there, was of excellent quality and beautifully presented. However, it was obvious that the kitchen was having some issues that night, and after nearly 2 hours of waiting for our food, the waiters apologised, and gave us plates of snails and other snacks to keep us happy until the culinary storm had passed.

Coline and I had by chance chosen snails for our main too. They were delicious and very different to the standard snails in garlic butter we’d tasted before. They were served in three pots in different sauces; chorizo, cheese, and gingerbread, which was surprisingly my favourite. Afterwards we had a midnight walk around the town centre, which despite the pouring rain was a very pleasant end to our first evening in Beaune.

Sunday Supermarket Sweep

Although we are all accustomed to the fact that most supermarkets are not open on a Sunday here, we were led to believe that one of the three big supermarkets in Beaune would be. This was not the case, and we found ourselves at midday frantically driving around desperately trying to find something open to buy food for lunch and dinner. Luckily we managed to find one little corner shop open, with 10 minutes left until it shut…cue Sunday Supermarket Sweep. This is still one of the most annoying things about the French commercial culture, if you have no food in your fridge come Sunday morning, you’re going to be hungry, or you’re going to have to spend a lot more than you budgeted for in a restaurant.

Maxime had been saying from the beginning of the trip that we should definitely visit the old hospice in the centre of town. I was initially a bit confused as to why, thinking it may be a bit inappropriate to visit ill people as a tourist activity. I needn’t have worried, as he explained that it was now a museum, and the hospice was previously run by nuns and funded by the auctioning of the wine they grew in the local vineyards. It was really culturally interesting, and was another old, beautiful building with a multi-coloured patterned roof.

After getting soaked during our picnic lunch we went up for a walk through another pretty village called Santenay. With its cute little winding streets and bright flowers spilling over the garden walls  we didn’t see one ugly house.  We found a great place for our second wine tasting despite it being a Sunday. Wine and tourism trumps standard supermarket needs it seems…

Dégustation #2

 This was way better than our first.  The man who looked after us was very willing to answer our numerous questions, despite most of the group being wine-tasting novices. I was keen to try a sparkling white wine, but didn’t want him to open up a bottle just for us as we were his last tasting session of the day. He didn’t mind at all, and he got straight to work with the bottle opener; he just seemed pleased to have an excuse to drink the rest of it with his friends that evening. If the wine seller is enjoying his own wine, that’s got to be a good sign, so to the cash desk we went!

The wine tasting sensation was not only just beginning…

Dégustation #3

Monsieur and Madame Ponard, the gîte owners had their own wine cellar, (of course, what self-respecting Burgundy home owner wouldn’t!?)  and they had invited us to take part in a dégustation on our final evening. We were led inside by Monseiur Ponard, followed by his neighbours and his dog Benny. Madame Ponard brought along the apéro snacks, and we all stood around an upturned barrel testing all the wines we could have possibly imagined. He had hundreds of bottles, dating from 2010 right back to 1989. The later it got, the merrier we were felt, and talk turned to the Ponards’ life and ended with us singing old drinking songs with them. 

It was a lovely evening, and the next morning I found 2 bottle of wine in my bag which I had been given for free. You’ve got to love the hospitality of the French.

By the time we’d staggered back across the yard to our gîte we were definitely feeling more than a little tipsy (see photo above...). We cracked open the rest of the wine we’d acquired over the weekend, and as is standard with us, commenced the mental dancing.  At 1am we still hadn’t eaten dinner, so I thought it would be an appropriate time to start cooking the roast we had originally planned.  At 2am, despite a few burns and nearly adding milk to the roast vegetables, dinner was served. We woke up the next morning to a very messy kitchen and very fuzzy heads.

The continuous flow of great banter and excellent local wine, stunning architecture and beautiful stretches of vineyards meant that we got the best out of the Bourgogne region despite the near constant rain. I would recommend this region anyone who likes a glass of good wine, and has a taste for the French countryside and culture.

Expect to leave with a car full of wine and a hangover!

Budapest – The City of Cheap Culture and Class

I recently made a spontaneous decision to go to Budapest, Hungary, with some friends who invited me to join them on their trip. It was not my idea to go, and would never have been my first choice of the next city I wanted to visit, but I knew it would be stupid to pass up on a travel opportunity... and I am SO glad I didin't.

I had never considered Budapest as a tourist hotspot…and my opinion on this did not change after my amazing visit there. Budapest has managed to preserve its charm, resisting the economic pressure (it is certainly not the richest capital in Europe) of becoming a tourist-trap, without behaving in a hostile manner towards foreigners.

If I were to describe Budapest in one word, it would be unique. As much of a cliche as this sounds, it is honestly the most succinct and effective way to describe the city. I could write a book about how diverse and exciting Budapest is…but I’m going to stick to detailing my most pleasant and intriguing surprises to keep it blog-style friendly.

The locals: Helping you to find your way before you even realise you are lost

Even before our plane touched down, my friend Alex and I became acquainted with our first incredibly friendly Hungarian on our flight.  The girl sitting next to us, needing no introduction or an opening plea for help, asked us outright:

 “Excuse me, but what are you wanting to do in Budapest? You want to drink in pubs? You want to visit?”

Despite the fact that she was alone, and we, the noisy excitable foreigners, outnumbered her 2:1, she made the first move to strike up a conversation. We were taken aback by the confidence and kindness that this Hungarian exuded, and I straightway gave her my notebook to write down the great finds and local knowledge that she was coming out with. She was away, jotting everything and anything down she could think of to help us, from the best bars, to where the hot springs were, and even numbers for the reputable taxi companies. We couldn't have asked from anything more at that point in time even if we had asked her ourselves.

Hungary’s morbid past which never really died

It wasn’t just her confident friendly nature that appealed to us, but also her evident deep respect for Hungary’s tragic history.  She began to explain about the Communist regime during the 1950s and her tone and choice of words made it clear that such a disturbing history was still palpable among the younger Hungarian population. This particular kind of respect for your own country's past is not something I have seen an equivalent of in the younger generations of other European cultures.

This living legacy remained evident during our first day exploring the city. Our tour guide dedicated a significant period of time to summarising Hungary’s history…most of which was completely new information to me (although I do admit my knowledge of history is equivalent to that of a 13-year-old). It was incredibly interesting, and it certainly motivated us to visit the ‘House of Terror’ – a memorial museum dedicated to the communist atrocities that occurred in Hungary during the 50s. It is definitely worth a visit, and the exhibition succeeds in giving a well-rounded, informative view of this period in Hungary’s history, all the while remaining sensitive to the lives lost. There are videos, sound bites, reconstructions of offices and even a trip down to the prisoner cells themselves. Be warned: this experience is both humbling and disturbing. You will not come out feeling on top of the world, but you will certainly appreciate how lucky we are to enjoy the freedom today we have today.

Linguistically Lost (and loving it)

There were 5 of us in our group, and between us we speak fluent English, (close to) fluent French, a smattering of Spanish, some shaky German, and a few key phrases of Italian. However, NONE of our linguistic capabilities could be applied to the mysterious Hungarian language which turns names and dates backwards and has no linguistic roots we could attempt to relate to.

The most destabilising experience we felt during our stay had to be our trip to the Post Office to buy stamps. None of the workers there could speak any English, and the fact that we spoke no Hungarian didn't seem to phase them; they continued to politely explain whatever they wanted us to understand about the postal system without batting an eyelid at our bemused expressions. We were totally lost. This experience truly highlighted how debilitating it is to have no linguistic crutch to lean on in a foreign country. Nevertheless, the excellent English the young Hungarians spoke helped towards bridging the language gap, and their willingness to assist the floundering foreigners definitely made us feel more at ease, to such an extent that  even such an imposing language barrier didn't prevent us from enjoying our stay.

High class on a low budget

The currency in Hungary is another point of confusion. Don’t be thinking you can get your spare Euros spent here, the Hungarian Forint is the national currency, with 300 Forint being equivalent to 1 Euro. This does take some getting used to, but, once you get your maths up to scratch, you realise that paying 4,000 Forint for last-minute box seats at the State Opera House is a steal. For around 12 euro, we were able to appreciate, or at least attempt to with our very limited high culture understanding, the stunning architecture, lighting and choreography of the Hungarian ballet.  Not even a year after being a scroungy skint student, we were sitting back and enjoy the magnificent ballet performance with enough money left over for a 3 course meal afterwards (again, only a mere 10 euro with wine...). Accompanied by its beautiful musical score, it didn’t really matter to us that we did not understand a good 60% of what was going on, not having read  Gone With The Wind before we went. I always presumed a trip to the ballet in a European Opera House was a luxury reserved for those with a much larger salary and a much classier lifestyle than my own, but in Budapest, you do not have to be rich to make the most of the rich culture.

Forget the Euro…go get your Forint!

I would recommend Budapest to anyone…whether you’re seeking history, eclectic nightlife, high class culture, relaxation or just somewhere new to discover. Budapest has it all and does not boast about it. Don’t be put off by its mysterious language and ridiculous currency…it’s all part of the adventure. If you take the right attitude, the confusing aspects of this country are ironically what facilitate chatting to Hungarians and overall enhance your appreciation of the cultural highlights in this captivating city.

Dunkerque Carnival –Cross-Dressing and Civilized Carnage

Before this weekend, I could only associate Dunkerque with beaches and WWII. Hearing that it was the site of a famous carnival, known throughout this region of northern France to be a site of beer drinking, fancy costumes and general merriment came as a bit of a surprise to me. We were invited by Jean-Charles, one of our colleagues at the university, who comes from Dunkerque, to take part in one of the carnival’s main ‘Bal’s. These are the night time events which are run by charitable organisations (there is a method to the madness, you see) which take place in large venues in and around Dunkerque during the Carnival period. In the week leading up to our carnival experience, whenever any of us tried to find out what to expect, we were only met with vague responses of how ‘crazy’ it was, which didn’t really give us any concrete ideas of how the weekend was going to roll.  Yet now I’ve come to realise that you really do have to experience it to believe it, and it’s difficult to describe the crazy  yet over-riding friendly atmosphere that make the Carnival spirit.

Our evening kicked off at Jean-Charles’ sister’s house, Marie-Hélène, who has years of carnival experience. This was instantly evident upon entry to her family home; posters of carnivals gone by decorated the living room, the rules of the carnival had been posted on doors, and by 6pm the family had already begun to get their costumes on and their faces painted.  In true French hosting style, Marie-Hélène made sure we had everything we needed, and even drove us to the nearest fancy dress shop so we could pick up the all-important feather-boas to complete our costumes.

It being the tradition for men to cross-dress, the guys in our group dressed up as women, and us ladies dressed up as men. We helped each other do up bras, draw on moustaches and apply make-up, with hilarious results. Jeff with his heels and tights became a very sexy First Lady of America, whilst Sam’s very realistic looking breasts brought out the butch-lesbian in him. When it came down to Hannah and I, donning the male braces really gave us that masculine edge which the lads of the group had recently lost. Yet our costumes were incredibly tame compared to those of everyone else. The family and friends of Marie-Hélène all seemed to be dressed according to a specific theme, yet I can only attempt to categorize this theme as to include –specific-matching-blue-colour-with-face-extravagantly- painted-and- hat- adorned- with- flowers-and-feathers.  Even then, it’s difficult to create a picture of just how co-ordinated, yet original each carnival party-maker was. So here’s a picture to show you…

 The music which really got the fun started was a mixture of traditional carnival tunes and classic kitsch songs (‘In The Navy’ and ‘YMCA’ were of course cracked out), resulting in crazy congas and mental jigs. The two very cute and still very young children joined in, and the gorgeous family Lab was loving the excitement and continual drip feed of party food dropping on the floor. The family atmosphere and involvement really made the pre-party special, and not really like anything I’d experienced before.

At around 11pm, it was time to hit the main event…Le Bal. After a serious pep talk about sticking together and arranging our meet up points, we headed along the sea front accompanied by the bitter sea breeze. We got more of an idea of what to expect when Jean-Charles handed over our tickets.  The primary regulation stated that ‘the management reserves the right to refuse entry to anyone not in costume’, and only secondary to this rule was the stipulation that ‘anyone carrying dangerous items would be ejected from the event’. With our priorities in order, expecting madness from the beginning, we headed in.

Once inside the main arena space, it took all of five minutes to lose Harmonie, but luckily the rest of us did manage to stay together for the majority of the night. The atmosphere was buzzing, and of course there was pushing and squeezing through crowds of people…but there was no shoving or angry cries of protest. It was an accepted part of the carnival, and was more an opportunity to ask your name and where you were from before swiftly moving on your way. It was so friendly, and not too friendly as to verge on creepy. There were no girls crying, no guys starting fights, and no couples getting a bit too friendly in public. Put thousands of people in a venue in England, add alcohol and costumes, and I don’t think the result would be the same.

The music was provided by a live band on stage, playing tunes ranging from ‘It’s Raining Men’, to ‘Scream and Shout’, and even ‘Gangham Style’. In one room, every so often a traditional carnival anthem would start up, and all those willing would link arms and march around the room, occasionally marching backwards, before ending in a massive crush, jumping up and down. SO much fun! At one point we made friends with a guy who had brought along his marching-band drum (why not!?), who came and played to us. He then seemed pretty content to enjoy his fag and sip of my beer whilst letting us have a go ourselves.  

After hours of dancing, marching, and drinking, 4am arrived and we were exhausted. So we headed back to the meeting point, and after sending out search parties, we soon tracked down Harmonie, who was having a great night by herself and was disappointed that we wanted to leave an hour before the end (!) After a FREEZING walk home back along the beach, we arrived back at Jean-Charles’ home, where we sat down to a much needed bowl of home-made onion soup. This may sound pathetic compared to a greasy kebab after a messy night, but it was actually PERFECT. Jean-Charles explained that this is actually another of the carnival traditions, and back in the day there would be cafés open all night selling bowls of the stuff to revive tired carnival goers. By 6:30am we were ready to collapse…bed time.

 The next day we walked through the town centre, where after only a couple of hours sleep, the carnival goers were back in costume and back on form. Unfortunately we were too late to see the Mayor throwing out herrings to the public from the Town Hall, although we did see some of the fish lying around (these days nicely vacuum packed) and certainly smelt the fishy stench in the air. Carnival also sees the French ‘bises’ step up a gear… Complete strangers were pulling each other in for a cheeky peck on the lips… even Ollie and I got grabbed in by one very keen festival goer. Bit of a shock, but hey, when in Rome!

As vibrant as the town centre was, it was freezing and we were shattered, so it wasn’t long before we headed back for a bowl of chocolat chaud and some Nutella tartines. It was then time to before hit the road back to Valenciennes. With classic tunes from the Beatles and Dire Straites providing the soundtrack, we enjoyed a perfect, chilled out ending to a mental weekend. Vive la carneval! 

To Bise of Not to Bise...That is the Question

The French love to kiss, and don't we all, but in la belle France, you are never far from witnessing the nation's mouth to mouth appreciation. No matter where, and no matter how over the top, the French love their P.D.A, whether it is teenagers in  school corridors, partners in the park, or a couple getting it on over dinner in restaurants. Even texting, the French are just so much more blaringly obvious with their affection. The British and American 'xx' used to finish off a text, be it your sister, friend, or partner, just does not translate on the continent. If you're close enough to someone, or feeling particularly friendly, the word 'bises' or 'bisous' rounds off the text, the equivalent to someone writing out the full word 'kiss' or 'kisses'. I honestly can't imagine that catching on in Britain. First of all, it would be far too much effort to type those extra characters, but more importantly, the actual words would seem so glaringly up front as opposed to the 

more symbolic 'xx'.

Yet in social gatherings, it is the two little kisses, the French 'bises', which characterizes the French kissing culture the most. This is the air kiss on both cheeks, widely accepted as the norm, and  a custom which I simultaneously love and hate about greetings across the Channel. The 'bises' occur between friends, family, acquaintances , and even those you are meeting for the first time. Planting your face next to a strangers twice within seconds of being introduced leaves no room (literally) for awkwardness, and this is something I love. Rather than wondering whether to shake hands or just smile and nod, giving the 'bises' breaks the ice and everyone knows where they stand.

Yet this seemingly innocent and friendly greeting method does pose some interesting judgement calls amongst us ex-pats. One of the biggest issues is which way to 'bise' first. Similar to the dance people do when about to bump into each other on the street, if both 'bisers' choose to head the same way they either dither or crash. Yet the 'bises' crash involves the cringe worthy possibility of getting some cheeky lip to lip action you hadn't bargained for, rather than just a casual smack in the arm by an ungainly passerby. 

To make things more awkward, when the other person knows they are meeting an English person for the first time, they are aware that we don't go in for the kisses. Consequently, they are sometimes hesitant to lean in, despite the fact that we have grown accustomed to getting our 'bise' on.  So, do we make the first move and get our cheeks acquainted? Or do we just leave it and play out our awkward British stereotype, smiling and nodding?

To complicate matters further,now that my Angolophone friends and I have become used to 'bising' our French friends and acquaintances, we've started to do it between ourselves, even when there is not a Frenchie in sight. Is this weird? Probably. What makes it weirder is getting back into the French swing of things after the Christmas holidays in England. We are now at the once again awkward stage of 'To bise or not to bise,' even between British friends.

Although I am sure that after a couple of weeks of lips crashing and awkward bise/hugs, we will be back to fully  embracing the 'bise' action once more. 

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.