C'est froid.

For those of you who have at least a GCSE in French, you will know that this title does not refer to the weather. On the other hand, il fait froid aussi.  This week, my Monday morning was enhanced by the "snow shuffle" walk to work without slipping over, whilst unsuccessfully wrestling with my tiny umbrella.  On the bright side, at least it means I can wear my recently purchased black duvet coat that all European women are seen to sport in the winter months.  Hopefully these exotic temperatures won't last long.

The froid of this post's title is the other type of cold. Although I am still enjoying my Year Abroad itself, over 2 months into this placement I am still finding the cultural differences here a lot harder than I did in Spain, and I am still looking back on my time in Salamanca with fondness, realising just how lucky I was.

The first major difference is my accommodation.  The school where I work suggested I live in a student residence, and facilitated all the paperwork, making my move relatively painless.  I knew beforehand that it wouldn't exactly be the same experience of arriving in a Durham college, but I had hopes to meet some people nonetheless.  However, this has not been the case.  All the rooms are self contained, with their own kitchen and bathroom, and the lack of common areas in the building mean that socialising is impossible.  For the first week, I adamantly left my door open, calling out a cheerful 'Bonjour' to any potential friend, but all I did was startle the occasional mature student and I got a cold room.

Secondly, I have noticed the huge lack of clubs and associations.  Amiens is a student city, home to a large university and several higher education establishments, but its student lifestyle leaves a lot to be desired.  From midnight on weekdays, the quaint quartier of St. Leu is buzzing, and the popular bars are overflowing - but working full time 9 - 5 means this isn't a regular option for me, so I have been forced to find other alternatives.  After enquiring into various sports at my school, and discovering a significant lack of interest, I was invited by one of the students to a association called Hosmose.  This is a society set up and run by students of the school to go into a local children's hospital every week and bring some joy into the lives of some very ill, but very charming and lovely children.  When I went along in January, we celebrated Epiphany, I had my first taste of galette des rois, and we made some very fetching, glittery crowns.   On this particular day, there were less children than usual (so I was told) and, surrounded by some boisterous children in wheelchairs I felt pretty much in the way, and I struggled to understand what was going on most of the time.  It was a lovely experience, and also a good way to get to know some of the students from the school, but unfortunately due to my weekly French class being at the same time, I have been unable to go back.  Still determined, I kept looking, and found the website for the university choir.  It isn't quite at the same level as choirs I have been a part of in the past, but I really enjoy going every week and I have made some lovely friends. I would like to get to know them better but it seems that the majority of students in Amiens spend the week actually studying, something which brings me to my next obstacle.

The students stay in their rooms and study so they can free up their weekends to go home to their families.  A pattern that is almost unheard of in the UK, the university students here (if they do not already live at home with their parents) head to the train station religiously every week, trailing their weekend bags full of laundry, and make their way home for a couple of days of 'doing nothing,' leaving Amiens almost like a ghost town.  This has been incredibly disappointing, and I wish I had known this little, yet important fact before coming here.  However, all is not lost - I live very close to Paris, and thanks to the generosity of some beautiful friends, I am lucky enough to spend weekends there when I want.

I realise this has seemed like a pretty negative blog, but just to reassure any of you who may be worried about me (Hi, Nanna!), I am still enjoying myself!  I am gaining some very valuable experience in many ways, and although it is hard, I am making the effort and everyday I meet people and learn something new.  And even if I don't, I know there is a bed, British TV, chocolate and wine and my best friend waiting for me in the outskirts of Paris - every cloud!

Filer à l'anglaise

When taken literally, this phrase translates as "run or make off, English style", but when employed in everyday conversation, the expression is a French way of saying "to sneak away" or "to do a runner". 

In the light of recent EU tensions, namely David Cameron's speech the day after the anniversary of the Franco-German 'Elysée Treaty', I was amused to find this expression had been chosen as a link to the top story on the French version of the Huffington Post. Already familiar with this idiom (Thanks, French Language 2 module, those vocab lists were useful after all), I was able to see the initial reaction of our Gallic neighbours.
The strong euroscepticism radiating from across the Channel has been no secret to the French, but the announcement of an "in/out referendum" should Cameron be reelected has shocked them. I, like many others, don't believe the UK is at all better off if we leave Europe, but I don't think it will come to that. It makes sense for us to be a part of the EU, and although France is no stranger to problems adjusting to the single market (in the 1960s, Charles de Gaulle was a strong critic and favoured national protection), the single currency was adopted and is now a strong influence within the union. 

I have not been here very long, but having spent a while in Spain as well, it is very interesting to learn about the EU "from the other side". I say this because, for example, when a British person, or even the British media, refers to Europe, they are talking about 'the other', it is an 'us-and-them' situation. On the contrary, when a German, Spanish or French person mentions Europe, they are also implying their own country. It may just be a slight difference in the use of language, but I believe this speaks volumes, and reveals a lot about how isolated us Brits are, not just geographically, but in our collective way of thinking.   Now that I am "in Europe", I can appreciate the frustration and confusion with which the EU speech was received. There is a strong notion of "we are all in this together", and to the other countries of the Union, leaving is simply not an option. The French Foreign Affairs minister, Laurent Fabius, put it "so the British could understand" : On ne peut pas faire l'Europe à la carte...Admettons que ce soit un club de football : on adhère à ce club, mais une fois qu'on est dedans, on ne peut pas dire : 'on joue au rugby.' (Europe isn't done 'à la carte', imagine that it's like a football club : you join the club, but once you're in, you can't say "Now let's play rugby".) I agree with the Guardian that this comment was mischievous, but it is a simple and easy way of putting it.

I am no politics student, but it seems to me that Cameron is using this promise of a referendum to appeal to UKIP voters, especially now they have become the 3rd most popular party (Over 2m views of this obviously wasn't enough then, sorry Nick.), and eurosceptics within his own party. It seems to have worked, but when/if the time comes I hope that enough information is made available to my fellow citizens so that they are able to make an informed decision. 

Britain would be much worse off out of the common market, and we can't afford to make enemies of our closest neighbours. If anything, on a selfish note; as an Erasmus student, what would happen to this program? My Year Abroad is looking to be one of the most exciting and character shaping years of my life, and even with the ease of movement between countries and my grant significantly facilitating life here, it has still been a challenge. (Have you ever tried to find and pay for accommodation in France?!) This experience is showing me the beauty of Europe; made up of different cultures, traditions and ideologies but tied together by a long history and shared goals. Britain should be proud of its involvement, and not seek a way to live up to the French expression and sneak away.

Culture shock: Carrefour

Starting all over again in a new country has been a daunting prospect for a while, but having passed my first week without any major problems, I can already feel myself settling in.  However, I have had my moments.  For example, when I discovered that my nearest supermarket is a big Carrefour, I felt some comfort on seeing its familiar colour scheme, as memories of food shopping in Salamanca came flooding back, and I let my "cultural awareness" guard down, thinking of myself as some sort of a European Carrefour expert.  How wrong I was.

The first thing that hit me as soon as I walked in to the store was the price of everything.  The cheapest apples were double the price of the ones in Salamanca!! My heart began to pound.  Maybe I'm remembering incorrectly, I told myself.  Or perhaps the French have some sort of "Apple Tax"?  I tried to stay calm.  However, as I made my way up and down the aisles, it gradually began to sink in that my renumeration won't go as far as I had previously thought, as almost every product is significantly more expensive than its identical counterpart with a Spanish post code.  I immediately wrote my 348372nd email to the Durham International Office - I'm going to need that Erasmus grant ASAP.

Having gotten over my initial shock, and comparing prices against a few other local alternatives, I decided to return the following day.  I had been so unsettled on my first visit that I didn't really buy anything useful for a meal. (Tin of olives, butter and pasta, anyone?)  I tried to be as stingey as I could, whilst trying to avoid going down the "How many types of cheese, and how much of it does one country need" aisle. (In case you were wondering, yes, some camembert may have made its way into my basket....) The store was packed, I was tired, and I couldn't really find where anything was.  By the time I came to pay, all of the queues were long, and I didn't think I'd have the energy to try and understand somebody speaking French to me, or hold back the tears as I handed over my money, so I decided to go to the self service machine, after all, it had served me so well in Spain.

MISTAKE.

Fighting my way through the crowds, I began scanning my shopping. About halfway through, I realised I would need more than one bag - I would have to go back and get another one.  I turned my head to try to work out how I could discreetly make my way back through the queue. It was at this exact moment I saw the "Maximum 10 items" sign dangling above my head.  There was no going back now.  My face got suddenly very hot as I could sense the many gazes of judgement increasing.  I turned back round and scanned as fast as I could, stuffing my well over ten items into my one bag, trying to conceal my shame.  My shopping came to more than I was expecting, and the machine refused to accept my 50€ note.  I tried to sound as nonchalant as I could when I ended up having to a) speak French to the very unimpressed employee and b) still handing over my money to a person rather than a machine which is unable to read emotions. Notes exchanged, I scooped my bulging shopper bag into my arms (the last thing I needed was it bursting everywhere) and struggled home, shaking with fear and confusion at the person I have become.

A few days passed and I was forced to make the trip again.  More confident with my language skills, as well as knowledge of the store, I was able to whip round quickly.  The shorter queue of the self service section was tempting, but I had learned my lesson - I did actually have fewer than ten items, but I wasn't going to risk anymore traumatic experiences.  Choosing a nearby queue, I had loaded my items onto the conveyer belt and all was going smoothly until the man in front of me was not permitted to pay in cash.  Confused, I listened to the cashier's explanations and followed her indication to a sign next to her till.  Life seemed to go in slow motion as I turned to look at the horrifying words "Payment with Card only, no cash." As I am yet to receive my carte bleue to signify my successfully opened bank account, I was in yet another awkward situation.  Wishing for the ground to swallow me up, I quickly dived backwards, grabbed a basket and proceeded to remove my items from the conveyor belt, mumbling to Unimpressed Employee #2 that I only have cash, very sorry, didn't realise, very sorry, I am English, very sorry. Pushing my way back through the queue, avoiding more stares, I was forced to do a quick recount (seven items) and return to the self service machines with my tail between my legs...

I have now developed a strange fear of the place, and although I have since been back without any problems, I have definitely learned that I must not become too complacent.  France is not Spain, and it's going to be a while before I become knowledgeable on all things French.
On the other hand, I am very pleased to have escaped the world of tomate frito to return to the joy of pasta sauces...

Starting again

I know it's been a while, but here I am again, writing from my new location of Amiens, France.  More specifically, a rather quiet hall of residence with the dulcet tones of a male neighbour singing in the shower floating down the corridor. I am currently attempting to meet people by leaving my door open, but term hasn't started yet so there's hardly anyone here.  At least le chanteur isn't too bad.

I've only been here a few days, but I am already looking back fondly on my time in Salamanca.  When I first arrived there back in July, I remember worrying about not making friends, or having anybody to go for coffee or celebrate my birthday with.  Six very short months flew by, and by December I found myself making teary farewells, exchanging contact information and making promises to visit various parts of Europe.  Although definitely not fully fluent in Spanish (whatever that means) I knew enough to say what I wanted to say, when I wanted to say it, and by the end I could understand the majority of what my colleagues were talking about over lunch. Mission accomplished.

Fast forward two wonderful (yet very short) weeks at home and I have become a nervous wreck whilst trying to explain to the Carrefour lady that the self service machine won't accept my money.  I don't think I have ever been this bad at French. There, I said it.  This time last year I was happily chatting away in an oral class about Facebook privacy settings or something equally as pointless, and now I can barely understand the over-friendly porter asking me how my time in Spain was.  My current level is equivalent to "je voudrais une baguette s'il vous plait" during a Year 8 French lesson.  Whilst I am horrified by this, I have told myself not to panic just yet, I've still got time, and I have been working out how to access French TV via the internet. Apparently they are still annoyed about Depardieu. All is not lost.

Amiens is not as pretty as Salamanca, and so far can only be described as grey, but looking on the bright side, I am a lot closer to home, and only an hour or so away from Paris, a journey which I am most definitely going to be taking advantage of.  Moving home from Spain and then away again almost straight away has been tiring - emotionally and physically - but I am positive it will be worth it, and before I know it I will become just another "Being in France was SO amazing" post-Year Abroad student. Watch this space.

They say home is where the heart is...

...But what if your heart is in different places?

Having just returned from my first trip back to the UK after 140 days in Spain, I have found myself faced with an internal conflict.  I had a wonderful, jam packed week, full of my favourite people in the world, but even though I enjoyed myself immensely, I wasn't sad to leave, and actually found myself saying "I'm going home" as I was returning to Spain.  This surprised me, and as I flopped on my bed, relieved after my long journey back to Salamanca, I started thinking about what home means to me.  After much deliberation, I have decided that it is ok to call more than one place, home.  This is a strange idea to me, and I almost feel guilty somehow, but I have several branches of my life which make me happy, and I should be celebrating this fact.

1. Oxford

I haven't written about him much, it hasn't really felt appropriate, but after more than four years of leaving a piece of my heart there on a regular basis, Paul makes Oxford one of my homes.  The city now feels so familiar and is so full of wonderful memories that it has become very important to me.  It is looking very likely that I will be spending a lot more time there in the near future, and this is a comforting thought.  I shouldn't feel guilty about wanting to live in a beautiful city with the boy I love, and I like the path that the next part of my life is taking.

2. Durham

As I walked up the Bailey the other day, doing the usual, frustrating "why-are-tourists-so-slow" dance among the crowds, I found myself smiling - it felt like I had never been away, and I was very glad to be back.  The town aside, I was obviously more pleased to see my friends.  I knew I had been missing being back in Durham with them, but it wasn't until the X1 pulled into the station that I realised just how much.  They gave up their beds, their rooms, their toiletries, lots of their money, as well as time that they would usually spend doing work just to spend time with me on my whirlwind weekend.  The last two years with them have been amazing, and it took this week to realise just how lucky I am to love my uni city, and have so many beautiful friends. Thank you all :)

3. Salamanca

My most recent home, my love for this city has grown exponentially throughout my stay.  I fell asleep on the bus home from the airport, and woke up to see the illuminated cathedral in front of me, getting closer as the bus made its approach.  It would be very naive of me to think I know the city inside out; I discover new things (read: bars and cafés) everyday, but there is something very special about leaving my city centre flat and walking through the magnificent Plaza Mayor every morning, nonchalantly photo-bombing keen American tourists. I have met some people who I hope will be life long friends, and I have been lucky with my housemates, who have helped to make the flat feel like home.  I am already dreading leaving in a few weeks, and as I have said in a previous post, I am certain I will return.

4. Home

Saving the best till last, Nunthorpe will always be home.  I loved being back at my house, not having to worry about anything at all - I didn't have to wear a hat, scarf and three pairs of socks to bed, nor struggle home with bags of groceries before preparing an omelette for one.  On the contrary, I spent two lovely evenings watching primetime TV, eating yummy food and putting the world to rights with my parents.  I realise its been hard for them to see me gradually fly the nest, but at least they can take comfort in the fact that where they are will always be my home, and that they have taught me well enough how to be a reasonable human being, so I can take perfectly good care of myself when I'm "off gallivanting".

I am at a confusing time of my life, perhaps, but I can take advantage of this in my ability to "go home" to more than one place.

Salamanca: Home from home

As I approach the end of my fourth month in Salamanca, I feel I can say it really feels like home.
Disclaimer: All those with strong aversions to clichés, stop reading now.
Looking back at May and June, and thinking of how nervous and worried I was - it feels like years ago.      After a second year of worry and seemingly endless meetings of "How not to die on your Year Abroad", it still took quite a while to sink in that I was finally here.  No matter how many teachers, friends and fourth year returners told me "It will be the best year of your life",  I (like many of my pre-YA peers, I imagine) felt almost certain this would not be so in my case, but I was determined to give it a go all the same.  And now, 4 months down the line, I feel I have started to understand what they were all talking about.  I will admit I have been extremely lucky so far: bar a few dull housemates over the summer, my flat situation is perfect.  While not ideal for weekend lie-ins, living with a family has been perfect for my Spanish.  The children are certainly not afraid to point out my mistakes, and as I have no "au-pair like" responsibilities,  I have the luxury of being able to choose (more or less) when I want to play Monster High with them.  Furthermore, the family have 4 spare rooms, which they rent out to students.  Here I have struck gold again; in September, two Spanish girls arrived (Victoria, from Asturias, and Fátima from Lanzarote) and as well as helping me learn to speak, I don't think I could have chosen nicer housemates, and we get along really well.  I am already well on the way to converting them into Brits, after I bought a teapot and have been generous with my imports of Tetley.  In fact, to celebrate the arrival of my Bisto (thanks Mum!) today we are going to make a Sunday dinner.  On my birthday, when I returned home after work, Vicky, Fátima and Angela (our other flatmate from the US) met me at the door with a birthday cheesecake - and I hadn't even told them about my love for desserts! It must be fate...

Here I am with Fátima and Vicky on my birthday

My job also has its advantages - as well as receiving a renumeration from the company, I am gaining valuable work experience everyday.  My colleagues are friendly, and although interns come and go every few months, they still made the effort to welcome me, and are happy to help when I ask a question.  With the arrival of my Erasmus friends from Durham last month, I was starting to wish I didn't have a 9-5 job, as I always have to leave gatherings early in order to not show my sleep-deprived face to my colleagues the next morning.  But, on the positive side, I have been able to experience life as part of a Sales team, and I have learnt to value my evenings and weekends, instead of continuing with the typical student lifestyle and its bizarre, nocturnal timetable.  

This month has been the hardest so far; the thought of spending my 21st birthday away from home and knowing that all my friends have gone back to Durham, Paul and I spending our longest time apart to date, as well as the departure of Caterina (my best friend since our first day here), I would be lying if I said I hadn't had any blue moments.  However, luckily my parents were able to visit me for my birthday and it was great to be able to show them what I have been up to for the last few months.  Although I still don't know everything there is to know about the city, as I carry out my daily routine and fight off tourists as I walk the familiar route to and from work, or go for coffee with my new friends, Salamanca now feels like home.  I am already wishing I could stay all year, and I am certain that when I leave in December, it won't be for the last time. 

¿Do you have it in 'L'?

After arriving in Spain for my six month stay with only 20kg of belongings (see previous posts), as well as living in a strategically chosen flat in the centre of town, it would be hard for me to avoid the occasional spot of retail therapy.  One thing that I noticed almost straight away was the difference in sizing of items of clothing.  Forget our familiar standards of 8 to 18, here in Spain it is common to buy clothes in sizes S, M, L etc... Being a standard UK size 12 (10 if I breathe in) but often the largest of my girlfriends, I found being a size M/L unsurprising, but it got me thinking, what do bigger than average girls do?  This seems like a silly theme to write about, but it surprised me even further when I saw bras being sold in only these 3 sizes (S M L) and it even seemed alien to me.  I am yet to find an Ann Summers, La Senza or equivalent, but many clothes shops do have whole floors dedicated to cutesy, pretty lingerie.  Much to my dismay (but to the relief of my bank balance), the majority are too small for my reasonably sized assets.  I don't think I have ever seen a sign like the one above, (translation: we now stock more C Cup bras, ask us!), and there aren't bra fitting services in even the specialist lingerie stores.  I spoke about this with my beautiful housemate from Lanzarote, and for her this is normal, she even cringed at the thought of someone measuring your correct size at the back of Marks and Spencers.  When I asked what "non average" girls our age do, the answer was pretty much make do with what you can find.  I have been here three months, and although I have to say that Spanish people are (in general) more beautiful than us Brits, I have not noticed anything that suggests a great difference in body size.  Admittedly, I haven't looked up any boob-related statistics to support my musings, but using the commonly found scientific instrument, eyes, I can confirm that some teenagers and young ladies are bigger than I am.  In this foreign land, pretty Double Ds don't seem to exist, and it is not common to know your official bra size. I know for sure that a previous version of myself (younger and less confident) would be upset to be branded as "large" and I would be devastated to not even be able to find nice underwear in normal shops, and it makes me wonder if there are some Spanish girls out there who feel this way, or have simply accepted these strict categories.