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-