I recall back in the mists of time before life was wierd and before the phrase voulez-vous couchez avec moi ce soir was just something from a song, I wrote some ground rules to the blog that went on to be my lifeline to sanity and my spleen-vent par excellence, one of which clearly stated that I wouldn't be using multiple exclamation marks in any of my postings.
But come on, let's be reasonable about this: this is London!!! 3 exclamation marks. London!!!! 4! There's just no limit to the number of punctuation marks a city of this size, this vibrancy and this sheer paved-with-golditude can sustain. And it's where I live.
It's been 48 hours now since I've been in London and the list of fun things I've done is already long and entertaining, like some kind of joke shop shopping list, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. Where have I been for the last n months? What have I been up to?
Well: teaching (fun, uneventful, reasonably well-paid given that I was living cheaply at my parents' house) and being in loco parentis to 47 internationally foreign children aged between 9 and 13, which included such non-typical-for-a-serious-professional-20-something activities as: Disco (way more fun with 10-year-olds than with 'adults'), midnight fighting (them, not me), rounders, jelly cosumption, tears, tantrums, tiredness (mine, not theirs), Pleasurewood Hills, hugs, hunger (constant, everyone) and happiness for all involved.
I had a great time and was constantly reminding myself that most of my friends were in offices idling away the hours in front of their emails and waiting for the (even less appealing to me at that time) whirl of drinks, flirting and chat that makes up British evening social life. I forged genuine bonds with some of the kids and was very sad when it was time for people to go home (not a dry eye on the coach). Is it something I'd do again? Not sure. The money's great but it did have it's down sides; I'll not to into them now, you can ask me when you see me.
So, here I am. In Hackney, or as it's known round these parts: Cambridge-upon-Thames. It's wierd that virtually everyone I have ever known from Cambridge is now living within a 2-mile radius of me. Wierd but not unpleasant, which brings me nicely round to my first 48 hours in London:
Yesterday I enjoyed the wonder and splendour of Stoke Newington Church Street, my local high-class High Road. It's actually rather wonderful, with cafes and restaurants at every whirl of the capital-crazed eye. Spent the afternoon wandering and eating and drinking and trying to buy things for my new, utterly empty, undecorated and undecorous room.
This was followed by an evening of the highest pleasure and leisure making decorations at my sister's house for the party they're having this weekend. We ate heartily and played with paints, paper of the size that most normal children can only dream of, and pipe cleaners in luminous, furred hues, to be made into butterflies and monkeys by our skilled fingers (I'll try and get some photos of these to post if I can).
Today was mine and my friend's attempt at the obligatory 'London tourist' montage as seen in Friends, Austen Powers and possibly even the Simpsons, where we donned union jack top hats and rode laughing through the sights and sounds of London on the top of a double-decker bus with the Kinks playing Waterloo Sunset on the back seat.
This is of course just metaphore but we did wander through Picadilly Circus, Covent Garden, Hamleys and Carnaby Street in search of nothing in particular, and finding it all quite wonderful. I've been to all these places before of course but it feels oddly different now I know my home is only a bus ride away.
Things felt more manageable, more comprehensible, more like my own back garden somehow. I also bought a giant wall-poster map of London for poring over and assimilating to wow my soon-to-be new pals (whoever they may be) with my own version of 'The Knowledge'.
So, this is all for now. Life and London rolls by outside at a frantic urban pace and will no doubt continue to do so well into the night and, indeed, a good part of tomorrow, but I? I'm going to cook beef sausages, tidy my room and maybe read a book. You can take the boy out of Cambridge but Cambridge out of the boy? That'll take a while longer yet....
Till next time me hearties,
Rob
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
The dream is dead, long live the dream
It's a bit like being witness to a horrible crime. You know some bad shit went down and that it wasn't pretty, but when it comes to being asked to recall the order in which things happened you find you can't. Your memory's just a blur of mangled flesh, bloodied machetes and wild grinning faces.
It's thus with the slow, final, horrible fall from grace of my dream of a new life in France. After around 6 months of continuously hearing the murderous footsteps coming up the stairs you'd think I'd be better prepared to recount the final blur of devastating blows that left me with the gory mess I stand surveying this sunny day in Strasbourg.
Yes friends, it's all over. I've finally had enough. I can no longer take the constant disappointment, lonliness, isolation, poor decision making and if-you-don't-laugh-you'll-puke-with-despair never-ending paperwork that have so neatly defined the last stage of my 'dream'.
My bank account in France currently reads -€88.65 and in England -£1,595 and that's it. I'm officially spent. I have not a penny to my name, owing as I do, €130 to my 'flatmates' for the 10 nights I spent sleeping on a matress in an empty room in a (usually) empty flat.
The news is so crushing I can hardly bear to write it, but entertainment is entertainment kids. The audience are baying for more and the show must go on: My mum is going to buy me a flight to London sometime in the coming few days and that's it. I'm out of here.
I feel like the end of Jurassic Park where Laura Dern and Sam Neil are airlifted to safety, leaving the snapping jaws of French unemployment and the tearing claws of French commercial immobility to devour eachother in a bloody but unwitnessed battle. As far as I'm concerned this whole country can (and almost certainly will) go to hell with the following exceptions:
That's it. That means that sixty million minus 5 can rap about their problems and sing tuneless melodies about acid rain accompanied only by a jingling guitar until they're red, white or blue in the face. I no longer care.
I'm not going to recount it here but for all those interested in knowing my French Social Security Beaurocray vs. Text-based adventure video game analogy, you can ask me in person when you buy me that pint of Carlsberg that from now on will represent the price of that trip to come and visit that you all owe me (H and C, you are discounted from this. We'll settle our scores face to face!).
Just a final word about how a decision is right until the instant you make it and can't change your mind.
Remember how the day I booked my flight to Hungary I got a phone call from a bar I'd applied to 2 months ago and McDonald's who I'd applied to 6 months ago asking if I wanted a job?
Well today, having told the boss of my school that I'd teach the rest of the lessons I have this week (2) and that's it, I got a phone call from the job agency asking me if I want to be a waiter in the European Parliament and another from a random bloke who'd seen my little advert stuck on a bar-room wall and was "definitely interested" in taking private lessons at €15 an hour.
What the fuck is going on here, I hear you ask? Well, I'd like to know too. It seems there is a god, and my twin habits of cigarette smoking and pork eating that I've taken up since being here in order to not be a total social reject (some good that did me!) have angered Him immensely. It is with this fact in mind that I solemnly swear that upon my return to England, I will watch more Woody Allen films and learn to insult the French goyim in Yiddish.
Until such time, here's an effort in French:
Vous êtes la foule des sales cons le plus grosse, le plus laide et le plus degueulasses que je n'ai jamais imaginer dans tous mes pires rêves. J'espère que vous allez vous faire enculer le plus tôt possible et que votre bordel d'un pays va créver d'un coeur pourri.
Lots of love and thanks to all who have followed this blog with varying levels of interest and interaction.
Your faithful soon-to-be-ex-traveller,
Rob
It's thus with the slow, final, horrible fall from grace of my dream of a new life in France. After around 6 months of continuously hearing the murderous footsteps coming up the stairs you'd think I'd be better prepared to recount the final blur of devastating blows that left me with the gory mess I stand surveying this sunny day in Strasbourg.
Yes friends, it's all over. I've finally had enough. I can no longer take the constant disappointment, lonliness, isolation, poor decision making and if-you-don't-laugh-you'll-puke-with-despair never-ending paperwork that have so neatly defined the last stage of my 'dream'.
My bank account in France currently reads -€88.65 and in England -£1,595 and that's it. I'm officially spent. I have not a penny to my name, owing as I do, €130 to my 'flatmates' for the 10 nights I spent sleeping on a matress in an empty room in a (usually) empty flat.
The news is so crushing I can hardly bear to write it, but entertainment is entertainment kids. The audience are baying for more and the show must go on: My mum is going to buy me a flight to London sometime in the coming few days and that's it. I'm out of here.
I feel like the end of Jurassic Park where Laura Dern and Sam Neil are airlifted to safety, leaving the snapping jaws of French unemployment and the tearing claws of French commercial immobility to devour eachother in a bloody but unwitnessed battle. As far as I'm concerned this whole country can (and almost certainly will) go to hell with the following exceptions:
- Sophie and Clair, my delightful ex-housemates from Toulouse
- Alisson, my delightful ex-girlfriend
- Sophie's dad who's unbelievable generosity actually made me feel uncomfortable to be a scrounger
- The pretty girl who lives opposite him who invited me into her flat to share a bottle of champagne with her and her friends.
That's it. That means that sixty million minus 5 can rap about their problems and sing tuneless melodies about acid rain accompanied only by a jingling guitar until they're red, white or blue in the face. I no longer care.
I'm not going to recount it here but for all those interested in knowing my French Social Security Beaurocray vs. Text-based adventure video game analogy, you can ask me in person when you buy me that pint of Carlsberg that from now on will represent the price of that trip to come and visit that you all owe me (H and C, you are discounted from this. We'll settle our scores face to face!).
Just a final word about how a decision is right until the instant you make it and can't change your mind.
Remember how the day I booked my flight to Hungary I got a phone call from a bar I'd applied to 2 months ago and McDonald's who I'd applied to 6 months ago asking if I wanted a job?
Well today, having told the boss of my school that I'd teach the rest of the lessons I have this week (2) and that's it, I got a phone call from the job agency asking me if I want to be a waiter in the European Parliament and another from a random bloke who'd seen my little advert stuck on a bar-room wall and was "definitely interested" in taking private lessons at €15 an hour.
What the fuck is going on here, I hear you ask? Well, I'd like to know too. It seems there is a god, and my twin habits of cigarette smoking and pork eating that I've taken up since being here in order to not be a total social reject (some good that did me!) have angered Him immensely. It is with this fact in mind that I solemnly swear that upon my return to England, I will watch more Woody Allen films and learn to insult the French goyim in Yiddish.
Until such time, here's an effort in French:
Vous êtes la foule des sales cons le plus grosse, le plus laide et le plus degueulasses que je n'ai jamais imaginer dans tous mes pires rêves. J'espère que vous allez vous faire enculer le plus tôt possible et que votre bordel d'un pays va créver d'un coeur pourri.
Lots of love and thanks to all who have followed this blog with varying levels of interest and interaction.
Your faithful soon-to-be-ex-traveller,
Rob
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
agony and ecstacy
jesus it's been a shitty few days.
Sorry to start in such a negative fashion... let me explain: the cash machine stopped giving me money two days before I moved into my new (and rather expensive) house-share. This means that in the last 4 days, I've lived on the 11 euro that was in my wallet at the fatal ATM visit. This doesn't sound so bad, but the problem with moving house is that you start from nothing.
My room is unfurnished (that's no joke. When I arrived there was literally nothing in it at all) and I had nothing to eat. 6 Euros bought me a box of cereal, some milk, bread, a packet of pasta and a jar of tomato sauce. I already had rice and some onions. For 4 days I've eaten nothing but these 6 ingredients for every meal but I simply couldn't afford to buy anything else. I've walked everywhere because I can't pay the €1.50 tram fare and I've suffered the humilitation of standing in a queue at the unemployment office to use their free internet.
To top it all, today I had the infuriating experience of having to turn down a job on principal. That is the principal that everyone working in the school were a total bunch of bastards and I refused to let myself be bullied (I'm a qualified english teacher. You can't treat me like this!). It's a long story and I can't be arsed to recount it here as the keyboard I'm using is fucked and in French which means the keys are all in different places. Suffice it to say that when I left I was fuming with rage and could only console myself with a meal of rice, tomato sauce and raw onions. Don't ask me why I didn't cook the onions. Sometimes when you're in a really filthy mood you'll do anything to make it worse. Self-flagellation they call it. I'm still suffering from the raw onions. It's not pretty.
But, to lighten the mood a little: I have temporarily escaped my no-money-expensive-rent-to-pay hell-hole by the fact that I have been paid for the first time in 3 months. Yes kids, and in cash too! I have right now in my pocket 6 hours worth of pure hard work to fritter away on overpriced internet costs and blogging...
So misery alleviated and I'm only left with the debilitating loneliness and the furniture-free bedroom to deal with (this is not quite as bad as it sounds. Betrand's son has lent me a z-bed and I have my trusty sleeping bag)
Joy!
See you next time fun-fans.
Rob
Sorry to start in such a negative fashion... let me explain: the cash machine stopped giving me money two days before I moved into my new (and rather expensive) house-share. This means that in the last 4 days, I've lived on the 11 euro that was in my wallet at the fatal ATM visit. This doesn't sound so bad, but the problem with moving house is that you start from nothing.
My room is unfurnished (that's no joke. When I arrived there was literally nothing in it at all) and I had nothing to eat. 6 Euros bought me a box of cereal, some milk, bread, a packet of pasta and a jar of tomato sauce. I already had rice and some onions. For 4 days I've eaten nothing but these 6 ingredients for every meal but I simply couldn't afford to buy anything else. I've walked everywhere because I can't pay the €1.50 tram fare and I've suffered the humilitation of standing in a queue at the unemployment office to use their free internet.
To top it all, today I had the infuriating experience of having to turn down a job on principal. That is the principal that everyone working in the school were a total bunch of bastards and I refused to let myself be bullied (I'm a qualified english teacher. You can't treat me like this!). It's a long story and I can't be arsed to recount it here as the keyboard I'm using is fucked and in French which means the keys are all in different places. Suffice it to say that when I left I was fuming with rage and could only console myself with a meal of rice, tomato sauce and raw onions. Don't ask me why I didn't cook the onions. Sometimes when you're in a really filthy mood you'll do anything to make it worse. Self-flagellation they call it. I'm still suffering from the raw onions. It's not pretty.
But, to lighten the mood a little: I have temporarily escaped my no-money-expensive-rent-to-pay hell-hole by the fact that I have been paid for the first time in 3 months. Yes kids, and in cash too! I have right now in my pocket 6 hours worth of pure hard work to fritter away on overpriced internet costs and blogging...
So misery alleviated and I'm only left with the debilitating loneliness and the furniture-free bedroom to deal with (this is not quite as bad as it sounds. Betrand's son has lent me a z-bed and I have my trusty sleeping bag)
Joy!
See you next time fun-fans.
Rob
Saturday, March 03, 2007
On the road (for the last time?)
Strasbourg's poorly named river IllThis is to be my last weekend at Sophie's dad's house in a state of flux, temporariness and general disarray. Tomorrow I move to my new flat. And it's great!
Strasbourg in the SunshineThe apartment itself is tout neuf meaning that the other two who have been living there for around 4 months were it's first ever occupants. It's relatively swish, full of great CDs and is west facing (read late afternoon sunshine streaming through living room windows. pure charm!) with a wild cat about 6 months of age stalking the corridors.
For all this fantastickness I have to pay of course. The rent is going to be around 1.7 times that which I was paying in Toulouse but now that I'm a working man (4 hours a week!) I feel I can justify it. Plus I'm in the process of applying for all sorts of state aid, which will start pouring into my bank account just as soon as the form that the British Department For Work & Pensions sent about 2 weeks ago arrives. Am I worried it's been lost in the post? A bit. Do I trust the French postal system? Not in the slightest, those work-shy, strike loving chair-warmers. But we'll see. Never say never.
I'm also in line to get my first real pay check sooner than I thought, as the month of February surprised me by only containing 28 days that sneaky beggar! So a bit of paperwork to do and (6 x €15 - scandalous french tax rates) euros will be winging their way to me via La Poste (uh oh!).
So, the next time I write I will be a man with a job and a home. A combination of things that has thus far eluded me in this difficult, inexplicable and (thus far) entirely pointless journey of mine.
Let's hope it sticks for a while.
Love
Rob
What awaited me on my bed when I got home from Hungary.I personally found this very moving!
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Things warm up...
Two hours a week of teaching is obviously great and I'm sure you're all very proud of how hard I'm working, but like any sensible megalomaniac I want more, more, more.
And the good news is that the work is there. I'm already up to 6 hours a week! I'm starting a second course on Monday which is a 1-to-1 and I had an interview this morning which led to me getting a couple of hours with a student at another school.
Add to that the 800 bars and pubs that I've applied in, and I should be well on my way to earning enough money not to die a lonely death on the streets of Strasbourg. I should be. I'm not yet sure.
Having left my appartment in Toulouse in such haste, I didn't have time to give the contractual one month's notice nor to find anyone to take the room. So whilst the girls are doing everything in their power to find a flatmate, as things stand at the moment, it's me who pays the rent for March. Shit. Not really something I can afford to do as the money will have to come out of my deposit, which I will be needing if I want to move in to my own houseshare (which I'll have to do by the end of March at the latest as Sophie is coming home for three weeks and there aren't enough beds for us all here!
So, things are tight at the moment. In fact, tight is not really the word. Desperate is much more accurate. Fortunately, as far as I can make out from my French contract, monthly pay means calendar month, which means that in 4 days (thank Christ it's February and not one of those horrible long months like, say, July. Ugh!) I'll be receiving my very first pay check from Gera-langue, my new employers. It will be for 6 hours of teaching plus 3 times the milage fee (I have to get where I'm going and they pay me for the miles) which works out as around €100 before tax ( = €80 net). So that's about enough to cover the food and beer that I've consumed since being here but not even a start towards the cost of the flight, the potential payment of March's rent in Toulouse or my planned purchase of a second-hand scooter to get around on let alone HA! any money to put aside for silly things like paying rent. But still, it's a start. It'll be the first money to actually go in to my account in France for a very long time.
So there it is. My financial situation in a paragraph.
I'll let you know how things progress as I battle against students, rip-off language schools (much warned about, little seen as yet) and the sometimes crushing loneliness that comes with having just moved cities and once again not knowing anyone. Cinema on my own tonight? Why not. It's what I did last night after all...
Love from,
Rob
xxx
And the good news is that the work is there. I'm already up to 6 hours a week! I'm starting a second course on Monday which is a 1-to-1 and I had an interview this morning which led to me getting a couple of hours with a student at another school.
Add to that the 800 bars and pubs that I've applied in, and I should be well on my way to earning enough money not to die a lonely death on the streets of Strasbourg. I should be. I'm not yet sure.
Having left my appartment in Toulouse in such haste, I didn't have time to give the contractual one month's notice nor to find anyone to take the room. So whilst the girls are doing everything in their power to find a flatmate, as things stand at the moment, it's me who pays the rent for March. Shit. Not really something I can afford to do as the money will have to come out of my deposit, which I will be needing if I want to move in to my own houseshare (which I'll have to do by the end of March at the latest as Sophie is coming home for three weeks and there aren't enough beds for us all here!
So, things are tight at the moment. In fact, tight is not really the word. Desperate is much more accurate. Fortunately, as far as I can make out from my French contract, monthly pay means calendar month, which means that in 4 days (thank Christ it's February and not one of those horrible long months like, say, July. Ugh!) I'll be receiving my very first pay check from Gera-langue, my new employers. It will be for 6 hours of teaching plus 3 times the milage fee (I have to get where I'm going and they pay me for the miles) which works out as around €100 before tax ( = €80 net). So that's about enough to cover the food and beer that I've consumed since being here but not even a start towards the cost of the flight, the potential payment of March's rent in Toulouse or my planned purchase of a second-hand scooter to get around on let alone HA! any money to put aside for silly things like paying rent. But still, it's a start. It'll be the first money to actually go in to my account in France for a very long time.
So there it is. My financial situation in a paragraph.
I'll let you know how things progress as I battle against students, rip-off language schools (much warned about, little seen as yet) and the sometimes crushing loneliness that comes with having just moved cities and once again not knowing anyone. Cinema on my own tonight? Why not. It's what I did last night after all...
Love from,
Rob
xxx
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
I'm a teacher!
Done! Done and done! Done and done and dusted!
I've taught my first ever paid, professional lesson. And, my, didn't it go well?
It was 2 hours, but didn't feel too long. My 3 students were attentive and interested and asked the right questions and knew and didn't know what they were supposed to know and not know.
It's all very lovely.
All I need to do now is find a way to occupy the remaining 166 hours of the week.
I'm trying to put myself about as much as possible, and things are looking reasonably hopeful. The school for whom I'm teaching right now have already told me that March will be a lot busier and that they're 'reserving' lots of hours for me to teach once the contacts are signed. Let's hope so.
But, for now I can at least say that I've done my first day of paid work since December (and have a proper employment contract for the first time since June 2006) so all is looking good.
As for the house hunt: well, that's another story. And it's one I haven't even begun to write about yet. I guess what I'll do is stay here in the warm, free, internet-furnished home of Sophie's dad until... well, until I have my first pay cheque maybe? Until I find something else? Until he gets sick of having me scrounge of his generosity (although I'm doing all my own shopping so it's not really costing him anything other than a bit of privacy).
Let's see what happens, eh?
See you around,
Rob
p.s. My postal address should anyone feel postally inspired:
Rob Levy, chez Bertrand Lebrou
9 Rue Des Veaux
Strasbourg 67000
FRANCE
I've taught my first ever paid, professional lesson. And, my, didn't it go well?
It was 2 hours, but didn't feel too long. My 3 students were attentive and interested and asked the right questions and knew and didn't know what they were supposed to know and not know.
It's all very lovely.
All I need to do now is find a way to occupy the remaining 166 hours of the week.
I'm trying to put myself about as much as possible, and things are looking reasonably hopeful. The school for whom I'm teaching right now have already told me that March will be a lot busier and that they're 'reserving' lots of hours for me to teach once the contacts are signed. Let's hope so.
But, for now I can at least say that I've done my first day of paid work since December (and have a proper employment contract for the first time since June 2006) so all is looking good.
As for the house hunt: well, that's another story. And it's one I haven't even begun to write about yet. I guess what I'll do is stay here in the warm, free, internet-furnished home of Sophie's dad until... well, until I have my first pay cheque maybe? Until I find something else? Until he gets sick of having me scrounge of his generosity (although I'm doing all my own shopping so it's not really costing him anything other than a bit of privacy).
Let's see what happens, eh?
See you around,
Rob
p.s. My postal address should anyone feel postally inspired:
Rob Levy, chez Bertrand Lebrou
9 Rue Des Veaux
Strasbourg 67000
FRANCE
Monday, February 19, 2007
New number (attention: boring post!)
My new telephone number (as of about 3 months ago: Sorry to anyone who texted me in that interval) is
+33 (0) 612 701 996
Sorry it took me so long to post it.
+33 (0) 612 701 996
Sorry it took me so long to post it.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Spires and Inspiration
Dearest all,
I wrote a marvellous blog entry all about how wonderful everything is here in Strasbourg but I clos*d the motherfucking wind*w before I saved it. Bollocks.
Suffice it say that things are great here, I'm happy and well, Sophie's dad is great and his flat is luxurious and in the middle of town and my boss calls me 'tu' and is very friendly (she's chilean!).
Ah, it's such a shame that my earlier waxing lyrical should have gone down the digital dustbin and you be left with this prosaic drivel. Piss. Never mind, I'm sure more things will happen in my life before the whole blog thing goes out of fashion...
Until next time drivel fans,
Rob
I wrote a marvellous blog entry all about how wonderful everything is here in Strasbourg but I clos*d the motherfucking wind*w before I saved it. Bollocks.
Suffice it say that things are great here, I'm happy and well, Sophie's dad is great and his flat is luxurious and in the middle of town and my boss calls me 'tu' and is very friendly (she's chilean!).
Ah, it's such a shame that my earlier waxing lyrical should have gone down the digital dustbin and you be left with this prosaic drivel. Piss. Never mind, I'm sure more things will happen in my life before the whole blog thing goes out of fashion...
Until next time drivel fans,
Rob
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Why is it always sunny when you leave somewhere?
Call it Sod's, Murphy's or Levy's law. Call it what you will, but it is a truth universally acknowledged that as soon as you buy your ticket out of some god-forsaken rain-drenched misery den, the sun starts shining and you start to see things in a whole new light.
Today I have had the most charming of charming Toulouse experiences imaginable. Having luncheoned with my flatmate Claire and her friends, I shelled out 2 euro 30 for a copy of the International Herald Tribune and spent two hours on the terrace of a studenty cafe, broiling in the heat of a mediterranean sun that I haven't felt on my shoulders since the heady days of 2006 (if you can remember it, you weren't there...)
Truely sumptuous.
Things on the job hunting front have really taken off, with emails flying in from all 6 corners of the country (local reference. Mum, you should get that one) asking me to show up for interviews etc. etc.
BUT, my decision is made. My flight is booked and I'm off to the last great right-wing bastion of France, Strasbourg in a little under 48 hours.
I'm nervous and excited and scared and worried and confused all at the same time. I hadn't really thought when I noticed that the plane was 20 euros cheaper and around 11 hours shorter than the train that I was going to be moving house. This means taking everything I own. You can take whatever you can carry onto a train (bike sometimes included) whereas with the flight, I've got to ask myself some serious questions about how it's all going to work.
I have my Hachette 2007 (a large, much beloved dictionary), my Beatles Bible (never left my immediate possession since the age of 15 or so) and a nicked bicycle that I have to think about.
I'm also leaving behind two rather distraught French girls who will soon be back on the search for a flatmate. Clair told me she cried the other day when she thought about me leaving. I think that's what she said anyway; she might have been telling me it was raining (it seems to be virtually the same verb). And I still haven't got off with Sophie, the sexy one. Ah, so much unfinished business.
I've also got to say goodbye to everyone I've ever known in this great city (about 4 people) and inform my landlord that I'm leaving. This is the thing currently giving me stomach ulcers. I don't know why but I'm terrified of my landlord. I think it dates back to the marching me to a cash machine episode when I'd forgotten to pay the rent for January. I'm not exactly delighted at the prospect of phoning him and telling him that all his worst assumptions about me as a foreigner are true:
"Hi Monsieur Braux"
"Yes?"
"Remember how you thought it was a terrible idea that the girls have a foreign, unemployed scumbag move in, and that you assumed he would run off at the first possible opportunity, leaving you without rent and another lodger-hunt on your hands?"
etc.
So, less than delighted at that prospect. Plus I don't know the French words for scumbag. Perhaps "Anglais" is a suitable translation.
So if I don't email for a while or get in touch with those I really should do, it's because I'm running around Strasbourg trying not to get noticed by skinheads, die of starvation or get mobbed by angry landlords.
I genuinely hope that those with easy, comfortable lives don't for an instant take any of it for granted and that you spare a moment, whilst nestling into your favourite armchair, to think of your trusty friend/family member/random blogger Rob as he attempts to make his way in the frozen, mountainous north of France, armed only with a single cardigan, a 4-week teacher training qualification and just enough French to say "I'll only agree to sell my body if the skag is really of the finest quality".
Until next time e-chums,
Rob
xxx
Today I have had the most charming of charming Toulouse experiences imaginable. Having luncheoned with my flatmate Claire and her friends, I shelled out 2 euro 30 for a copy of the International Herald Tribune and spent two hours on the terrace of a studenty cafe, broiling in the heat of a mediterranean sun that I haven't felt on my shoulders since the heady days of 2006 (if you can remember it, you weren't there...)
Truely sumptuous.
Things on the job hunting front have really taken off, with emails flying in from all 6 corners of the country (local reference. Mum, you should get that one) asking me to show up for interviews etc. etc.
BUT, my decision is made. My flight is booked and I'm off to the last great right-wing bastion of France, Strasbourg in a little under 48 hours.
I'm nervous and excited and scared and worried and confused all at the same time. I hadn't really thought when I noticed that the plane was 20 euros cheaper and around 11 hours shorter than the train that I was going to be moving house. This means taking everything I own. You can take whatever you can carry onto a train (bike sometimes included) whereas with the flight, I've got to ask myself some serious questions about how it's all going to work.
I have my Hachette 2007 (a large, much beloved dictionary), my Beatles Bible (never left my immediate possession since the age of 15 or so) and a nicked bicycle that I have to think about.
I'm also leaving behind two rather distraught French girls who will soon be back on the search for a flatmate. Clair told me she cried the other day when she thought about me leaving. I think that's what she said anyway; she might have been telling me it was raining (it seems to be virtually the same verb). And I still haven't got off with Sophie, the sexy one. Ah, so much unfinished business.
I've also got to say goodbye to everyone I've ever known in this great city (about 4 people) and inform my landlord that I'm leaving. This is the thing currently giving me stomach ulcers. I don't know why but I'm terrified of my landlord. I think it dates back to the marching me to a cash machine episode when I'd forgotten to pay the rent for January. I'm not exactly delighted at the prospect of phoning him and telling him that all his worst assumptions about me as a foreigner are true:
"Hi Monsieur Braux"
"Yes?"
"Remember how you thought it was a terrible idea that the girls have a foreign, unemployed scumbag move in, and that you assumed he would run off at the first possible opportunity, leaving you without rent and another lodger-hunt on your hands?"
etc.
So, less than delighted at that prospect. Plus I don't know the French words for scumbag. Perhaps "Anglais" is a suitable translation.
So if I don't email for a while or get in touch with those I really should do, it's because I'm running around Strasbourg trying not to get noticed by skinheads, die of starvation or get mobbed by angry landlords.
I genuinely hope that those with easy, comfortable lives don't for an instant take any of it for granted and that you spare a moment, whilst nestling into your favourite armchair, to think of your trusty friend/family member/random blogger Rob as he attempts to make his way in the frozen, mountainous north of France, armed only with a single cardigan, a 4-week teacher training qualification and just enough French to say "I'll only agree to sell my body if the skag is really of the finest quality".
Until next time e-chums,
Rob
xxx
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
The Rob-Bus rolls on
This is all going to be a bit rushed so I apologise for the lack of the usual 8,000 carefully chosen words on a variety of stimulating topics but I'm in an internet cafe where the time counts DOWN and not up meaning I've got 8minutes and 14 seconds to write this blog entry.
Having returned from Hungary with a Pass 'A' result in my CELTA qualification (that's good by the way!) I was filled with enthusiasm and drive to find work, but also a mild sense of disgust with Toulouse and it's unemployed population, dragging their feet around town trying to dodge the dog shit. It was a stark contrast to Budapest which is really a thriving, moving and exciting place. It's just all happening there whereas in Toulouse it feels like it's continually the day after a massive party and the streets are filthy and everyone's hung over and pissed off.
So I decided to do what in technical terms is probably called Denial-Of-Service hacking and is strictly illegal: I copy and pasted the email addresses of every language school advertising itself in the Yellow Pages for Toulouse, Paris, Montpellier, Nice and Strasbourg and wrote one big uber-email saying: "I'm here. Who want me?"
and someone wants me.
Strange huh?
So, I've booked my flight and I'm moving to Strasbourg on Saturday. That's really it. My love affair with Toulouse followed all the usual patterns: teething problems (no flat, no job), honeymoon (Alliance Francaise), comfortable marriage (my time spent at Jonny's house), a wild affair (the fun had with my two french housemates for the last two months), followed by a growing disgust and eventual divorce.
I start work on Monday in Strasbourg with a grand total of 2 teaching hours per week and have 200 euros left in the world after my flight purchase to make my new life work.
Don't say I don't make things difficult for myself. If I live to tell the tale, I'll let you know how it goes.
Your foreign friend,
Rob
xxx
Having returned from Hungary with a Pass 'A' result in my CELTA qualification (that's good by the way!) I was filled with enthusiasm and drive to find work, but also a mild sense of disgust with Toulouse and it's unemployed population, dragging their feet around town trying to dodge the dog shit. It was a stark contrast to Budapest which is really a thriving, moving and exciting place. It's just all happening there whereas in Toulouse it feels like it's continually the day after a massive party and the streets are filthy and everyone's hung over and pissed off.
So I decided to do what in technical terms is probably called Denial-Of-Service hacking and is strictly illegal: I copy and pasted the email addresses of every language school advertising itself in the Yellow Pages for Toulouse, Paris, Montpellier, Nice and Strasbourg and wrote one big uber-email saying: "I'm here. Who want me?"
and someone wants me.
Strange huh?
So, I've booked my flight and I'm moving to Strasbourg on Saturday. That's really it. My love affair with Toulouse followed all the usual patterns: teething problems (no flat, no job), honeymoon (Alliance Francaise), comfortable marriage (my time spent at Jonny's house), a wild affair (the fun had with my two french housemates for the last two months), followed by a growing disgust and eventual divorce.
I start work on Monday in Strasbourg with a grand total of 2 teaching hours per week and have 200 euros left in the world after my flight purchase to make my new life work.
Don't say I don't make things difficult for myself. If I live to tell the tale, I'll let you know how it goes.
Your foreign friend,
Rob
xxx
Monday, January 08, 2007
Hungary for more....
I'm very excited to announce my successful arrival in Hungary and to celebrate this wonderous fact I have taken a solemn vow. Of vow of courage and valour. I've vowed to never tire of making the Hungary/hungry joke and to persist in doing so even when all other possible purpose has been obliterated by gross mis- and over-use.
Fun / Nice things that have happened to me so far (in a bulletted list form to celebrate my new status as teacher in training) :
The only downside to this cushy scenario is that my exciting 'new' for which read 'shit' phone won't send calls or texts to anything but Hungarian numbers. The only Hungarian I know is the girl I met at the airport and she has a french SIM card. Shit.
I'll just have to seriously apply myself to making some Hungary friends. So, come on feet, off I go into the Magyar night (look it up) to find some people I can spend 100 Hungarian Florints (HUF) on texting for the rest of the month.
Hurray!
Fun / Nice things that have happened to me so far (in a bulletted list form to celebrate my new status as teacher in training) :
- Met a nice Hungarian girl at the baggage carousel at Budapest Airport who spoke no english but fluent french, who offered to take me in her parents car to where I was staying, and gave me her number so I could "meet her friends and go for a drink" while I'm here. Sweet.
- Met a classful of what seem like really nice, reasonable people on my first day as a trainee EFL teacher.
- Queued for 3/4 of an hour to buy toothpaste and ibuprofen in a drugstore (ah, eastern Europe!)
- Tried to get directions to said drugstore by someone who spoke not a word of english, and got nowhere until she used the internationally recognised magic word "Burger King" to describe where it was.
- Randomly asked a group of Hungarians where an english boy could go to get a little conversation and maybe drink a little red wine and got offered 2 tickets on the tram for free as the girl said the place you buy them was closed. Ace!
- Agreed a flat-share scenario with a nice english girl called Hazel who's from Shropshire (no, I've never heard of it either. England apparently...). This is because we both requested shared flats but both got given single flats. You do the math....
- Learned Malay.
The only downside to this cushy scenario is that my exciting 'new' for which read 'shit' phone won't send calls or texts to anything but Hungarian numbers. The only Hungarian I know is the girl I met at the airport and she has a french SIM card. Shit.
I'll just have to seriously apply myself to making some Hungary friends. So, come on feet, off I go into the Magyar night (look it up) to find some people I can spend 100 Hungarian Florints (HUF) on texting for the rest of the month.
Hurray!
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Well it's off I go to sunny Hungary...
Eugh! So much to say and so little life left in which to say it.
A summary then (not a habit of mine, keeping things brief, but I'll do what I can):
New Year's Eve which threatened to be such a lonely disastrous affair turned into an absolute delight: I took the decision to get out of my appartement and onto the streets of Toulouse to try and find my fortune, or at least someone to celebrate with. Found a top bar, made friends with the barman, got hopelessly drunk on free drinks and chatted to pretty much everyone in the place. We completely missed midnight and the countdown and all that. We were simply having too much fun. Top stuff.
So Hungary. What's that all about I hear you ask....
My parents being the wonderful examples of human beings that they are have paid for me to go and do a TEFL course (teaching english to foreign adult learners for those who don't know) and the cheapest one is in Hungary so I depart tomorrow. It's going to be Toulouse-Paris by train and Paris-Budapest carried by eastern europe's first low-cost airline. 10 years ago this description of an airline would have struck fear into the hearts of those hearing it, but time's have changed. The EU's expanding and the website for the company looks posh, so I'm not worried.
This means four weeks of speaking, and teaching english, in foreign (france no longer counts) climates and something fun and constructive to do upon my return.
Yay!
So I'm happy, all's good. Hope you can say the same for yourself in this new and exciting-sounding year, whoever and wherever you may be, dear reader.
See you on the other side of the iron curtain (not sure about this historical reference. someone surely will correct any inexactitude)
Rob
A summary then (not a habit of mine, keeping things brief, but I'll do what I can):
New Year's Eve which threatened to be such a lonely disastrous affair turned into an absolute delight: I took the decision to get out of my appartement and onto the streets of Toulouse to try and find my fortune, or at least someone to celebrate with. Found a top bar, made friends with the barman, got hopelessly drunk on free drinks and chatted to pretty much everyone in the place. We completely missed midnight and the countdown and all that. We were simply having too much fun. Top stuff.
So Hungary. What's that all about I hear you ask....
My parents being the wonderful examples of human beings that they are have paid for me to go and do a TEFL course (teaching english to foreign adult learners for those who don't know) and the cheapest one is in Hungary so I depart tomorrow. It's going to be Toulouse-Paris by train and Paris-Budapest carried by eastern europe's first low-cost airline. 10 years ago this description of an airline would have struck fear into the hearts of those hearing it, but time's have changed. The EU's expanding and the website for the company looks posh, so I'm not worried.
This means four weeks of speaking, and teaching english, in foreign (france no longer counts) climates and something fun and constructive to do upon my return.
Yay!
So I'm happy, all's good. Hope you can say the same for yourself in this new and exciting-sounding year, whoever and wherever you may be, dear reader.
See you on the other side of the iron curtain (not sure about this historical reference. someone surely will correct any inexactitude)
Rob
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