Besides the Obvious

Things that I miss:

Curry (The French don't do spice)

Written on Tea (as above, all Asian food is pretty dismal in Tours). I also miss big groups at dinner.

The woodheater at home

Witchery/Country Road

Wine oh the irony. However, Brigitte and Holley don't drink and drinking alone has never been my style... Will have to rectify this with new found friends.

The dishwasher.


The vacuum cleaner.

Vegemite.

The ocean.

Preachers/Cargo

The sun.

On Seeing Faces

My mum has this theory about faces and the look of people. Thanks to genetics and races and the way the world works, there are certain groups of faces that look like each other. It is therefore highly likely that when on holiday you are going to convince yourself that you are seeing certain people that you know. The chance of a face being truly unique is highly unlikely.

This is an extended lead up to me saying that a lot of my students look like people I know. And it is really creepy. Seriously, they look like people I know, but five years younger. Or the same age, for my B.T.S classes. But even if I can’t pin it down, it is so easy to pick out these faces. There are certain students that I would swear I had gone to school with, but I can’t figure out who they look like. And it all leads me to think that people just generally look a little similar. It makes the world feel all a little smaller.

It can be awful, that moment when you look at someone and they remind you so much of someone else. Mostly though, here, it is a comfort. It is amusing to realise that it is not just their faces, but their personalities that match and that maybe it wasn’t their faces that I was responding to at all. It was what expressions were on them. Serious faces, cheeky smiles, shy blushes, cold stares.  Knowing that it is all the same here is kind of nice. It’s a warm thing, which makes home seem not so far away. I get along with my students because not so long ago I was exactly like them.

Because it’s true, everything is exactly the same. I wonder if our teachers noticed our love lives, picked up on what was happening to us, knew when we were having a bad day and wondered why an earth this girl was so quiet or that boy so damn loud. I wonder these things. I learn the names of my students by remembering their personalities, who they sit with, if they were mean to another kid, if they have a girlfriend, if I see them flirting with someone new every day. I notice. I’m not sure if it’s because I am closer to their age (although most of my students were born in 97, which seems baby-like to me), or if all teachers notice and file these things away.

It’s so easy to find the girl that I was in these classes or to find that person and this person and understand the groups. But I wonder, if I have changed so much since I was 15, who will these people become?

Bath, Oxford and Misadventures in Wales

This very belated post has been a killer. Not for any real reason. Lots of pretty photos though.

I did some incredible days of walking walking walking and exploring all over.

London

England, Illness, Old Friend.

This post is Bristol only, travels will be later. There are far too many photographs.

On biting off more than I can chew and finding it delicious.

Or; An ode to how I became this person.

I have a fabulous email sitting in my inbox from one of my oldest friends which says simply how brave she thinks I am.
When asked to describe myself, brave is not the word I would put first. Or second. Or thirty-seventh. I have a fond memory of a time when upon discovering me waiting in a restaurant because I didn't know whose name the reservation was under, a friend gave me a telling off for not simply asking at the desk. As a rule, I never spoke out at parties and the boys I had crushes on never knew. In fact, they were more likely to think that I didn't even want to be friends with them. Same goes for just wanting to be friends with people. Some people who I admire from afar, I keep at a distance. Intimidated. Not brave. Most of my treasured friendships have sprung from being the one who listened- and blossomed into friendships where I never shut up.

But this is not about the Niki who is quiet. Because moving to a country where you know no one is not quiet. Having to speak a whole new language (even when you speak it quietly), is not quiet. It is LOUD.

This is not something I would have ever done on my own. I mean, literally, I am on my own. But without all the people in my life. In the last few years, the people that I know have become these amazing examples of brilliance. People who will be activists, journalists, doctors and old friends (even if they are new now). I have always admired bravery. in its various forms. I have always said that I have had the easiest life and never had to be brave because nothing was tough. The same is not true for these people. In the face of losing things- boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, new friends, old friends, their health, their dreams- I have seen people fall in love (on purpose), strive for equality, strive for friendship, grow confident, grow older and younger at heart, grow kinder, grow wiser, show their beliefs, show their hearts, get amazing jobs, get amazing lives and start to ask for  MORE MORE MORE.

It makes me want to travel the world and appreciate that I can. It makes me want to get my dream job. It makes me want to gather up my friends and tell them that I admire them. Which I am not brave enough to do. So they can read about it in my blog instead.

I expect France to be hard. Living without my family is already a little difficult. But I expected to hate it. I expected to grow from it and learn, but I did not expect to love it. Or like it that much. I believed stereotypes that said that the French were mean , the teachers would not like me, the students would be rude and I would spend every day homesick. I expected France to get the better of me.
It is hard.
But I did not expect to love the challenge. I did not expect to be brave.

So every time I board a train and have those few moments where I am convinced I am going the wrong way-
I look forward to the adventure.

A Note on Exams and Frenchness.

Exams were more horrendous than usual, if I do say so myself. Imagine, if you will, three straight days of essays. Essays that open at midnight or one in the morning, give you the day, until closing again at 5am or 8am. Time periods that were carefully designed for people living in a different time zone to you.  Imagine supplementing these essays with one or two hours of classes with French students who are a million times more fun and interesting than essays.

But I am finished now, off to begin my year as a worldly traveller, the university of life, etc. I imagine I will just read books for fun and forget how to reference.

One of the damned essays, funnily enough, was about a French guy. French-born, American citizen, says he loves the United States for its adolescent culture. In America, it is "I do, therefore I am," in France, "I think, therefore I am". Have actually been thinking and talking about this guy so much more than one should with the subject of completed exams. To the students, other teachers, poor Tild. His name is Clotilde Rapelais (I think- give some credit to my ability to forget all I've learnt) and he is some sort of marketing god. There is this hilarious thing that he talks about, while discussing his work with a french cheese company who wanted to break the American market. In France, cheese is alive. It grows older, you buy it young or old, it matures. It breathes. He says like French people would not put their cats in the refrigerator, so too would they not put their cheese in there. Cheese is alive. In America, however, cheese is dead. Cheese must be sanitised, we would not leave dead things on our shelves, would we. It must be wrapped in plastic (a body bag) and placed in the fridge (the morgue). In America, safety comes before taste. In France, taste comes before everything.

Apparently, cheese related illnesses are far more prominent in France.

Australians are the same though, with our dead cheese. In France, my cheese is kept on the shelf, in Australia, in the fridge.

Over my final week of school- both uni and lycée (before vacation, anyway)- the last three nights had a combined total of 6 hours actual sleep. This culminated in the final hours of essay being handed in at 4am- before my train departure to Paris at 7am.
Not to be repeated-

Changing Places.

This last week has been amazing.

I feel at home with Brigitte. Her house is so perfectly homey, it's incredible. The entire place is like an ode to her and Holley. All over the house there are little quotes about believing in your dreams and chasing your love. There are fairy lights above the kitchen and letters on the wall from ex students who the both of them have taught. I'm living in the spare room and I have a little bookcase where I keep my food and my clothes and things are strewn all over the floor.

I will move into the datcha on the 10th of November. Claire leaves at the end of October, but as of this Friday, I will be off in Bristol! Visiting Tilda in her new abode. I managed to wrangle getting my last Friday off before the holiday and I leave nice and early that morning. Can't wait for the excitement, the post-university, the holiday, the England, the possible Wales, the TILD.

Have been grocery shopping a lot. It's hilarious, takes a lot longer than usual, especially because I am carrying my bag and it takes a little while to get to Simply Marche, the cheap supermarket. Trying to find some things that I count on at home, garlic in a jar, basil in a tube- non-existent. However, vegetables are cheaper. Goats cheese is delicious, buying baguettes from Festival du Pains around the corner is so amazingly French. One does not buy bread at the supermarket- if you buy sliced bread, it is called 'American loaf'. Something I am loath to be connected with.

Have met Brigitte's daughter, Charlotte and the girl who lives in the datcha, Claire. They are both lovely, speak excellent English and the house is a wonderful meld of French and English, they let me practise and I practise with them also. On Saturday, I helped Charlotte translate information about the Chateaux that she works at. It was crazy difficult, she had already translated it and sometimes it was close to perfect, but didn't sound quite right and involved turning the sentence around completely so that it said the same thing again, but sounded better. It's amazing how sometimes you can't explain how a sentence doesn't make sense.

Claire is wonderful, she comes and talks to me and sits through my flustered French- and the disaster that was Saturday night. A teacher from school invited me to dinner- Carole, I take two classes a week with her, and she is married to another teacher from school, he teaches maths. Dinner was at 7.30. I needed to leave at 10 to 6 in order to get there promptly.

Of course, at quarter to, I realise that I cannot locate my key.
The key I had gotten cut the day before. I had not left the house that day and vividly remembered unlocking the gate the afternoon before (whilst lugging my exceedingly heavy shopping bag). After tearing through my room, my bags- finishing getting ready, screaming and searching, then swearing when I realised that as Brigitte was out, I couldn't even get out of the gate. I was literally trapped in the house. Then it started to rain.

Saviour! Claire comes running into the house, dropping off the dog, absolutely soaked. I pounce! Start stumbling through loud panicky French about me losing the key. She agreed to leave the gate unlocked, lent me her key so I could get out and managed to almost keep a straight face in my panic. Running out into the rain, I throw up my umbrella, immediately getting stuck in the fence. (In related news, I bought an umbrella- it has a button to make it pop straight up!)

Powering along that street, literally talking to myself in French (I have to plan ahead, as thinking on the spot is not always safe). The rain is pouring down and I trod in puddle after puddle. Thanks to the humidity, thanks to the rain, thanks to the walking, I manage to re-curl my hair, soak my shoes and stockings. I was angry and power walking and then something great happened.

Tours has a foot and bike bridge. At night time, it is lit by blue lights. I stepped onto the bridge and BAM. I realised I was in France, walking across the Loire River over a bridge that is lit by beautiful blue fairy lights. Magic.

Dinner was great- I ended up only being 5 minutes late, which in French time, of course, is ten minutes early. Brigitte told me that any other Australians she has met make this mistake. We are annoyingly punctual. I spent dinner with Carole, her husband, another English teacher (she doesn't work at my lycee) and her husband. Mostly French. They talk so so fast sometimes, but it's great to try and follow. Times like this, when it almost clicks, where I can make myself understood are perfect. We ate galettes, a traditional Brittany dish, they're basically pancakes with fillings. Mine had eggs and cheese. I tried a bite of Carole's as well- they were all tittering, not tellign me what was in it.  Tasted like powerfully salty bacon- turned out to be pig's guts. so, I have now tried, pig's guts and pig's ears. They are both disgusting.

Welcome to France.

 This morning, I skyped the family, I pottered around starting this post and headed off to the Sunday market. There are clothes, jewellery and accessories, but mostly food. Vegetables, fruit, bread, meats and pastries. Plus some ready made stuff. I successfully bought figs, baguettes, a pain au chocolat and a capsicum. Every sold there is cheaper and local. Amazing. Amazing. And then. Everyone was packing up and I was checking out the fruit at a stall. The man working there asked me if I wanted some, whether he could help me, all in rapid French. I ummed and ahhed and he cottoned on, asking if I spoke French. A brief conversation, culminating in him getting incredibly excited about me being Australian, calling over two friends to ask me about kangaroos and then giving me two bananas for free. FREE BANANAS. I love France.

Not the stall with the free bananas. But still.

My street- Brigitte's is the little cream house, 2nd on the right.

Brigitte's garden/outdoor kitchen, the datcha is hiding behind it.

Updates.

OK. So I am bad at blogging. I suppose it means that life is getting in the way. Which can only be a good thing. So, I will give you a long, detailed update on my life in France, as it stands (16-10-2012):

I have left Olivier’s. From tonight, I will be at Brigitte’s, the wonderful woman who is renting me what is, pretty much, a granny flat in her back garden. It is the same size as other places that I went to look at, but better location, cheaper rent and in the back garden of an English speaker. It is gorgeous, for a granny flat. The French just do things prettier. She offered me the place even before she met me, through Olivier. I had been pretty non-committal, determined to go it alone, to sort out everything that I would have had to here.

I looked at a studio on Wednesday, perfect, just perfect. It was up this windy flight of stairs and was a gorgeous place, a little dirty, very studenty, but exactly what I was looking for. But, of course, expensive, unfurnished and I would have had to organise electricity and water. I like my way better. Brigitte lives in Velpeau, just below the Cathedrale district, which makes walking to work a definite possibility. Until the end of October, I will be in Brigitte’s spare room; waiting for Claire, who lives in the datcha (Russian word, basically means wooden holiday home), to move out.

Writing this from the staffroom, my least/most favourite place in the school. This is the place where people test their English on me, I eavesdrop on conversations, not understanding people ever. It is the place that I realised that I say bonjour wrong (like bonjour instead of bonjour). Everyone drinks a million cups of coffee a day and talks very very quickly. I smile, a lot. And that is mostly because everyone says hello. When someone walks in the door, they say, “bonjour/salut/bonsoir,” and everyone says it back, or they kiss on the cheek and because I am just not used to it, I miss the beat where I am supposed to say it back. So I smile.

Now everyone thinks I am super nice and enthusiastic, but with crap French.

It is my third official day of class, following a schedule, learning names and trying to make some students open their mouths and talk to me. I have had classes with five different teachers, met the kids from seven of my classes. I have met kids I am going to love and kids that I am going to abhor. I am teaching three B.T.S classes and my voluntary prepatoire class, which means that four of my classes are with students who have finished lycee. These students range from 18 to 24. Which, yes, means I am teaching students older than I am, a fact they find awfully amusing. Right now, I haven’t really planned a class, just talked to them about me, about them, about school.

French students do not have jobs on the side. These kids do 35 hour weeks and have piles of homework. Yes, they have a two hour lunch some days, but the amount of time that they spend at school fascinates me. My favourite class so far, one that I may not see again (the teacher is pregnant, so I’m not sure what’s happening) had a big discussion about the Australian love of travel and the importance our culture places on it. I said the sentence, “Our universities give us scholarships to travel, in Australia, travelling is learning.” Their mouths fell to the floor. One of the students then went on to claim that unless you are learning the language, what are you actually learning. Marie (the  teacher) and I then proceeded to argue with them. That is the thing about the French system; everything is about the academic.

All of the English teachers have said to me that the focus was once on perfected written English, until they realised that without spoken English, it means very little. The exam, for the first year, contains a lengthy oral section. The students seem unable to relax when it comes to learning and are therefore afraid to make mistakes, which is so much a part of speaking another language. We had a trainging day in Tours last Tuesday, with the other lycée/collège assistants, in which Fréderic spoke about this very thing. Their self-esteem is terribly low. They don’t trust themselves to open their mouths and not be wrong.

The training day was great- the other assistants, especially the Americans are really welcoming. It’s very humorous, being very split by country. The Americans, the English and the two Jamaican girls- they all formed groups, although as a whole, it’s a great group.  So I spent all day with them, from the training, over lunch- which we spent by the river, eating sandwiches- then coffee once we were finished. They are great, most are around 24, one girl is 27, another 22, but I am the youngest. The youngest who, ironically, will be teaching the oldest students. It was really good to talk to people going through the same things as me, looking for apartments, starting school and getting around some of the crazy French stuff.

I spent last week-end relaxing in the house, while it rained outside. Estelle’s parents spent the day with us at the house on Sunday, looking after the children while Olivier and Estelle were out. I read and studied and played with the cat. Here he is, looking cute:

 

I had had my first two days (I’ll talk about those next post), but as I have Monday off, I spent the day exploring St Paterne Racan, the area where Oliver lives. It is beautiful, picturesque French-ness. Here are some wonderful, wonderful things that I saw:

Chateau

Beautiful field.

Haha

Adorable shed near an orchard

You know, pretty but rusty old tractor.

Next time: School things, French things, new friends.

Walking, Talking: Day 8

I talked about school in Australia all day today. Four classes of it.

Olivier's prepatoire do not understand the TQA and that we do not have to continue to study languages or subjects we don't like and we can still go to university. They do not understand how Adventure Recreation is a class and that most Australians have part time jobs from age 15.

I accidentally made a class believe that all Australian schools are on the beach and that we never go to school. They wrote a short piece at the end of the class that about whether they thought it was better to be a student in Australia or in France; 100% said Australia. I read some, including a gorgeous one which thanked me for taking the class and for being here. The students are amazing, so many truly are thankful that I have come so far. They really don't understand when I say how much I love the school and that I think the schools give a better education. They learn so fast and so much. Their whole lives are about school, however, about their futures.

Met Marie, Pascal and Jean-Phillipe, other English teachers. And Theo, a German teacher who lived in Melbourne for a while playing jazz and opening some acts for the John Butler Trio (yeah, who saw that coming).

Class, I think, will be great. With Olivier's classes, I will have one late hour, it will be voluntary, slected from the kids in each of his four classes. With others, I don't know yet, I haven't met some of the teachers, have only had class with three of them, but so far it has been wonderful.

That afternoon, Jean-Phillipe drove me to the city centre and dropped me there so I could wander once more. Found this in a supermarket, amazing wine, costs next to nothing:

And discovered that the walk to school is relatively easy. Olivier finished at 6, so I met him back at school and we headed home. This weekend he and Estelle are going away for Saturday night, so Marie-Lawrence and her husband, Joseph are coming to stay. I was exhausted, beyond exhausted. The don't eat until late late late here. That's something I have been struggling with. They have lunch at 1 and then don't eat again until dinner, which is normally 8pm, 9pm, can be 10pm. We ate that night at 10:30. Crazy time. I was nodding off at the table, couldn't even speak English to Olivier, let alone French to the others. The children ate with us and were lively and crazy, all five of them. I honestly don't know how they do it. French people do not sleep.

Niki Donnelly's First Day of School: Day 7

Well, to say this least, this morning was jittery.

I didn't know what to think, would the other teachers be as nice as Olivier? Would the students be mean? Would I know enough about Australian politics to carry myself through my first introduction?

Olivier had told me that his classes are part of the preparatoire, the kids that are in between the lycee (grades 10-12) and the grandes écoles, private universities in France. They are intensive two year courses after high school. They are currently learning about political systems in France, England and the United States. So, I was pretty terrified, being not so versed (or in fact, liking it all) on politics, as many of you well know.

This week would be observation, whilst Olivier and the other teachers settled on a schedule for me that suited them and me. Upon arrival at the school, which is massive, I was ushered to the principal's office, met him, the secretarial staff and the vice-principal, could not make my French work. Was incredibly embarrassing and difficult. Everyone was incredibly nice- I finally managed to splutter out that thinking on the spot was very hard, that it was all a bit exciting, that I was sorry (whilst mentally adding my apologies for my lack of competence and how they must be wishing they had gotten a good assistant).

We raced to Olivier's class, passing students who stared (I must have some sort of tattoo on my forehead: NOT FROM HERE). And into a classroom, with students who stared. I took a seat in the back and watched while two students gave presentations. Seriously, these guys are good. Their English is incredibly well structured and quick, of course, they had prepared and the questions asked were prepared also, but the answers that the presenters gave: just off the top of their heads.

The two boys spoke on baldness cures (Olivier is bald- v. amusing) and whether computers can do the jobs of teachers. Then, I was introduced and gave a talk about the political system of Australia. Surprisingly and partly thanks to wikipedia, I did ok. Apparently, I am more knowledgeable about the system than I thought. I think I have multiple acquaintances of mine to thank for that. The kids are funny, they ask brilliant questions about politics and then turn around and ask what the Tasmanian devil is like. No one has known about Australia still being a monarchy and the fact that I can't give a proper answer for why astounds them. "I just don't think we mind" and "You know, the Queen is pretty great" aren't qualifying, apparently.

Filled in paperwork, a lot a lot of paperwork and went to the staffroom to wait for Olivier. There, I met Frederic and Brigitte, two of the English teachers at the school. There are 8 of them in total. English is compulsory, even for technical students who don't really see the point, as I would learn in my later class with Brigitte. She takes a class of boys who, even after eight years of French lack the confidence and drive to speak.

I introduced myself, talked about my job, music, university, etc. I am not allowed to speak French during classes. Only English, to make the kids speak. These two classes were extraordinarily different. The level of English spoken in one is so advanced, the other is a little below my own level, except that they don't understand that they can make themselves understood. Speaking with Brigitte, she knows that they can do it, they simply won't push themselves.

I feel comfortable in the classroom, more than I thought I would. Later, after lunch (a series of names and faces that I will have to relearn- all too quick and overwhelming) I had a class with Frederic. They were discussing a photograph that showed the discrepancy between social classes in 1940s America. They learned the term 'social gap' and wondered what the woman who took the photograph was trying to say. Fred discussed it with them, giving vocabulary to the students so that they could then record themselves talking about it. He uses a lot of technology in his classes, smart phones and videos, to aid the students and to keep them interested. I went with two girls to help them record themselves. One spoke only French, just kept repeating how she couldn't do it, she couldn't understand. No matter how slowly I went, no matter how much the second girl understood and I think, the first girl got a lot more than she was letting on, she ended up leaving to return to the classroom. The second girl was brilliant. She asked me to clarify some things, including whether she should talk about race- the poor people in the photograph were all African American. I asked if she thought that was important.

I spent the afternoon with Brigitte, at her house in Tours. She lives in Velpeau, just below the Cathedrale district, with her partner, Holley, who is American. They have a gorgeous Dalmatian, so Brigitte and I walked her and talked about a lot of things; school in France, travelling, things that we don't like to it which are seemingly national foods where we come from (she hates cheese and wine).
 I talked about what my expectations had been and how I had really enjoyed the classes. All of the teachers seem confused by my telling them that I had been expecting them to be cold (they're not).

I feel good about this. About school and about Tours and about how easy this has all felt. It has been a difficult step, but I feel like everything is just rewarding me for taking it.

Day of Rest: Day 6

Seriously, nothing happened. I stayed in the house all day. Not even my assignment. Not even blog writing.

So, here are some things that have made me happy:

Don't like tattoos, love these.

Tiny home, here. And favourite interiors website, here.

floccinaucinihilipilification

Or made me sad, as here.

Easily my most favourite website for while I'm in France, here.

A great great blog.

Welcome to Tours: Day 4

This has been my favourite day so far.

Yes, I know I've only had five days here and that's hardly a reference point, but today, everything worked.

Turns out I won't start school till Thursday due to Olivier's crazy schedule, what with doing uni and working at the same time. So this morning, I explored. Olivier drove to the IUT (a uni near Vaucanson, my school, which I still haven't seen) and walked from there to town. Tours is magical. Many of the streets are cobblestone and the houses are so picture perfect, with their petits balcons and every so often one built in the old style of the area, with exposed beams and wooden shutters.

I meandered into town, through St Symphorien and Paul Bert, my favourite residential areas and where I wanted to live if I could find a place there. Across the Loire River via a little island. I found myself back in Cathedrale.

I checked out the for lease signs around the place, more to get an idea of which companies are for which areas. I meant to buy a French phone plan today, and quite timidly went into a few shops- nothing. Too scary! I was meeting Olivier at his mother's house in Rue du Commerce at midday, so my walk was around two hours. Two wonderful hours of taking in the city. I found Place Plumereau,which is filled with bars and people drinking even at 11am. Mostly coffee, but still. Seriously, I am not kidding, this place is postcard central. Forgot to take my own photo, but here. Had a coffee- espresso, because it is so so so much easier to order and it comes with a square of chocolate in most places. Bought a pain  au chocolat- they are about $1 here, when at home the are at least $3. Brilliant.

Located Jacqueline's, she lives right on Rue du Commerce, next to a museum that is being renovated right now- used to be an old hotel, but no one has stayed there for years and years. I learned all about it during lunch. Early as I was, I leant against the wall to read. I had been there for about five minutes when a man's head popped out of the upstairs window and called out my name.

Enter, Jean-Pierre Bigot and Jacqueline Roger. We had a wonderful lunch, the four of us. May have eaten my weight in cucumber. I listened to them talk, mostly, throwing in a few comments myself. In all, it was just really relaxing. I cannot recall how much I spoke, maybe it was less than I think, but I felt today like it was a real breakthrough. Jacqueline speaks very clearly and was simply extraordinarily nice. Her house is gorgeous, a small apartment, but in the centre of town. I tried to stress how much I liked it, especially when she showed me their 'terrace', the small garden on the rooftop (they have to climb out the windows to reach it, there are no doors).

Set up my bank account after lunch. Again, one of those situations where I know I could have done it myself, could have understood (eventually) all the bank jargon and the twists and turns, I had all the paperwork that was needed and it is relatively similar to applying at home. However, Olivier's presence sped it along, I could double check my translations with him, he could explain better what my situation was and the account and fees that I would receive. They had accidentally spelt my name: NIKY DONELY on my initial application, which required me to fill in a load of extra forms, of course.

Olivier went off to uni and I wandered down to Rue Emilie Zola, one of the main shopping streets of Tours. Went into Sephora, H&M as well as a few pharmacies. And it was here that I discovered another vital difference between Australia and France. They do not have conditioner. Seriously, the sell 2 in 1. Or if they do, it's hidden away some place weird on the shelf and called 'after shampoo'. It's like spoons for spreading jam, just unexpected and not something I had come across anyone saying. Also, the sunscreen that I bought was about $3, which is less expensive than they would have you believe it is. It does, however, smell like liquorice, which is not entirely pleasant.

Went back to old Tours and the up market district. Window shopped at Gucci, Hermes and Dior. Actually browsed and talked to sales assistants in Lacoste (!) and Petit Bateau. While Tours is probably the size of Hobart, with a population about 50,000 more, the stores here are incredible. They are building a tram line around the city that probably won't be completed until after I am finished here, but it looks to be very beautiful as well.

Returned to Jacqueline's, wrote the blog post for the day before and then promptly fell asleep holding the biscuit that she had offered me. When Olivier arrived, I had been out for half an hour. Zzzzzz

Les Autres Assistantes: Day 4

Statue of Jean of Arc in Orleans

I woke early this morning, 5:45am. Yuck. The orientation day is in Orléans and I had to catch the train at 7 to make it. Raphael  took me and tired as I was, understanding each other was a definite chore. We talked about what he does- A mechanic? A mechanical engineer?- I talked about what a beautiful area it is while he made that face. The face that says, “I know you’re trying to say something and you’re trying really hard, but it is not working.” He thinks I want to translate books for a living and I assume he thinks I will not be very good at it.

Arrived at the station:

Machine wouldn’t find my reservation. Line for a ticket was too long. Missed train. Bought new ticket. Began 40 minute wait. Train announced 10 minutes late. Looked for toilet. Discovered that there was a fee. Had no change. Ran away from lady at toilet place. Sat down for 5 minutes in defeat. Took a deep breath.

I managed to right myself, buy a bottle of water, get extra change and then return to the bathrooms and turn over my 50c, triumphant, to the very worried lady who must have thought I was crazy. It was very very very cold in the station. My breath was visible. And as the day before had been so nice, I was only wearing a cardigan*.

Stuff like this is funny, I’m finding these moments where everything is too much, everything is  too hard and too overwhelming. And then I sit for a minute, then get up and go fix whatever was wrong or I don’t do it again. Which is the best feeling. Everything that goes wrong is another thing that I can do right later.

The train was incredibly slow. Of course. Some sort of problem, they didn’t really say. I don’t think. But when I got to the Lycée, nothing had even started yet. People were milling around awkwardly, drinking coffee and orange juice. There are about 200 of us in the district. Which lead me to the realisation that I am bad at making friends unless I am stuck with someone. Which I wasn’t. Lots and lots of French people talking, some things I understood, most things I didn’t. Very disheartening.

We went on a tour of Orléans, with a tour guide who is actually from Tours. He got lost. It was funny. But ORléans is pretty and he knew tons of stuff, just not which street we needed to turn left onto. The tour was with other assistants in Tours, which was nice. People tried to start talking to me in French, and both parties would try and then it all got too much. When there is a limit of things you know and you’re both stuck for a subject, it’s pretty difficult. Ended up chatting to an American and  an English girl about language, spelling and slang.

The American, Sara, and another American, Megan, had lunch with me. They are from Ohio and Kansas. There was this poster on the wall near us, sexual health, fairly straightforward, pictures of condoms etc, and they were laughing about how it would not be found in an American cafeteria. But the French are so like that. Not that Australians wouldn’t have that poster, it just that in our later session it came up that there are basically no taboo subjects in France.

During the final session, I realised that I am so lucky to have Olivier. I knew before, having done my research, that there was a chance that I would have to do it all on my own, that my contact might not only not be welcoming, but not be nice. Olivier goes above and beyond. The American girls have nice contacts, but are basically sorting things out on their own. And I know that I could do that, but this is way way way better. Olivier will take me to the bank tomorrow, will help me find a house and has welcomed me into his home, into his family. It’s more than I could have hoped for.

Bid farewell to the girls at Tours station and explored for a bit around Cathedrale St Gatienne, along rue Colbert (busy nightlife) and a bit behind the cathedral, Tours-Est, which is where I want to live. Olivier and I had just gotten underway when Salomé called- disaster- there are no baguettes at the house. Went for a monster search to find a still open patisserie. Yes, the French are a massive cliché when it comes to bread. Also, croissants are like 50c AUD. We got stuck into the baguettes on the way home- so good- and the family doesn’t eat till 8, starving.

At dinner, the kids were quieter, apparently I am becoming part of the family and am therefore less exciting. But Salomé plays with my bracelets constantly, Chloé stares at me while I eat and Gabriel pouts at me across the table (he is always grumpy- it’s very cute). Estelle raged about the situations some assistants find themselves in. She doesn’t understand how other people don’t welcome them. For her, it is an obligation, the humane thing to do. They are alone, in a new country and they are here to help. Not only can they be incredibly useful, but they are people, above all.The more time I'm around her, the more French I understand, the more I like her. It is the most irritating thing, seeing how great she is and not being able to communicate with her.

The American girls and I talked about this very thing. It is so easy to be yourself in your own language. I am so shy and quiet. Which at times I am at home, but this is all the time. It’s hard to be animated. When I am with the children, especially, I say very little, but make faces. I understand them (some of the time) but it’s hard for them to follow me and it takes too long, they lose interest. I’ve heard this so many times, that you become someone else in another language, but it’s so true.

*Yes, mum. I know.