Chapter 3 : Mum’s the word!

“Donc Leam, you descendre le 11 à the bus stop che si chiama “Casterneau”, e poi la résidence universitaire is la RIGHT INFRONT OF YOU!!!”

And so (in good faith) we trekked to the bus stop, waited for the bus, followed our route on the bus map throughout the journey and finally got off at the stop called “Casterneau” ... and were we “right infront” of the halls of residence? Were we fuck!!! I whipped out the confirmation form to find the actual address of this bloody place; but even knowing the street name proved useless - what is the point in making a street map where the street names are too bloody small to read?! Starting to panic just a little bit, I stopped a girl walking past to ask her... and she hadn’t even heard of the road! Here we go I thought - I have been royally screwed over - just how many times were we warned to be wary when choosing accommodation abroad!?! Fortunately (during my D.I.D. moment) Mum had been scouring the map for the road and had actually worked out where we needed to go; we weren’t very far away at all... Oopsie.

                As we walked up the front steps of this ultra-modern building (despite it obviously having been colour co-ordinated by a Tektonik dancer - it is fluorescent orange) I was actually pleasantly surprised. It seemed to be kept in immaculate condition and was nothing like the derelict shack with boarded up windows I was expecting - the result of one too many Erasmus horror stories... It looked like it had barely been lived in! And in fact, it hadn’t... The front doors were locked, the lights were off and the place was deserted; the fact that the “accueil” (reception) was an empty desk and that the decorators’ equipment was still lying around didn’t exactly suggest that they were expecting many visitors either. So I started to sneak around the outside of the building, peering through windows and looking to see if there was any sign of life within the building. Unfortunately, to the ignorant eye I was casing the joint like the common French burglar, and suddenly (and slightly embarrassingly) I caught sight of a group of janitors and cleaners (apparently intrigued by my antics) who were sat watching me, whilst enjoying their lunch ... a Gauloises cigarette.

                This time, it seemed that it wasn’t actually me that had jumped to the wrong conclusion, and even the kind handyman (who assumed the silly English boy needed a lesson in operating manual doors) was baffled by the locked door. But, with the help of Norah Batty (employed by Nantes University since 1854 to smoke, chat and mop floors if she has the time) I was lead into the building through the backdoor entrance. I would not normally be allowed in this way however ... and the stench of stale fag butts (smoked RIGHT to the butt) gave away their cheeky little secret, this was where the residences staff took the occasional break for a very occasional cigarette. ‘Occasional’ in the loosest sense of the term, of course.

At reception (which wasn’t deserted after all) I was immediately passed on to someone else, who helped me through the necessary admin to get the keys for the room; sign here, and here (ici) and ici, etc. ... At least in England when you sign for something, you may not be bothered to read exactly what you are signing for ... but you know that you could understand it if you wanted to. I was literally signing dozens of important-looking forms, and I would have most definitely needed my Oxford French Dictionary to understand what for... I’m sorry; I must have completely forgotten the lecture where we discussed FRENCH HOUSING CONTRACTS AND LAND LAW?! Hm... But anyway they gave me the keys, and off I went to find Chambre 109 - MY NEW ROOM! ...

How do you rate your room in the Cité Universitaire?

o   I love fluorescent lighting.

o   Well, at least I couldn’t get lost in there.

o   I now live ... on a hospital ward?

o   It must be a lunatic asylum.

o   OOOOOOOH BIG FRIDGE.

o   I love my padded white cell, and never want to leave.

o   Matron is that you?

ü  All of the above

I joke, of course. I have seen far worse, it’s just that initial shock when you go into a room for the first time and the walls are bare, the cupboards are empty, the mattress is visible and  you wonder to yourself, “HAVE I BEEN SECTIONED?!” But I had done it before, and knew the key to getting used to a new room is simply blitzing it and dumping shit everywhere; making yourself at home. So Mum started unpacking and making the bed, whilst I tried to connect to the internet. And the wall plug for the internet cable box was there alright, but the actually connection was non-existent. OH GOOD.

Moving to a foreign country, especially in Europe, nowadays does not involve half the upheaval it did 20 years ago. FACT. As long as you have some grasp of the language, possibly the hardest thing about moving to another country is learning to adjust to a way of living where certain people are in your life much less than you would like/are used to. And thanks to the technology of today, the world is a much smaller place; maintaining a relationship with someone in another country is relatively easy... obviously you miss them, but providing you have a good internet connection, you can still talk very easily. And as long as you are still communicating with people you know and love, you feel much less vulnerable. And this is why an Erasmus student not having internet in such an issue.

So I went to reception to tell the secretary about the apparent absence of an internet connection; she of course knew full well ... just hadn’t taken the initiative to tell anyone - “decembre” she helpfully replied. Being so over tired, I simply said nothing, walked back to my room with tears in my eyes, asked my mum for a hug and broke down.  But apparently the women didn’t have a clue what she was talking about – we had internet a week later!

But in the mean time I thought it was best to distract myself with a bit of local tourism ... so we went to see the First Wonder of Nantes ...

IKEA.

Chapitre 2 : From Nantes with Love

Bonjour à tous et bienvenue au chapitre 2!

I hope this chapter finds you well, and leaves you smiling J

So, where were we? Ah yes ... you will remember that the last chapter ended with me fighting to pull the age-ridden suitcase out of a rut in a cobbled Parisian side street; and consequently my discovering that, as slight as I am, I had somehow managed to break one of only two wheel axles on my suitcase? Well, I wasn’t going to let the suitcase get the better of me, no sir. So suitcase in one hand (and map in the other) I carried on walking along la rue. Having stayed in this very hostel during previous ventures “dans Paris”, I recognised the area and was sure we were practically there. The Perfect hostel had been perfect both by name and nature; clean, friendly, comfortable and most importantly to a student ... CHEAP; and being pretty shattered by this point Mum and I were simply looking forward to getting there, settling down for the night and having a decent cup of tea - of course I had packed British tea bags!!! But then, whilst fixating on said cup of tea, a terrible thought suddenly occurred to me ... had I ever actually confirmed the hostel reservation, after the incident?

The secret to the art of organisation is making lists, and many of them; and in doing this I generally remain organised, which I do like to be. After all, I don’t resent OCD - I enjoy every minute of it; but even for Mr. Organised, booking the “séjour” to Nantes had been a massive effort, and I mean massive. What with the trains, planes, trams and hostels, going about organising our precise (and pretty rushed) itinerary had been no mean feat; and the sense of relief I felt, hovering the mouse over the final “Confirm reservation” button, was HUGE. And then, it all went wrong. I clicked confirm and the page came up saying “Payment Unsuccessful”, explaining that my MasterCard had rejected the payment; so I rang the helpline, and MasterCard informed me that they had ever so helpfully cancelled ALL of my recent transactions ... and the next thing I knew my phone was ringing – this time a call from Santander Fraud Squad, enquiring about said recent transactions on my other card! Having already had one payment declined, I was suddenly questioning whether any of my bookings had actually been successful. I guess I should be thankful ... my credit card had just been used at 3am in the morning, on a French website, to pay for a one-way flight out of the UK.

So we walked into the hostel and I explained to the man at reception (in dreadful French) that I had reserved a room ... and thank god my booking was valid.  Although even if it hadn’t of been I’m not sure it would have mattered ... anything goes en France ... we paid cash-in-hand after all! So we caught the coffin-sized lift up to our floor, after bumping into a pair of French lesbians (who were still kissing in the lift when the door opened) on the way, and found our room ... and it was surprisingly familiar – quite possibly the exact same room that I had stayed in years before when visiting Paris with Pye!

Since there was a severe lack of a kettle, and we were both starving, we decided that we should go for a wander and get something to eat ... we were in the capital city of a country renowned for it's excellent cuisine after all ... and we ended up in a kebabby! But it was a wonderful kebab, with skilfully salted chips, and ketchup second to none (except Heinz), believe you me; and so, not knowing quite what we had just eaten, we returned to the hotel for a decent night’s sleep. However, be it due to my nerves, my “kebabulous” dinner, or the stupid American tart sat outside of the bar next door who chose to speak so loudly and so often ... the night’s sleep left a lot to be desired. And in true Cottrell style, the next morning when we (kind of) woke up, we were in foul moods.

Not to worry I thought, a decent shower will wake us up and prepare us for another rollercoaster of a day; and then mum emerged from the bathroom ... “The worst bloody shower of my life! What is the bloody point?! I had to lean with my head against the wall the whole time, and I still hardly got wet at all!” Of course, the shower head WAS detachable, but mum hadn’t realised. I pointed this out to her, as nicely as I could, after my fully invigorating shower, but she was having none of it. “No Liam, it will have to do! I had a shower and that is that. I don’t want another shower. I’m dry now, its fine.” And after an equally rubbish breakfast, (having stayed in hotels in England where you can eat as much Full English Breakfast as you want, a stale piece of bread and a milk-less cup of tea don’t really compare do they?) we set off for the Metro.

Exercise number 1: the suitcase lift.

·         Drag broken suitcase uphill to "nearby" subway stop.

*** Subway line at least three flights of stairs underground required.  (Parisian Metro strongly suggested, where escalators ‘n’existent pas’)***

·         Go with someone who can’t be expected to lift 20kg of suitcase.

·         Carry their 20kg suitcase down the stairs. As well as your 20kg suitcase. Both at the same time.

·         Lift suitcases on and off of packed trams. During rush hour. Repeat as appropriate on all line changes. Minimum 3 changes.

·         Why not go from one side of Paris to the other if you have been overindulging on pain au chocolat recently?

·         Total calories burned – 800.

·         Total sockets disjointed – almost two.

So after my work-out,  to make up for the calories I had lost, I enjoyed a croque-monsieur with French fries whilst waiting for the train to Nantes; and the next thing I knew we were getting off the train at Nantes, and walking out of the station into the sunshine! So this is where I’m going to be spending the next 5 months of my life ... CRAZY ... and we walked over to the taxi rank, not really fancying figuring out the transport system just yet! But after 15 minutes there was no sign of a taxi ... so we had to battle with the overcharging ticket machine in the end anyway, and started making our way to stop Number 1 - the “Guichet Unique”.

Having decided that it would be a better idea if we didn’t take the misbehaving suitcases, I left mum in a random park, by a random tree, whilst she read her Twilight book, and I set off alone. The “Guichet Unique” would be where everything was sorted out for us, where we would be told exactly what to do, where they would know everything ... or so we had been told. After eventually finding the place, and discovering that it wasn’t the least bit organised, a lady sat at a desk looked up at me, said simply “Bonjour” and then stared at me blankly ... and on the brink of tears I started trying to explain why I had come to see her. I realised then that my time in Nantes was going to be an absolute scream. “AHhhhhh” she said, sitting me down with a huge smile on her face, simultaneously snatching the application papers out of my hands and ruffling around to find her glasses. “LEEEEEAM? Oui?” “Non, Liam!” “LEEEEEEEM?” “Non, Liam!” “LEEEEEUUUM?” “Non, Liam!!!” “LEEEEAAAAM?” “Oui, Leam if you want!” And then... “AAAAAHHH STUDI ITALIANO! SONO ITALIANA!” (Ah you study Italian, I’m from Italy!)  - So I just arrived in France, and now she was talking to me in Italian - just to make it easy, you know?! And then, with constant disruptions, giggles, random pieces of paper thrust upon me and a helpful mixture of English, French and Italian she vigorously explained to me what I had to do over the next couple of days ... and sent me on my way again to find my halls of Residence. So I retrieved mum, and headed towards the number 11 bus stop in the centre. Stop Number 2 - Cité Casterneau, La Résidence Universitaire.

Chapitre 1 : Paris, je t'aime

So here it is! My adventure so far...

Exotic lands, foreign tongues, exquisite cuisine.

Préparez-vous for the ride of your life.

Almost.

... My story begins on Wednesday the first of September; having said my goodbyes, Mum, Sian and I set off on our way to Bristol airport, and I donned “mes baskets” for La France. The plan, meticulously organised by Mr. OCD Weston-super-Mare 2010, was to fly from Bristol to Paris CDG, spend the night in Paris and then make our way to Nantes the following morning. In retrospect, I am surprised how calm I actually was ... I was just about to move to a foreign country, to a city I hadn’t really even Googled before, and for someone who takes considerable comfort in having lots of stuff , I was attempting the impossible. Bearing in mind that at the beginning of each year in Cardiff, the vast expanse of junk I cart across the River Severn requires the filling of two large cars, this had to be cut down massively to 40kg ... two suitcases!!!

Apart from almost being the last two passengers to board the EGWW4W2 to Paris - because Mum and I had decided that we fancied a Burger King - the flight was pretty uneventful; no sooner had we reached peak altitude than we were beginning the descent. I did, however, finally get the opportunity to start reading my book - the Collins guide to French Conversation. Page 1: Talking About Yourself.

Getting into Central Paris from Charles de Gaulle is actually very easy on the RER; the hardest part, apparently, is actually buying the tickets and getting through the ticket barriers. No less than two French people asked me (why me?!) for directions, and one lady found herself in a particularly sticky situation at the ticket barrier. You know the way – there is always someone at the airport with three-times their body weight in baggage. Having validated her “aller simple”, but taken too long to get her suitcases through the barrier, she had resorted in trying to persuade innocent by-passers to lift her huge suitcases, obviously crammed full of Class-A drugs (never trust a stranger), over the barrier for her. Eventually a member of staff came to her rescue, and Mum and I jumped on the train; next stop Paris Gare du Nord.

Although the journey was little more than twenty minutes long and there were plenty of normal seats available, it seemed like a good idea to sit on my suitcase. My suitcase that is older than I am. Then, when we arrived at the Gare du Nord, I noticed (to my utter confusion) that my suitcase had now become incredibly hard to pull? I of course battled on, and persisted to drag (quite literally) my suitcase through the streets of Paris in an attempt to find our “Perfect” hostel for the night. It was not until I almost pulled my arm out of my socket that I decided to investigate further; and then did the problem become clear. I was heavier then I had thought, and I had actually managed to bend one of the two wheel axles; and my suitcase now weighed an absolute ton.

To be continued ...

HELLO FROM NANTES!

TESTING 123 cough.

Nantes