I think the secret to 'successful' blogging, if such a concept exists, is to write when you have something to say. I would prescribe whatever the opposite of 'little and often' would be: 'lots and infrequently' has none of the same poetry to it but the point is clear.
I can scarcely, however, leave things as they were when last I wrote.
The evening following my last blog entry turned out to be a little bleak. I genuinely can't think of a time when I've felt more... more what actually? I think the word is empty. Like all the juice of my Rob-ness had been used up and I just had this big unwieldy body to drag about the place. I foolishly decided that the way to solve the spinning head and sick stomach I had after receiving the news that the last concrete opportunity I had lined up for finding a job had gone down the toilet of French indifference was to go and get drunk.
For those amongst you who have ever get drunk on an empty stomach and found it to be an unpleasant idea, I suggest you stay away from the drunk-on-an-empty-soul experience I had that night. It was not pretty. I sort of thought I was going to cry I one point but when I started, it turns out I was just on the verge of being sick. This is the least fun you can have with bodily fluids.
I've always thought the expression 'tomorrow is another day' was an expression for the feeble-minded or the original-thought-deprived but it turns out that it's virtually impossible to go to bed drunk, blue and nighttime-minded and wake up to a bright november day and feel the same as you did the night before.
In the same way that drunken exploits which seemed like a great idea at the time come back to you in horrifying technicolor as the actions of a different person, my mood of the previous night seemed like something unfortunate that had happened to someone else.
True, I was still in the same luckless, hopeless, hapless situation but it somehow didn't matter as much.
So the search goes on. The life of nothing-to-do continues but so does the social life that I've worked at building here. I have a regular French squeeze (she expressly told me I'm not allowed to use the word 'girlfriend' so I use the word squeeze out of pure spite!) and at the pub quiz we went to last night, my current housemate and I managed to muster up three genuine french friends without have pull them off the street.
To make matters Frencher, at the end of this week I shall be moving out of Jonny's spangly riverside appartment and into something altogether dingier, further out and much more french. I'll be living with two french girls called (disappointingly enough for those fans, like me, of sexy french names like Aurélie or Aurianne) Sophie and Claire.
They're both really nice but I've recently found out (had she been hiding it up until I signed the dotted line?!) that Claire is a heavily involved Christian. No problem with that of course, but I hope my lifestyle of sin and idleness doesn't upset her too much.
Maybe by the next time I write in this blog, I'll be redeemed, chaste and bound for the kingdom of heaven.
Or, much less feasibly, maybe I'll be in work.
Much remains to be seen.
Your newly re-juiced french correspondant,
Rob
Monday, November 27, 2006
Thursday, November 23, 2006
A man loses patience
What is the eventual fate of the universe? What happens to a body which is continously becoming more and more disordered according to the tirelessly destructive 2nd law of thermodynamics which states that any action that takes places in a universe which obeys the observable laws of physics can only create more disorder than it can order. This means that if something happens to bring form and order to a group of particles somewhere in the universe, the energy that was required to perform such a task will have come from a correspondingly disordering event. The overall sum of these two events always comes out negative. Whatever one does, disorder in the universe increases. So we can ask ourselves what the prospects are for such a universe. Not great.
What if the body that is in a constant state of increasing disorder was something closer to home; more personal?
What if that body were me, for example? What is the eventual outcome for a young man with no job who with every action he performs (paying for an hour's internet usage is an example) brings closer some kind of ultimate disorder. Some kind of endgame.
This sounds strange but I genuinely want to know.
My creditors are mounting up and the means with which I could potentially pay them back are whittling rapidly away. I owe my current housemate 700 euro for rent, I owe the landlord of my future housemates 550 euro for a deposit and I owe the pizzeria where I recently lost my job 7 euro 20 for an apparently underfunded till one shift.
Let me give you an example of what it is like looking for a job here:
I discover one night that Bar Basque, a hip student-frequented bar in the centre of town is looking for a barman. I speak that night with the direction who confirm this and ask me for a CV. I take in the CV the next day. The man says he'll call me in the week to organise an try-out. All is good.
8 days later and I have heard nothing. My french friends tell me I should go in and hassle them. I do this and the direction is not there. The barman tells me to come back in three days time. I wait three days.
I manage to see the direction and he tells me that yes, they are still looking, and can I do an try-out in... oooh, lets see... 9 days time. I'm frustrated but don't want to appear desperate so I agree. We exchange phone numbers and he tells me he'll call me if anything changes.
9 days later is today. I'm half an hour early for the try-out and I'm excited and a little scared. A quick preliminary chat with the direction is what I need to calm my nerves. 8 seconds in to this chat, the direction tells me that they hired someone on saturday and that they have a full team now. He apologises for having forgot to call me. Having had to pretend to be sorry many times, I recognise the signs.
I almost cry. Fortunately I know that if you speak slowly and in a measured manner you are less likely to do that thing when you voice cracks and suddenly you're crying and I talk slowly and calmly. I tell him that it's understandable that he forgot to call me; he's busy. I tell him it's not serious. I leave in a daze.
It might sound stupid to get so worked up about a job in a bar but it's just SO FUCKING TYPICAL of my experience here. I just can't fucking get anyone to take me seriously. And I'm serious: what happens to me when I inevitably run out of money. I've drained the not inconsiderable savings I amounted when I was in my old (real) job and I'm starting to run seriously out of resources. It almost makes me want to say that I just want to be in England where not absolutely everything turns to shit the instant your back is turned.
But I won't say that. That's not what I'm saying. I don't really know what I am saying for the moment. Just that when I add up all the politeness and friendly smiles I've had from potential employers here over the past two and a half months of almost constant searching, I'd happily trade it all in for one single honest yes or no.
Ok that's plenty of ranting for now. I'll leave you to get on with your lives in the peaceful tranquility of knowing that whatever your problems may be and however unjust your world appears, you know that there is someone, somewhere who's a thousand kilometres from home and is utterly failing to make, find or even visualise his fortune. A man who feels like he's learned the meaning of failure. A man who has spent months banging his head against a door, happily patiently and politely waiting for it to open only to discover that it's not a door at all - it's a brick wall.
Your faithful correspondant,
Rob
What if the body that is in a constant state of increasing disorder was something closer to home; more personal?
What if that body were me, for example? What is the eventual outcome for a young man with no job who with every action he performs (paying for an hour's internet usage is an example) brings closer some kind of ultimate disorder. Some kind of endgame.
This sounds strange but I genuinely want to know.
My creditors are mounting up and the means with which I could potentially pay them back are whittling rapidly away. I owe my current housemate 700 euro for rent, I owe the landlord of my future housemates 550 euro for a deposit and I owe the pizzeria where I recently lost my job 7 euro 20 for an apparently underfunded till one shift.
Let me give you an example of what it is like looking for a job here:
I discover one night that Bar Basque, a hip student-frequented bar in the centre of town is looking for a barman. I speak that night with the direction who confirm this and ask me for a CV. I take in the CV the next day. The man says he'll call me in the week to organise an try-out. All is good.
8 days later and I have heard nothing. My french friends tell me I should go in and hassle them. I do this and the direction is not there. The barman tells me to come back in three days time. I wait three days.
I manage to see the direction and he tells me that yes, they are still looking, and can I do an try-out in... oooh, lets see... 9 days time. I'm frustrated but don't want to appear desperate so I agree. We exchange phone numbers and he tells me he'll call me if anything changes.
9 days later is today. I'm half an hour early for the try-out and I'm excited and a little scared. A quick preliminary chat with the direction is what I need to calm my nerves. 8 seconds in to this chat, the direction tells me that they hired someone on saturday and that they have a full team now. He apologises for having forgot to call me. Having had to pretend to be sorry many times, I recognise the signs.
I almost cry. Fortunately I know that if you speak slowly and in a measured manner you are less likely to do that thing when you voice cracks and suddenly you're crying and I talk slowly and calmly. I tell him that it's understandable that he forgot to call me; he's busy. I tell him it's not serious. I leave in a daze.
It might sound stupid to get so worked up about a job in a bar but it's just SO FUCKING TYPICAL of my experience here. I just can't fucking get anyone to take me seriously. And I'm serious: what happens to me when I inevitably run out of money. I've drained the not inconsiderable savings I amounted when I was in my old (real) job and I'm starting to run seriously out of resources. It almost makes me want to say that I just want to be in England where not absolutely everything turns to shit the instant your back is turned.
But I won't say that. That's not what I'm saying. I don't really know what I am saying for the moment. Just that when I add up all the politeness and friendly smiles I've had from potential employers here over the past two and a half months of almost constant searching, I'd happily trade it all in for one single honest yes or no.
Ok that's plenty of ranting for now. I'll leave you to get on with your lives in the peaceful tranquility of knowing that whatever your problems may be and however unjust your world appears, you know that there is someone, somewhere who's a thousand kilometres from home and is utterly failing to make, find or even visualise his fortune. A man who feels like he's learned the meaning of failure. A man who has spent months banging his head against a door, happily patiently and politely waiting for it to open only to discover that it's not a door at all - it's a brick wall.
Your faithful correspondant,
Rob
Monday, October 30, 2006
Putain de merde....
Well, having just reread my last blog entry, it turns out that, in my assessment of my new state of living, I was sadly wrong about one key fact which is going to end up making a huge difference to my new-found "existence."
The extremely attentive amongst you will have spotted an incongruity (discrete but significant) between my assertions of last time and reality. Those of you who are really watching what's going on in France will have noticed that there were some riots in the Paris banlieux a while ago about the revokation of a certain right given to young people when they start a new job. The law previously stated that somebody gained all the rights to continuing employment, and hence an immunity to being sacked for being rubbish, as soon as they started a new job. This means that if you hire'em and they turn out to be cretins, it's your lookout for not having interviewed more thoroughly. Nickolas Sarkozy, if I followed the story correctly, spotted that this meant that basically no-one was able to get any jobs because employers were terrified of being lumbered with a dolt and he promply changed the law provoking demonstrations and riots throughout the country.
How do I know all of this fascinating polical info? And why am I writing about it here? Because, my good friends, my trusted and loved ones, I've just borne the brunt of this new law with a shocking and ruthless immediacy.
Yes, twenty minutes or so ago I was told that I could finish half an hour early, wash my uniform, and give, in cash, the 20 euro I owe from an apparently underfunded till the other day, and never expect to return bar to pick up the cheque for the work I'd managed to squeeze in in between getting and losing my first ever foreign job.
It followed a genuine day from hell in the pizzeria. It's a jour ferié here (bank holiday) and to make matters worse (or better depending on your point of view) it was sunny and at least 25 degrees in the shade. Hot hot hot. And the restaurant was an absolute zoo. I started the day serving outside on the terrace while there were no customers and was then, as usual, banished inside where the harm I would do was expected to be minimal.
Sadly we were so busy that both the terrace (25 tables, two experienced serveurs) and the main room (23 tables, me) were jam packed. It was way more than I could handle. I didn't stress and I generally believe that I either got most stuff right or was sufficiently charming and english to those tables I forgot about or muffed up the order of that it ended up not matter too much from the clients' point of view. My colleagues however were fuming as I ordered lamb instead of salad, spent fifteen minutes looking for a bottle of champagne that I'd never had anyone order before and, to top it all off, fall up the stairs (my shoes are impossibly slippery and entirely inappropriate but I haven't had any time off in which to buy new ones) while loaded with plates filled with greasy garlic mayonnaise and congealed lamb fat which, when flung far and wide across the restaurant by my flailing limbs covered everything in a fine, but lethal, covering of the industrial equivalent of a thousand banana skins.
I then spent the next twenty minutes looking for the brush, then looking for the mop, then mopping and brushing whilst trying to stem the flow of blood which leaked from the pesto-infested wound I'd inflicted upon myself during the incident.
After the end of his dabacle, I settled in to some post-lunch drinks serving on the terrace in an efficient, if extremely irritable and unfriendly manner. It was during this that I made what was to be my final mistake. I served beers to a group of danish businessmen who weren't eating. This contravened our licencing laws and my dragon/bitch/boss took her typical hands on hips, lips pursed approach to giving me the ensuing reproach:
(the following is roughly translated from the french)
Her:
Rob! What did you serve to table 301?
Me:
Err.. I don't know any more. Who is it...? Oh them. Er.... oh yeah, a cappucino, a cafe latte, a pschittt (the hilariously unfortunately named lemonade) and three large beers.
Her:
And do you find anything shocking in that list (I think that's what she said)?
Me:
Err... No. I served a lemonade because we have run out of Iced Tea.
Her:
The biers. You served alcohol to them and they're not eating?
Me:
Oh yeah. I forgot. Sorry. (The bluntness of this response indicates how many times I'd apologised to this dragon only to receive either a dismissive tut or a sorry's-not-good-enough type tirade)
Her:
Do you know that that act could cause this cafe to close?
Me: (tiring of her questioning but also partially thinking that I was getting into the french way of arguing)
I do now. Exit stage left to go and take another order.
This order was the last thing I ever did for Pizza Marzano, Place Du Capitole, Toulouse. I was fired straight afterwards.
The only mitigating factor in this tale of woe is that I was genuinely going to resign at the end of the shift anyway. It was as clear to me as it was to everybody else that I was incompentent and an easy whipping target for the others to boss about and do the shifts no-one else wanted to do (I was scheduled to do 10 straight closes in a row, 6 of them split shifts 12-3pm 6pm-1am. I was 6 days into this punishing regime) and it wasn't a long way from the life I'd wanted to lead when I made the decision to leave england.
The only difference between her solution to the problem and mine was that I was going to, out of good old english courtesy, offer to finish this marathon to give them time to replace me. She insisted I finish right away. Fine by me.
So where does this leave me? Square one? Square zero? I don't know. It's too early to say. What I do know is that it's back to the job market for me and back to wondering whether it's worth the pain to join a society that is collectively battling a mounting unemployment problem.
I'll write again when I get some ideas together.
Rob
The extremely attentive amongst you will have spotted an incongruity (discrete but significant) between my assertions of last time and reality. Those of you who are really watching what's going on in France will have noticed that there were some riots in the Paris banlieux a while ago about the revokation of a certain right given to young people when they start a new job. The law previously stated that somebody gained all the rights to continuing employment, and hence an immunity to being sacked for being rubbish, as soon as they started a new job. This means that if you hire'em and they turn out to be cretins, it's your lookout for not having interviewed more thoroughly. Nickolas Sarkozy, if I followed the story correctly, spotted that this meant that basically no-one was able to get any jobs because employers were terrified of being lumbered with a dolt and he promply changed the law provoking demonstrations and riots throughout the country.
How do I know all of this fascinating polical info? And why am I writing about it here? Because, my good friends, my trusted and loved ones, I've just borne the brunt of this new law with a shocking and ruthless immediacy.
Yes, twenty minutes or so ago I was told that I could finish half an hour early, wash my uniform, and give, in cash, the 20 euro I owe from an apparently underfunded till the other day, and never expect to return bar to pick up the cheque for the work I'd managed to squeeze in in between getting and losing my first ever foreign job.
It followed a genuine day from hell in the pizzeria. It's a jour ferié here (bank holiday) and to make matters worse (or better depending on your point of view) it was sunny and at least 25 degrees in the shade. Hot hot hot. And the restaurant was an absolute zoo. I started the day serving outside on the terrace while there were no customers and was then, as usual, banished inside where the harm I would do was expected to be minimal.
Sadly we were so busy that both the terrace (25 tables, two experienced serveurs) and the main room (23 tables, me) were jam packed. It was way more than I could handle. I didn't stress and I generally believe that I either got most stuff right or was sufficiently charming and english to those tables I forgot about or muffed up the order of that it ended up not matter too much from the clients' point of view. My colleagues however were fuming as I ordered lamb instead of salad, spent fifteen minutes looking for a bottle of champagne that I'd never had anyone order before and, to top it all off, fall up the stairs (my shoes are impossibly slippery and entirely inappropriate but I haven't had any time off in which to buy new ones) while loaded with plates filled with greasy garlic mayonnaise and congealed lamb fat which, when flung far and wide across the restaurant by my flailing limbs covered everything in a fine, but lethal, covering of the industrial equivalent of a thousand banana skins.
I then spent the next twenty minutes looking for the brush, then looking for the mop, then mopping and brushing whilst trying to stem the flow of blood which leaked from the pesto-infested wound I'd inflicted upon myself during the incident.
After the end of his dabacle, I settled in to some post-lunch drinks serving on the terrace in an efficient, if extremely irritable and unfriendly manner. It was during this that I made what was to be my final mistake. I served beers to a group of danish businessmen who weren't eating. This contravened our licencing laws and my dragon/bitch/boss took her typical hands on hips, lips pursed approach to giving me the ensuing reproach:
(the following is roughly translated from the french)
Her:
Rob! What did you serve to table 301?
Me:
Err.. I don't know any more. Who is it...? Oh them. Er.... oh yeah, a cappucino, a cafe latte, a pschittt (the hilariously unfortunately named lemonade) and three large beers.
Her:
And do you find anything shocking in that list (I think that's what she said)?
Me:
Err... No. I served a lemonade because we have run out of Iced Tea.
Her:
The biers. You served alcohol to them and they're not eating?
Me:
Oh yeah. I forgot. Sorry. (The bluntness of this response indicates how many times I'd apologised to this dragon only to receive either a dismissive tut or a sorry's-not-good-enough type tirade)
Her:
Do you know that that act could cause this cafe to close?
Me: (tiring of her questioning but also partially thinking that I was getting into the french way of arguing)
I do now. Exit stage left to go and take another order.
This order was the last thing I ever did for Pizza Marzano, Place Du Capitole, Toulouse. I was fired straight afterwards.
The only mitigating factor in this tale of woe is that I was genuinely going to resign at the end of the shift anyway. It was as clear to me as it was to everybody else that I was incompentent and an easy whipping target for the others to boss about and do the shifts no-one else wanted to do (I was scheduled to do 10 straight closes in a row, 6 of them split shifts 12-3pm 6pm-1am. I was 6 days into this punishing regime) and it wasn't a long way from the life I'd wanted to lead when I made the decision to leave england.
The only difference between her solution to the problem and mine was that I was going to, out of good old english courtesy, offer to finish this marathon to give them time to replace me. She insisted I finish right away. Fine by me.
So where does this leave me? Square one? Square zero? I don't know. It's too early to say. What I do know is that it's back to the job market for me and back to wondering whether it's worth the pain to join a society that is collectively battling a mounting unemployment problem.
I'll write again when I get some ideas together.
Rob
Friday, October 27, 2006
Lost in the mists of mundanity
It's been a while huh? Several of you have been kind enough to point it out and it's unbelievably nice to hear that there are people out there who actively want to know what's going on in France.
Things here are very different to what they were a week ago. My life is basically unrecognisable in one serious way: I have a job!
After what seems like an infinity of begging, hoping, waiting, cursing and planning to move to Paris, I started at the end of last week as a waiter in a Pizza Express right in the main square (Le Capitol for those in the know). It's tough as it's all in French and the fact that I lied about the amount of waitering experience I had is now blantanly obvious for all to see. Happily the french employment laws dictate that they have no choice but to stick with me until I'm good.
As I've heard (but never really believed) from everyone who's ever done it, it's complicated, tiring and confusing. At least, that which I understand (I work entirely in French of course) is complicated, tiring and confusing. All the rest I have no choice but to ignore and hope it will go away.
In all seriousness though, I'm over the moon to have finally established myself in France and I'm currently living purely off my tips for everything bar the rent and the occasional wild lunch-expenditure so life is pretty good. I'm once again, as I was at Caffe Nero, in a situation where my spectacularly low pay is not too much of an issue as I don't have 5 seconds spare in the week to spend any of it. It's marvellous.
There is even a french girl who started on the same day as me who's 26, attractive and an egyptologist when not a work. She's awesome and I'm going to make good efforts to befriend her.
It's not all sweetness and light however. My responsable is Italian and is not the sort to put up with any shit. And I am shit! I received the dressing-down of my life the day-before-yesterday after a busy shift where one fuck-up only lead to the next for me, and increased my level of general flusteredness and confusion. I did it all: Broke stuff, forgot to tell the kitchen that people had ordered their dinner, told the kitchen but got it wrong, forgot to charge people before they left, charged people but lost the resulting Visa slip and I even managed to lose the keys to the cellar meaning that we went without any stock for half a day until it was found in my locker. Oh dear. As occured when I first started at Caffe Nero, I've started having dreams where I'm at work and things are going badly then I will wake up and have to go to work all over again.
Still, yesterday was much better and I started being able to manage myself a little and work out what it was I was supposed to be doing. The volatile french staff seemed a lot happier with me by the end of the evening. It's always a bit difficult to tell though...
So, life goes on. I've traded exhausting but fun work with no time for socialising in one country, for the same in another. Except that every day that passes here I get a little better at the french language. Let's see... In the last few days I've learned useful phrases such as "clear table 21", "now sweep the main room", "fill the oil and vinegar containers" and "think carefully about what I've said to you and do better tomorrow". All marvellously self-improving.
I've had to quit school which is a shame. Life in the Alliance Francais is easy, comfortable and fun, but it was entirely incompatible with having a job. I got my money back for the last week though so it's all good.
Oh and last thing: This monday I passed an audition to be a member of Le Choeur Du Capitole De Toulouse which is a super-posh choir who sing in the main builing of town. I'm very excited and am currently plucking up the courage to ask work for the time off I need to rehearse. We'll see.
I'm currently feeling like the more I settle myself in to Toulouse and real life, the less I'll be using this blog as an outlet for those bottled up experiences and feeling I just had to tell someone, so if nothing appears to follow this entry for some time it doesn't mean I no longer care about my friends and family (mum, I'll call you soon!) it just means that I've reached the kind of equilibrium which is no longer interesting to read about, but represents a real kind of existence for me in a foreign country.
Love
Rob
Things here are very different to what they were a week ago. My life is basically unrecognisable in one serious way: I have a job!
After what seems like an infinity of begging, hoping, waiting, cursing and planning to move to Paris, I started at the end of last week as a waiter in a Pizza Express right in the main square (Le Capitol for those in the know). It's tough as it's all in French and the fact that I lied about the amount of waitering experience I had is now blantanly obvious for all to see. Happily the french employment laws dictate that they have no choice but to stick with me until I'm good.
As I've heard (but never really believed) from everyone who's ever done it, it's complicated, tiring and confusing. At least, that which I understand (I work entirely in French of course) is complicated, tiring and confusing. All the rest I have no choice but to ignore and hope it will go away.
In all seriousness though, I'm over the moon to have finally established myself in France and I'm currently living purely off my tips for everything bar the rent and the occasional wild lunch-expenditure so life is pretty good. I'm once again, as I was at Caffe Nero, in a situation where my spectacularly low pay is not too much of an issue as I don't have 5 seconds spare in the week to spend any of it. It's marvellous.
There is even a french girl who started on the same day as me who's 26, attractive and an egyptologist when not a work. She's awesome and I'm going to make good efforts to befriend her.
It's not all sweetness and light however. My responsable is Italian and is not the sort to put up with any shit. And I am shit! I received the dressing-down of my life the day-before-yesterday after a busy shift where one fuck-up only lead to the next for me, and increased my level of general flusteredness and confusion. I did it all: Broke stuff, forgot to tell the kitchen that people had ordered their dinner, told the kitchen but got it wrong, forgot to charge people before they left, charged people but lost the resulting Visa slip and I even managed to lose the keys to the cellar meaning that we went without any stock for half a day until it was found in my locker. Oh dear. As occured when I first started at Caffe Nero, I've started having dreams where I'm at work and things are going badly then I will wake up and have to go to work all over again.
Still, yesterday was much better and I started being able to manage myself a little and work out what it was I was supposed to be doing. The volatile french staff seemed a lot happier with me by the end of the evening. It's always a bit difficult to tell though...
So, life goes on. I've traded exhausting but fun work with no time for socialising in one country, for the same in another. Except that every day that passes here I get a little better at the french language. Let's see... In the last few days I've learned useful phrases such as "clear table 21", "now sweep the main room", "fill the oil and vinegar containers" and "think carefully about what I've said to you and do better tomorrow". All marvellously self-improving.
I've had to quit school which is a shame. Life in the Alliance Francais is easy, comfortable and fun, but it was entirely incompatible with having a job. I got my money back for the last week though so it's all good.
Oh and last thing: This monday I passed an audition to be a member of Le Choeur Du Capitole De Toulouse which is a super-posh choir who sing in the main builing of town. I'm very excited and am currently plucking up the courage to ask work for the time off I need to rehearse. We'll see.
I'm currently feeling like the more I settle myself in to Toulouse and real life, the less I'll be using this blog as an outlet for those bottled up experiences and feeling I just had to tell someone, so if nothing appears to follow this entry for some time it doesn't mean I no longer care about my friends and family (mum, I'll call you soon!) it just means that I've reached the kind of equilibrium which is no longer interesting to read about, but represents a real kind of existence for me in a foreign country.
Love
Rob
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Sanity and what I paid for it
Due to a gross technical problem at my exciting new flat, I write this blog entry from an internet cafe.
Still, I am, without further ado, moved in and life has taken on a whole new domesticity. Yesterday I had a hot shower and climbed into my grey jogging bottoms, having just pulled them out of the very bottom of my suitcase. It felt good. It felt like being at home.
Jonny, my housemate, is rarely at home so I have set myself up a little bachelors lifestyle of meagre evening meals, regular siestas and lots of reading. It's good and bad simultaneously. Those that know me well know that I thrive off interpersonal contact and that living alone is not my forté. Still, it's a far cry from the nowhere-to-live-nothing-to-do states of mid september.
I've started my new class at school and it's going swimmingly. The level is challenging without being demoralising which is just perfect.
Still no word on the job front though. It's incredible either way. Either McDonald's here take an unbelievably long time to process their job applications or they have some kind of shocking anti-foreigner employment policy. I have heard tell such facts as the latter of french enterprises before now so it wouldn't surprise me greatly.
To make things worse, I heard from the current girl of my dreams (I have to be careful what I say on this public forum as you never know who's reading, so I'll keep all references oblique and all phrases deliberately obtuse and slangy for the incomprehension of the gauls!) that a new joint has sprung up in the town she lives in which hankers after brits like me to serve the jars.
Sorry if you don't understand the following. It's written all in slang.
Who is this mysterious bird? She hangs out close to the briney (the place the posh plonk comes from) and is a real diamond. Wiley, Witty, and generally Way Out she's currently rocking my Top 40 and I suspect I hers (but I'm not 100%). The happy gospel is she's keen to come over for a jaunt soon. Needless to say my ticker leaped when I found out.
Ok, oblique stuff over. If you want an explanation, email me and I'll reveal all.
Those elsewhere wanting a good laugh should try and picture a tall ungainly youth, with limb co-ordination issues attempting to walk in a pair of shoes with well-oiled wheels on the underside. The people of Toulouse however have no need to imagine. They have the spectacle before their very eyes.
Yes it's true. I've taken my bike back to the hire-place and bought a pair of roller blades. I sort of thought it would be easy I think. It looks so damn easy after all. I put them on as soon as I was out of the shop and managed the slowest 200m of my life, overtaken by irate old hunchbacks with crippled legs and jaundice who cursed the slow-moving and unsightly obstacle.
It was amusing. For a bit. I changed back into my shoes after not very long. But, damn you, I'm determined to get it going even though I've no idea of the mode d'emploi.
I'll let you all know how I get on.
Rob
Still, I am, without further ado, moved in and life has taken on a whole new domesticity. Yesterday I had a hot shower and climbed into my grey jogging bottoms, having just pulled them out of the very bottom of my suitcase. It felt good. It felt like being at home.
Jonny, my housemate, is rarely at home so I have set myself up a little bachelors lifestyle of meagre evening meals, regular siestas and lots of reading. It's good and bad simultaneously. Those that know me well know that I thrive off interpersonal contact and that living alone is not my forté. Still, it's a far cry from the nowhere-to-live-nothing-to-do states of mid september.
I've started my new class at school and it's going swimmingly. The level is challenging without being demoralising which is just perfect.
Still no word on the job front though. It's incredible either way. Either McDonald's here take an unbelievably long time to process their job applications or they have some kind of shocking anti-foreigner employment policy. I have heard tell such facts as the latter of french enterprises before now so it wouldn't surprise me greatly.
To make things worse, I heard from the current girl of my dreams (I have to be careful what I say on this public forum as you never know who's reading, so I'll keep all references oblique and all phrases deliberately obtuse and slangy for the incomprehension of the gauls!) that a new joint has sprung up in the town she lives in which hankers after brits like me to serve the jars.
Sorry if you don't understand the following. It's written all in slang.
Who is this mysterious bird? She hangs out close to the briney (the place the posh plonk comes from) and is a real diamond. Wiley, Witty, and generally Way Out she's currently rocking my Top 40 and I suspect I hers (but I'm not 100%). The happy gospel is she's keen to come over for a jaunt soon. Needless to say my ticker leaped when I found out.
Ok, oblique stuff over. If you want an explanation, email me and I'll reveal all.
Those elsewhere wanting a good laugh should try and picture a tall ungainly youth, with limb co-ordination issues attempting to walk in a pair of shoes with well-oiled wheels on the underside. The people of Toulouse however have no need to imagine. They have the spectacle before their very eyes.
Yes it's true. I've taken my bike back to the hire-place and bought a pair of roller blades. I sort of thought it would be easy I think. It looks so damn easy after all. I put them on as soon as I was out of the shop and managed the slowest 200m of my life, overtaken by irate old hunchbacks with crippled legs and jaundice who cursed the slow-moving and unsightly obstacle.
It was amusing. For a bit. I changed back into my shoes after not very long. But, damn you, I'm determined to get it going even though I've no idea of the mode d'emploi.
I'll let you all know how I get on.
Rob
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Where it's at (no dj equipment will be mentioned in this blog entry)
For a refreshing change, here are some photos of me drunk in Toulouse. One even features me in a lift. I'll leave it to you to guess whichHave you ever noticed how funny it is to eat a banana? I found myself just now winding through the streets of Toulouse, lit for the first time in about 2 weeks in beautiful autumnal sunshine (the weather here has been terrifyingly english of late), riding high and no handed on my beautiful shiny bicycle which I am hiring for 2€ a day from the Toulouse city council, eating a banana in the 'pull off a section and pop it in the mouth' style unable to supress a small laugh and a grin as I watched the good people of france go about their day unbanana-ed. Imagine the joy of a man with a banana and a bike, viewing the general public who had none and you will be close to sharing the fun.
This anecdote, apropos of nothing, heralds in the latest edtion of my life in which an element of stability has finally been acheived. I mark it down here in unwithering digital posterity as a reminder of the difference between that which you imagine will make you happy and that which actually has the power to do so.
Things are going from good to still good at the Alliance Francaise. It's something of a drain of the savings, but infinitely worth it in it's capacity to give me a reason to get up in the morning (class starts at nine!) and a way of meeting lots of nice people (virtually all spanish and german, but hey) who have nothing to do but enjoy themselves and speak french. My routine is this: Get up and go to class, buying a croissant or a pain au chocolat en route (I've paid for breakfast in this mad house but my hostess doesn't feel the need to buy anything) where I remain until 12:30. I then go with a group of espagnophones (I may have made this word up, it means spanish and south american people) to what is luxuriously known as Le Restaurant Universitaire which is basically an uber-sized canteen serving up slop for the students at remarkable prices. Seriously though. The food is great. After lunch I slope into town to find a cafe with some folk and discuss aspects of the french language or just life in general with my co-students (this is where I get to do all my french speaking at the moment). Then it's siesta time from 4 till 6. Then I do my homework like a good boy, and then I go out to a bar. That's it. Every day! And it's great.
I'm going to do one more month I think, taking me to the end of Level 6 (of a possible 7 or 8 depending on the size of the current student population at the start of a given month) which, from what I've seen of those that are nearing the end of this level, will give me a good working knowledge of the language and, more importantly, an ability to actually understand what's being said to me, rather than just catching a general drift. This will be mighty fine.
I'm still waiting to hear from "the clown who don't frown" (I just thought of that. Maybe I should go into advertising...) about my forthcoming McEmployment but I spoke this weekend to the manager, who actually seems like a nice normal human being, unlike the manager of a McDo in the UK who I'm sure would not have the time for a pleasant chat with someone coming to his or her place of work with broken english asking for a job. He said that it's far from extraordinary to wait two or three weeks before hearing anything as the application form has to go off to some distant sorting office for processing, flavourising, odourising and putting into a bun. I wait patiently for my response.
What I should really do now is go back and read my previous post as I can't remember whether or not I've already said that I've found an appartment... but I have. I'm in serious danger of repeating myself here so skip ahead if you need to.
Twas a rainy day in the south-west of france. When it rains here it really goes for it. It's been hailing a few times to. This would never have happened if the french had said oui to the EU constitution... I was in the southern reaches of this city with the english friend who I met through a Cambridge friend who I stayed with for a week when I was first here (that seems like not only a different city but a whole different lifetime). You can see my post sometime around the start of August or end of July for full details and a photo! We went to the cinema which was showing a french film, in french, with no subtitles, which I found frankly selfish but I went along for the ride nonetheless (how do you write that? Is it hyphenated or different words or what? Any linguists out there...). When I returned to Jonny's superb glistening flat I was soaking wet and cold. I bemoaned the fact that I was finding it impossible to find anywhere to live and blah blah blah when out of the blue, in a voice that seemed not to understand the pain and anguish of the previous 20 fruitless days of searching, Jonny said "you can live here if you want". You can insert your own falling-off-chair style hyberbola of amazement here if you like but, needless to say, I was speechless. Here was an opportunity to live in perfect harmony in a super-swish flat with someone who I already know and who is fluent in french... safe.
Now I realise that this presents serious problems for my language-learning. I'll be living with an english guy who's been here for long enough to be over the excitement and to have started to have feelings of nostalgia for stuff like the BBC, but I really think that for 4 months or so, I could make my home life comfortable and pleasant in contrast to the hell of grease and noise that I'm sure will be McDo, and I have one week to make up my mind. Do I turn the offer down and carry on living with my fruitcake host "mother", vainly searching for a place that as far as I've seen doesn't exist. Do I bollocks. I said yes. In fact I said "yes please, that would be wonderful. Pluck me from my life of homelessness and obscurity and give me a place to be. A place with a double-bed and a fridge and a shower that works and cooker and a SENSE OF CONTROL OVER MY LIFE!". Or words to that effect.
So that's that. I'm moving in with an english guy on the first of October and there's nothing that anyone can do about it. You might as well save the condemning-to-monolingualism emails and instead write me that you think I've made a good decision and that I'm brave and handsome and great.
You don't have to do that of course...
All my lovin'
Rob
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Your oldest friend survives a terrorist attack and your self works at mcdonalds
There are some strange and unpleasant things in this world; that's nothing unusual, there's always horrible shit going down somewhere. The only thing that makes this horrible shit different is that it's happening to me and my nearest and dearest.
As many readers of this blog will know, my oldest friend was fortunate enough this week to be out of town on a day when terrorism struck small(ish) town Thailand, killing one of her friends and by the sounds of things really devastating the community. Her closing line in her email telling us she was ok ("Being poor but unharmed is fine by me" or words to that affect) really made me think about the world and how wierd it is that it's also so full of troubles. I mean, the problem with troubles is that they're so common and pervasive that you just don't notice anymore. But it is wierd when you think about it. We're all here just trying to breath, drink, eat and get laid and yet day in day out people are waging war on one another and blowing eachother up in the name of ideology. I realise this is extremely old news but have you ever had it where something you've always just known, you suddenly really know? Like, the simple fact of "I'm getting older". Suddenly one day you might really think about it and something just falls into place. Maybe it's just me.
So, in amongst all this devilry, suffering and loneliness, what have I done to alleviate my situation of being unemployed and homeless?
I've applied for a job in McDonalds.
Yes it's true. One day some small child will be able to say to another small child that his Dad works in McDonalds and he won't be just teasing. It'll be me. All five stars on my name-badge, flipping the finest burgers known to man and trying to chat up the woman who minces the cow eyeballs in the back room.
It's hardly my idea of a dream come true, but in a funny sort of way I think it's rather good. It's a job that's relatively easy, in French (est-ce que je peux prendre un BigMac et Fries s'il vous plait) that will pay reasonably and allow me to carry on my french classes in the mornings. Plus they've got these new natty McDonalds matching jeans and denim cap outfits that I've not seen before. Will they have my size I wonder....!
In more news today, I may be on the brink of moving in to the biggest cop-out of all time: A flat with an english housemate... Not only that but an english housemate I already know. It's a friend of a friend who I stayed with when last I was in Toulouse. It'll be rubbish for my french, but great for my life overall as the flat's super-swish, relatively central and not too costly. I think my time for living with french people will come, but maybe it's not quite yet. Perhaps once I've scaled all 8 levels of the Alliance Francais...
All my love to all those in safety and comfort as well as those in post-traumatic stress mode.
Your humble blog writer,
Rob (Pictured here drunk with language students in Toulouse. It's a good job you don't love me coz I'm handsome!)
Monday, September 11, 2006
Paying and Playing my way out of trouble
Eurgh. It's hard finding a job in France. In fact, at the moment at seems basically impossible. There are 4 english pubs in town, none of who want anyone, and my french is apparently laughably poor to any employer working in a francophone industry.
It's been a soul-wearing week or so of writing carefully crafted emails and texts in french and even a CV in french only to receive nothing or hastily written apologies in reply.
So here I am, almost 10 days in Toulouse
and no job, no appartment, no nothing.What about my lovely hosts, I hear you ask (seen left, drunk!). Well, the thing that's truely making me feel miserable at this moment is the fact that I ended up
grossly outstaying my welcome with this lovely couple. Shit. It came upon me suddenly, when one day Julien told me that we needed to talk about what my plans were for getting somewhere else to stay. He told me that it was important to Helena that I move out soon as she needed some space (the appartment, if you recall, is only one room). I'd sensed some coldness in the days preceding but thought it was just circumstantial. Maybe she was hung over or pissed off about something. But, no: She was sick of the sight of me on their couch every morning.I hurried into town and spent the day sending out emails to people on CouchSurfing.com desperately looking for somewhere to stay when Julien told me that they had someone else coming to stay that night and that it was ok for me to stay one more night but with 4 of us in the one room it was going to start getting really difficult. It was then I realised that I could never go back to Julien and Helena's place, unless it was to pick up my stuff and move out.
I couldn't believe that I'd allowed things to go sour between us, nor could I believe it was finding somewhere to stay. The one avenue I have, the other flatmates don't make up their mind until this Thursday (four days from now) and even then if I do get the place it doesn't start till the first of october, which is another 20 days away. I was in the shit.
So, I did what I always did in these situations: I payed and played my way out of trouble. I told Julien that, great news, I'd found somewhere to stay, and I booked myself into a hotel (42 euro a night, argh!). When I went round to get my stuff I was worried that things would be awkward but happily they had a load of friends over and helena seemed drunk, relaxed and happy to see me. I re-established my good relations with everyone by playing a selection of their favourite hits on the guitar and singing like a wild man, and everyone was back on my side.
Fine, but I'm not sure how many times I can buy and sing my way out of difficult situations like this. Certainly not forever. So what to do?
Well, just now I went and took a test at the Alliance Francais in the Toulouse central square (I think I may have written about the last test I did in Bordeaux) and came out with a flying 'Level 5 (Intermediate Stage 3)' of a mere possible 7. I'm 5/7ths of the way to being a french expert!
So the course starts tomorrow, and hopefully they can get me in with a host family too, which would be wonderful. So, hopefully, you're favourite Levy gets to fight another day. And it feels quite good that this time I didn't rely on the old Levy luck for things to just fall into place. I actually went and did something. It's starting to seem like the Levy Luck Broadcaster doesn't reach all the way to the south of France.
It seems that I may be on my own....
Rob
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Back in Toulouse
Ticket to ride
Something typically beautiful from Toulouse
I'm here again. Beautiful tranquil Toulouse. Although this time it's not quite so tranquil as the students are here. In fact that's an understatement.The town centre is a madness of bikes and cars and pedestrains encumbered with moving-in stuff and flyers for various clubs and bars. It's very cleary first-days-in-town time for a lot of people here.
Still, all remains charming and agreeable from what I have seen so far.
I am staying with a pair of mighty fine CouchSurfing hosts right in the centre of the city, who've given me a place to stay, loads of advice and help, and also plenty of great nights in. They're
all-round wonderful. Slightly heavy on the public displays of affection, but as I'm staying in their appartement which has only one room (see right) I really have no basis for complaint.It's been wonderful to have a base from which to go to find jobs, arrange meetings with prospective colocateurs (flatmates) and generally soak up some of la vie toulousienne.
He - 25, from Marseilles, plays spanish and french jazz style guitar, trained as a social worker but currently unemployed. She (sitting on the floor on the right on the photo below) - 30, from Brazil, curren
tly working hard for a doctorate in economics.
When I first arrived in Toulouse I met up with a Canadian girl who I'd met in the youth hostel in Montpellier and had gotten along with really well. I spent the night at her new flat and had an evening of vodka with blackcurrant syrup and mushroom crepes. All very wonderful and french, but I woke up in the morning with a nasty stomach ache. I was, apparently, only welcome for one night as she offered to take me down to the youth hostel that afternoon. However, they were full so I fell back on my old favourite, CouchSurfing.com. I was dropped off only about 500m from the flat, but I had all my stuff with me (a backpack, a frontpack, and my favourite 3 quid brown leather effect suitcase from a charity shop in Cambridge) and my state of health was rapidly deteriorating. I had intense pain in my stomach which I attributed to the vodka, aching in all my limbs which I attributed to the bags I was carrying, and was sweating profusely which I attributed to the 34 degree heat.
When I arrived at the 3rd floor flat, hot and sweaty, I thought I needed a shower and a lie down to feel right, but as I was brushing my teeth I vomited profusely into the sink. I then proceeded to spew about 5 more times into the toilet, reaquainting myself with the mushrooms from the night before, seemingly unchanged but coated in a black slime. It soon became clear I was properly ill. I apologised to my new hosts and cleaned out the sink, unblocking the plug with my fingers, and slept for the rest of the day.
Following a day entirely without food I began to feel better and commenced the search for flats and jobs.
My first effort at finding a flat was a little dispiriting. The place was way way out of town in a souless suburb and the three flatmates all worked together at the QuickBurger just across the highway; not exactly my idea of a free-living artisic flatshare. I persisted however, and have an interview tonight with 3 medical students in the centre of town. It sounds absolutely perfect as they speak a little english, but no so much that we'll be conversing in english all the time. My fingers are crosssed.
They're also crossed for a job I just applied for in a darling little place called cafe italiano or something where I just dropped in a CV and got chatting to a couple of the staff. All are super-friendly and were impressed with my level of french. The guy says he'll give me a call.
So: lots to hope for, and some to look forward to, as I may have a few weeks before I can move in to my potential new flat, so maybe a little more travelling? Who knows.
Love to all those thinking of me.
Rob
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
A made-up mind
How do I feel on this, my last day in Bordeaux? Well, it's raining pretty hard and has been cold and windy for a good few days, so the gods of weather are helping me not to feel too strong a sense of nostalgia for the place (I've been here 8 days now which in traveller's time is an epoch.
Yes it's true. I've made up my mind. I'm leaving bdx tomorrow, taking my beautiful mobylette home to Le-Puy-En-Velay and moving in earnest to Toulouse. It's yet another mammoth ride but strangely it will be my last. I feel like a suitor who has chosen someone pretty and homely over a filthy but intriguing punk with constant designs towards kleptomania but who could potentially be a lot of fun. C'est la vie.
I have just enough time left in bdx to tell a few amusing anecdotes and maybe create a couple more, so let's get on with a tale I like to call: The Disturbing Neighbour
There were three of us, couchsurfers all, staying in the appartment of the ex-boyfriend of our host, Ornella (see previous posts). We had met the guy upstairs once already; a silver-haired man of around fifty with an odd but vaguely smart dress sense and a bycicle in the hallway. He spoke good english and seemed friendly and helpful.
One afternoon as I was leaving the flat to head into town he was there on the landing and we started talking. He told me how nice it was to have youngsters in the place and how if he lived with people his own age the place would be dead. He said that if we wanted to have a party or anything then we were welcome and I thanked him for his generosity. He told me that he's a lawyer and used to live in a posh part of town but had had "a problem" and now lived in the moderate squalor of the appartment but was fine with the move. He asked me my name and told me his and all seemed very jolly.
We were by now out on the street and I could sense that the conversation was going to be one of those ones that don't end unless you force it. He seemed keen to keep on talking and I assumed he was lonely and in need of sociability. Fine. Things got a little rich though when he asked for my phone number. I said in a consiliatory tone that it wasn't necessary but wished him a pleasant afternoon. He quickly departed on his bike with a very hurried goodbye.
2 hours later I was back in the flat reading and relaxing when the buzzer went. The vioce told me it was Phillipe (the owner of the flat, understood to be away in Montreal) and that I should come down to help him do something with the bike in the hallway. I couldn't quite understand all the french but was amazed that the owner of the flat was back unexpectedly and hurried around the flat making things a bit tidier.
When I got downstairs however, it wasn't Phillipe at all, but Hugo and he was in a rage. He was pointing at the German guy's bike, locked to the staircase, and shouting in french and appeared to be in a furious state. His words were along the lines of:
"how can I put my bike away when this bloody bike is in my way. you need to move it right away. I have a very important appointment and how can I get to it if you don't move this bike. I promise I'll call the police if you don't move it right now....etc etc"
I tried to tell him that the bike wasn't mine and that there was nothing I could do but this only enraged him further and he was gesticulating wildly with his arms and shouting ever louder and faster. He told me again he was calling the police and got out his phone. I told him that it was a good idea to call the police and retreated upstairs to the flat, locking the door behind me.
Another hour or so passed in peace and I had forgotten about the strange incident when I heard a knock at the door. Fuck, I thought, he's here. He wants to kill me. So I sat very still and cursed the fact the I'd left the radio on as a giveaway to my presence in the flat. I thought if I just didn't answer he'd assume I was out and leave me alone.
The knocking persisted however, and eventually I resigned myself to opening the door.
I was surprised to find there, not Hugo, but three uniformed local police officers standing on the landing looking serious. They asked me if I was the owner of the mobylette downstairs and asked me if there had been a problem earlier on. I described to them the pleasant conversation, and the refusal to give my number, followed by the blind rage of earlier and they took my name, age and country of birth.
During my tale, two of the policemen ventured upstairs and were peering through the bannisters into Hugo's appartment and one of them started sniggering. He pointed at something to his colleague who in turn smiled wryly and shook his head. They came back downstairs and lead my interlocuter away saying "he's crazy. don't worry about anything". I asked if there was anything I could do but they seemed happy with what they'd seen and left.
What they saw up there in that appartment I'll never know, as I didn't venture upstairs to follow their gaze, but whatever it was was enough to convince the police that they were dealing with a madmen and convince me that we needed to keep our appartment door locked at all times.
Yes it's true. I've made up my mind. I'm leaving bdx tomorrow, taking my beautiful mobylette home to Le-Puy-En-Velay and moving in earnest to Toulouse. It's yet another mammoth ride but strangely it will be my last. I feel like a suitor who has chosen someone pretty and homely over a filthy but intriguing punk with constant designs towards kleptomania but who could potentially be a lot of fun. C'est la vie.
I have just enough time left in bdx to tell a few amusing anecdotes and maybe create a couple more, so let's get on with a tale I like to call: The Disturbing Neighbour
-+-+-
There were three of us, couchsurfers all, staying in the appartment of the ex-boyfriend of our host, Ornella (see previous posts). We had met the guy upstairs once already; a silver-haired man of around fifty with an odd but vaguely smart dress sense and a bycicle in the hallway. He spoke good english and seemed friendly and helpful.
One afternoon as I was leaving the flat to head into town he was there on the landing and we started talking. He told me how nice it was to have youngsters in the place and how if he lived with people his own age the place would be dead. He said that if we wanted to have a party or anything then we were welcome and I thanked him for his generosity. He told me that he's a lawyer and used to live in a posh part of town but had had "a problem" and now lived in the moderate squalor of the appartment but was fine with the move. He asked me my name and told me his and all seemed very jolly.
We were by now out on the street and I could sense that the conversation was going to be one of those ones that don't end unless you force it. He seemed keen to keep on talking and I assumed he was lonely and in need of sociability. Fine. Things got a little rich though when he asked for my phone number. I said in a consiliatory tone that it wasn't necessary but wished him a pleasant afternoon. He quickly departed on his bike with a very hurried goodbye.
2 hours later I was back in the flat reading and relaxing when the buzzer went. The vioce told me it was Phillipe (the owner of the flat, understood to be away in Montreal) and that I should come down to help him do something with the bike in the hallway. I couldn't quite understand all the french but was amazed that the owner of the flat was back unexpectedly and hurried around the flat making things a bit tidier.
When I got downstairs however, it wasn't Phillipe at all, but Hugo and he was in a rage. He was pointing at the German guy's bike, locked to the staircase, and shouting in french and appeared to be in a furious state. His words were along the lines of:
"how can I put my bike away when this bloody bike is in my way. you need to move it right away. I have a very important appointment and how can I get to it if you don't move this bike. I promise I'll call the police if you don't move it right now....etc etc"
I tried to tell him that the bike wasn't mine and that there was nothing I could do but this only enraged him further and he was gesticulating wildly with his arms and shouting ever louder and faster. He told me again he was calling the police and got out his phone. I told him that it was a good idea to call the police and retreated upstairs to the flat, locking the door behind me.
Another hour or so passed in peace and I had forgotten about the strange incident when I heard a knock at the door. Fuck, I thought, he's here. He wants to kill me. So I sat very still and cursed the fact the I'd left the radio on as a giveaway to my presence in the flat. I thought if I just didn't answer he'd assume I was out and leave me alone.
The knocking persisted however, and eventually I resigned myself to opening the door.
I was surprised to find there, not Hugo, but three uniformed local police officers standing on the landing looking serious. They asked me if I was the owner of the mobylette downstairs and asked me if there had been a problem earlier on. I described to them the pleasant conversation, and the refusal to give my number, followed by the blind rage of earlier and they took my name, age and country of birth.
During my tale, two of the policemen ventured upstairs and were peering through the bannisters into Hugo's appartment and one of them started sniggering. He pointed at something to his colleague who in turn smiled wryly and shook his head. They came back downstairs and lead my interlocuter away saying "he's crazy. don't worry about anything". I asked if there was anything I could do but they seemed happy with what they'd seen and left.
What they saw up there in that appartment I'll never know, as I didn't venture upstairs to follow their gaze, but whatever it was was enough to convince the police that they were dealing with a madmen and convince me that we needed to keep our appartment door locked at all times.
-+-+-
In other news, I have spent a wonderful evening at Ornella's mother's house enjoying fine french cuisine and not entirely understanding fine french conversation. We had an evening of music as one of Ornella's friends is a fine mezzo-soprano, Ornella plays the flute, Toni the German couchsurfer on his accordian, and I played the piano.
Also today, I experienced the joy of a fit of unstoppable giggles on my own, in a sophisticated cafe, whilst reading a paragraph from Love in the Time of Cholera. I'm reasonably sure that it ranks as the most I've ever laughed at a book, but I think some of the laughter may in part have been at the fact that I was laughing alone in public. A wonderful tonic on a drizzly afternoon.
Delights, delights. Next time in Toulouse?
Love from,
Rob
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)