“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.
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