After the incident with the weird guys on the train, the people in Marseille only got weirder. We dropped our bags off at our “family room” at the Hotel Montgrand near the Vieux Port, and our first mission was to find food. After surviving six to seven hours on a train on only chocolate cookies and “salty nuts,” we were famished. Apparently one Asian cuisine meal wasn’t enough, and after about a few minutes of reading menus at restaurants along the waterfront, we decided on Zen Zen, a very clean and new-looking Asian fast food place. While it wasn’t the best, it was cheap and pretty good, and thus became our official Marseille hangout for the next four days.

Following our late lunch (by American standards), we stopped in the Office du Tourisme to get free maps and information on local sights, and then we stopped in a few stores along Marseille’s main shopping drag. Amy wasn’t feeling too well after the long day, so the remaining three of us decided to forge on anyway. We headed up the hill to Cours Julien, the Lower East Side of Marseille. The main part is a plaza at the top of one of Marseille’s many hills (very reminiscent of San Francisco), but as we noticed along our walk, this city is very sketchy. Not to mention filthy. (I later found out that their garbage department was on strike – typical – but I don’t think it would have been THAT much cleaner anyway.) When we got to the top of the hill, we decided on a Pakistani cuisine restaurant. And after 45 minutes of being ignored (the waitstaff really tried to avoid eye contact with us after they simply told us to wait by the door for a table), we were finally seated. Then the waiter messed up our Naan order, which led to a very confusing discussion in both French and English, and even in English their answer didn’t make any sense. It was definitely time for drinks.

We first hit up Dan Racing, which was hosting a punk rock concert with mosh pits and everything. There were two weird things about this bar: one was the CA-Interstate 280 sign on the refrigerator, and the other was that their unisex bathroom had neither a toilet nor a urinal – simply a hole in the ground. I just couldn’t do it. I pleaded with Rachel and Liz that we find somewhere else quickly, and after about five minutes we found Planet Mundo, a much cleaner, upscale (but not too upscale) bar and club holding a reggae concert. They also had very clean toilets. While I was in the restroom, Rachel met a new friend named Bernard (I think), who was a local and seemed very nice. Although I didn’t really talk to him much. More on him later. After a very long day and readjusting to a new city very different from Bordeaux, it was time for bed.

On Saturday morning (also Halloween), we went back to Zen Zen for brunch. For € 5,99, one could get orange juice, hot chocolate/coffee, a croissant, two pieces of bread and jam and a very large yogurt. It was nice having a refreshing breakfast after eating grocery store pain-au-chocolat for the past four days to save money. The four of us munched in our breakfast in the outdoor patio seating area on a warm morning, sitting around the table like we were in an episode of Sex and the City. Breakfast was pleasent until we were getting up to leave, when two gypsy boys ran up to our table and started trying to grab things off our already-finished trays. I’m used to them coming by for money when I’m eating, either from other cities in Europe (Paris, Rome and Barcelona all seem to come to mind first), but the gypsies in Marseille are exceptionally more aggressive than in any other European city I’ve been to so far. We were trying to ignore them at first, but then one of the boys (perhaps 10 years old, if not younger) grabbed the receipt off of Liz’s tray and started waving it in the air and laughing at us. Liz started to get understandably upset, asking for her receipt back, to which the kid refused. Although I wasn’t sure what kind of information was actually on the receipt (nor did I know that she had paid in cash so he couldn’t really use it against her), it was still wrong that the kid took something that wasn’t his and then taunted us with it. When he stopped for a second, I managed to grab it out of his hand, to which he looked at me as if he were going to cry and then tried to grab it out of my hand. I said nothing, stared him down and him and the other boy ran away, picking up chairs and annoying people at other outdoor restaurants. I gave Liz back her receipt, and after the morning entertainment, we were ready to hike up the city hills to the Notre-Dame Cathedral (every French city has one).

Marseille hills are just as steep as San Francisco’s, and after a few months of being away, I wasn’t quite conditioned for them in the same way anymore. But, nevertheless, we made it to the top, with views of the entire city and the surrounding islands, including the Château d’If (from The Count of Monte Cristo). The Notre-Dame itself was gorgeous, and appropriately for Halloween, we visited the church crypt, although it was less crypty than other crypts I’ve been to in France. My favorite moment at the church was watching two little toddlers meet and then chase each other around, her chasing him first and then after he fell, he chased her. It was like watching a metaphor for life. After marching back down the hill, we tried to go to the Musée Cantini, where we were looking for a Kandinsky exhibit, mentioned in the guide book. However, when Liz and Amy asked the ticket agent if the exhibit was still there, we were rudely brushed away, as she said something to the effect of, “Look behind you and read the list. Do you see his name there?” Well, then. We decided to give up on the Cantini and walked over to the Quartier Le Panier, the oldest established district in all of France. It certainly looked its age. And while it was dirty and smelly in parts, we managed to find a very nice, quiet square with a few patio restaurants for lunch.

After lunch, we rushed back to the Musée de la Mode, which was less than I hoped for, but it was free so I’m not going to complain. I also found a piece of green straw that I used for my Halloween costume: a French pumpkin. That is, I wore an orange dress and a beret, to which I tied the green ribbon in the same fashion as the berets from Madeleine. I really should have just bought a green beret, but I can’t afford any fancy extras at the moment. We then rushed to the Office du Tourisme again to get information on getting to Les Calanques on Sunday. However, none of the agents seemed to really know anything about getting their by boat, as all of them gave us different information. But someone told us how to get there by city bus, which turned out to be the easiest and cheapest option.

Halloween isn’t very big in France, but there were some traces of the holiday, either chocolate ghosts in store windows or waiters dressed up as different restaurants in Cours Julien. Plus, it was Saturday night, so there were plenty of people out and about. We had dinner at a tapas restaurant, which was one of the best meals I’ve had in awhile, if not the best since I arrived in France. Spanish food was the best meal I’ve had in France so far. Ha. Three pitchers of both red and white sangria later, we went on a mini-pub crawl, before which we ran into Bernard again. He tagged on to our group for the most of the evening, first buying us a round of mojitos at at bar called “Oogie.” We all tried to buy him a drink, but he refused, so that’s that. We eventually made it back to Planet Mundo again, where there weren’t too many people on the dance floor by 1 AM anymore. Except us. Eventually, the four of us stumbled back down the graffiti and garbage-strewn streets to our hotel.

Now, in Lille, most of our hangover brunches take place at McDonalds, as its the only thing open on Sunday mornings (or Sunday at all). Not to mention that this Sunday was also November 1, All Saints’ Day or Toussaint, the holiday for which we had this lengthy vacation. But luckily for us, Zen Zen was indeed open to the public on Sunday morning. However, in the middle of our breakfast, we were interrupted by a middle-aged gypsy woman pushing her stroller right up to our table. She kept asking for money and food, but we tried to ignore her and politely tell her we didn’t have anything to share. But she didn’t relent, instead standing there for at least a full minute. Then, she grabbed at Rachel’s chicken nuggets, which prompted all of us to start screaming at her. She sort of laughed at us like it was OK for her to do that, and then continued to bother other patrons. Rachel still ate the chicken nuggets, which I would have done too, although she joked that we might all have swine flu now. Or possibly some disease never discovered by scientists. While I’ve been bothered by them in the past, this was just ridiculous. And we decided that anyone who decides to dress up like a gypsy at Halloween is a complete idiot. There’s no romance there.

We then headed to the main street to catch the bus to Les Calanques. Now, I didn’t really know much (if anything) about Les Calanques before this trip. I thought we were going to a group of villages, after I heard talk about us having to walk through centre-ville (downtown) somewhere, maybe something like Cinque Terre in Italy. But I really didn’t expect that we’d be hiking through a national park. So wearing my flats that day turned out to be a bad idea. Although, I’ve seen a woman climb the Eiffel Tower in stilettos once, so I figured I could manage this. I almost made it on both paths we took, one towards the top (seen in the group photo) and then to the bottom by the beaches and Mediterranean. I couldn’t make it down to the water as there was one part that looked too slippery, and I wasn’t going to risk falling and breaking my neck over the beach and my shoes. So I decided to chill while the others continued on, breathing in the fresh Mediterranean Sea air and basking in the southern France sunlight. After several hours of getting in touch with nature, we went back to the hotel and then back out in search for dinner. Most places were closed since it was both Sunday and Toussaint, but eventually we settled on dinner at a Reunion-cuisine restaurant. I was pleasantly surprised by how good the food was, especially noticing the obvious Indian influence on the style.

On our final full day in Marseille and of our vacation down south, we took a bus ride to Aix-en-Provence, just 50 minutes away. The only thing I really knew about Aix was that the region is famous for rosé wines, but as it was November and we were in the middle of the city (not the countryside where its made), we didn’t really have much clue as to what to do or see. There was also a very rude welcoming, as some very weird middle-aged guy started harassing us when walking to centre-ville from the bus stop. And he just wouldn’t leave us alone! We kept telling him to go away, then he said our French was bad and apologized for saying our French is bad, and he wouldn’t get out of our faces. I walked into the middle of the street to try to get away from him, and he wouldn’t go away! I have no idea what his agenda was, other than being a complete jerk, but somehow we lost his interest.

We then wandered a bit, spending some time in a comic book store (comics are REALLY popular here), and then lunch at a diner. We tried to find a museum, but as I suspected,  it was Monday and all museums were closed. I think it turned out to be a good thing, as we found a very delightful antique shop, where all four of us left with something. I bought a set of old-fashioned playing cards decorated with European monarchs and nobility (i.e. Marie-Antoinette, Joseph I of Austria, Catherine the Great, the Duke of Marlborough, etc.), Amy bought a blue belt, Liz got a French film magazine from the 1960s and Rachel got a weekend-getaway suitcase. We then rushed back to the bus depot to get on the bus back to Marseille, which was confusing in itself as we had to search for both the correct stop and then get in line (or more like behind the mob) getting on the two buses back to Marseille.

Appropriately, we ate Provençal food the last night. Amy and Rachel shared a Niçoise salad and the Bouillabaisse, which looked like art when the waiter brought it out and prepared it for them right there on the table. When we got back to the hotel, where cleaning staff had removed our shower door for some bizarre, unknown reason, Rachel and Liz passed out from exhaustion while Amy and I watched some French reality TV. Both of us really wish we had TV here, as I think it would really help in learning the language even more. The programs were really entertaining and its more fun than just talking at work each day. First we watched a show about a mom looking for new love, and then a makeover show about a couple getting married called Une Nouvelle Look, Une Nouvelle Vie. I was captivated.

Alas, our fun had to end some time. After a week in the south, it was time to return north. But I think all of us were ready as we all missed friendly people, even if it did mean cold and rain awaited us. Passing through Aix, Avignon, and Lyon, the five-hour TGV ride went smoothly with the exception of a 20-minute stop at EuroDisney again when the car door couldn’t open and they had to reboot the train. When we arrived back in Lille, I realized the date was November 3. Hard to believe that it was only one year ago on the same day I was finishing packing for my trip to Asia, Barack Obama was about to be elected president…and I started this blog!

On a very typical Lille morning (rain, cold, more rain) on October 27, four female American language assistants boarded a TGV with a final destination of Bordeaux. After only three weeks at work (and a total of six in France for me), we already had our first paid vacation. Life in France can be very good.

As the little blue dot on my iPhone Google map application treaded southward past Gare Marne-la-Vallée/Chessy (a.k.a. the station for EuroDisney), there were only blue skies for us for the next seven days. But, as we learned, there’s a price to pay for nice weather. Namely, you’re trading in friendly people for friendly weather. You can’t have both in France. Nowhere is perfect. While we arrived in Bordeaux twenty minutes late, the five-hour train ride fairly pleasant. High-speed train is really the most relaxing way to travel long distance on a budget (Although I’ve never been on a cruise ship, I’ve never been fond of boats.). But I did make the mistake of forgetting to bring enough snacks along for the ride, and in a moment of weakness somewhere near Tours, I made my way to the Bar Car and ended up paying € 2 for a bag of Lays classic potato chips. I still can’t believe I did that.

After taking the very sleek and futuristic tram into the center of Bordeaux where our hotel was, we got in a bit of sightseeing before the day was out. We started out at the Place de la Bourse, which has a huge fountain spraying pink water and the nymphs above the fountains had pink sashes draped over themselves for breast cancer. After that, we walked on water. Literally. Bordeaux has a giant, flat reflecting pool that tourists and locals mingle barefoot over, splashing about in the daytime and then admiring the brilliant reflection of the Parliament buildings at night.

After checking out the local carnival, we met up with Liz’s Bordelaise friend, Veronique, who did us the great favor and service of showing us around Bordeaux each evening. But as we were all exhausted by the end of the first day, we passed Rue Sainte-Catherine (the longest pedestrian street in Europe), had a round of drinks and called it a day. Not without trying to find a local grocery store first though. However, we were five minutes too late when we got to the closest market to the hotel, which was actually open pretty late for France (9 PM). After deciding to walk another block, we passed a Chinese food restaurant, which prompted us to all swear to eating there for dinner the following evening as we all had gone into Asian-food withdrawal. A few doors later, Amy screamed at an appropriate American-volume level, “It’s a liquor store!” There we were able to gather necessary supplies, namely wine and cookies. After we got back to the hotel and realizing being four girls in the “penthouse” (fourth floor) of the hotel and the week of Halloween, it was the perfect time for slumber party-style sharing of ghost stories. While I told my usual Unit 3 Computing Center “I saw a Ninja-looking ghost” story again (which is so true), Amy definitely won with her retelling of La Llarona, which might not have been the most pleasant imagery before going to bed.

The four of us woke up fairly bright and early (for a vacation) refreshed and ready for a full day in Bordeaux. Most of that day consisted of drinking wine and eating macarons. After visiting a very sketchy flea market in the morning (looking more like a garage sale without any garages), and lunch on the steps of the Grand Théâtre à la Gossip Girl (I should have worn my sparkly headband), we first visited the Maison du Vin…then the Musée du Vin! The Bordelais have much to be proud of (please don’t take that as sarcasm, I do mean it.) Bordeaux is a very beautiful, clean city. It’s a mini-version of Paris, just less hustle and bustle. On our way to the Musée, we discovered we all like antiquing. Rachel walked out with a very pretty pair of gold earrings, I left with an old-fashioned (or maybe just old) poster of 19-century French fashion and a deck of cards, and I think Amy left with a bag. (I can’t remember if Liz got anything at that particular antique shop.)

After touring the Musée and a few tastings of wine, I left with a few bottles that I can’t discuss as they’re surprises for people who might read this. But we stopped by the macaron shop again on the way home, where I got five macarons (blackberry, rose, pistachio, vanilla and raspberry) and two kouignettes (raspberry and apple). Then we had Chinese food for dinner, which wasn’t too bad actually, and then drinks at Le Petit Bois (the little forest). Decorated with trees inside and wallpaper reminiscent of Versailles, it looked like an Anthropologie catalog. Thus, I liked it.

We set out for Saint-Émilion on our final full day in Bordeaux. Saint-Émilion is a tiny town in Bordeaux’s eastern wine country. When we hopped off the train in the early afternoon, we were welcomed to very surprising warm weather (so much that I had to find a bathroom/corner to take my leggings off it was so warm) and absolutely no one at the train station. There wasn’t even a town in sight. The station itself was closed an there weren’t many signs pointing towards any civilization. And I thought Montreuil is petite.  But after a bit of dilly-dallying around some fields near the station, Liz stopped inside a vineyard office and asked where the town (and tourism office) was. We were pointed up hill (of course). After about 10 minutes of walking and just around the bend, there was the town. Extremely cute (and extremely touristy), we definitely made a good choice in picking Saint-Émilion to visit. At this point in the day, we really only had time for one winery, a trip to the Catacombs and possibly the Disneyland-looking train ride around the area. After finding the tourism office at the very, very top of the hill, we were pointed back down in the other direction to Château Le Chatelet.

When we arrived at Le Chatelet, we had to knock on the door a bit since it didn’t seem like anyone was there. But then the manager came out to greet us and asked if we wanted a dégustation (tasting), to which we all promptly replied, “YES.” Patrick, the manager, was extremely friendly, telling us all about his Grand Cru bottles, of which we tried the 2003, 2005 and 2006, and then the warm, smooth, fruit-filled 2007 Le Chatelet. While the last bottle was my favorite, it was € 60. So we all ended up taking a bottle of our second favorite for € 35 per bottle: the 2005. While the three San Franciscans of the group briefly flirted with the idea of shipping bottles back to SF collectively to save costs, we realized we still couldn’t afford it (the shipping minimum was € 150 for 12 bottles…then the prices of the bottles). Perhaps we can go back in the spring. But, nonetheless, as there was no one else there besides of the four of us and the very hospitable Patrick, it was a lovely nice private tasting session. We even got a peek at the cellar, which as far as the winery goes, is five generations old. But the cellar itself is probably over 1,000 years old.

After grabbing our bottles and bidding farewell to Patrick, we headed back to the top of Saint-Émilion. However, as it was late afternoon, we had been walking all day and not really eaten much. Thus, the tastings quickly added up and we were stumbling but smiling all the way back up. We missed the only English-language tour of the Catacombs 4 PM that we bought tickets for by six minutes, but as we were all in an extra-good mood, we just said, “Oh, we can just take the tour in French! No problem!” By the time the French tour rolled around (4:30 PM), I was starting to become sleepy and I probably wouldn’t have gotten much out of a tour in English. But with the tour in French, I was pretty much sleep-walking. After an hour and a half, we realized we didn’t have time for the Disneyish wine country train, thus, after stopping for some yummy mushroom Quiche and hot chocolate, we headed back down to the train station.

There wasn’t anyone else besides us, a few young French people, and a group of young Asian tourists. By this point, the wine had worn off and we were just ready to eat as soon as we got back to Bordeaux after the 40-minute TER (local) train ride. I don’t know if it was because we were tired or it was close to Halloween, but even though we weren’t standing that close to the tracks, when a train in the opposite direction headed towards the station at full speed (maybe 60 MPH), it literally looked like it was going to jump off the tracks. Thus, when it whizzed past us, we all screamed and jumped back towards the station wall. I even ran with my hands covering my face. We all clung close to the wall laughing so hard that the French people started laughing at us too, but I assert they were laughing with us. Whatever. Our train eventually came, and Rachel read us another passage from my our new must-read, Are You There Vodka, It’s Me, Chelsea (by Chelsea Handler).

On the only morning with substantial fog and clouds we had outside of Lille, we went back to Gare Bordeaux-St.Jean for a seven-hour train ride to Marseille. They really need to install a TGV line in between those two cities. I’m a bit shocked there isn’t already one. The Corail-TEOZ train was comfortable, but ran at about the same pace as Amtrak. Unacceptable. Passing many places I wouldn’t mind stopping in the future (Toulouse, Montpellier, Carcassonne, almost near Perpignan…), the ride went almost without incident. But somewhere near Nîmes, a group of rowdy, greasy-looking guys started talking really loudly and asked if they could “buy” our table from us. Seating is assigned on TEOZ, and even though it was a joke, the manner in which it was delivered was so rude that it wasn’t funny. If only we knew then what we had to expect when we arrived in Marseille…

When I bought my Let’s Go: France guide-book a few months back (and after I noticed its serious printing press error of 14-pages about Spain instead of France), I came across a list of annual festivals in my humble village of Montreuil-Sur-Mer. While most take place in the summer, I happily saw one at the end of October: Le Festival des Soupes et des Pains (The Soup and Bread Festival). The book described it as a lively event in the town citadel, with admission set at 5€…all-you-can-eat soup and bread. While I was really excited about this, I wasn’t sure how much other people would actually care to come up for it.

Apparently, plenty. After I mentioned it to several other American assistants in Lille, nearly all of them were ecstatic about the idea. Initially, about seven or eight assistants said they’d come up for it, but being the first weekend of the Vacances de la Toussaint (my first of four paid two-week vacations while teaching over here), naturally some people’s plans changed. But Rachel, Pat, Marc and Rory seemed determined on the prospect of an endless supply of soup.

I sent out a confirmation Facebook message a few days in advance to see who was still coming, as I became nervous about how many people I could actually fit in my tiny studio. On Friday evening, I received a very mysterious series of text messages from Marc, first asking for my address. I sent it back, also asking what time they planned to arrive on the train. He said that he and Rory wouldn’t be taking the train, and I’d see them the next evening. While they had previously joked about biking from Lille to Montreuil, we all thought they were kidding. The two towns are 68 miles apart. But no, the pair seriously conducted their own mini Tour de France, eleven hours from Lille to my studio. More on their arrival later…

While the two of them were probably up and getting ready to leave down in Lille early Saturday morning, I received a text message from Paul around 7:30 AM. It wasn’t really a problem as I was getting up at 8:00 AM anyway, as Nathalie was picking me up at 9:00 AM to drive me to the weekly morning marketplace in Le Touquet. But I’ve found that California and France are the perfect distance apart for receiving drunk dials and texts, at least on my end. As it was around 10:30 PM in San Francisco, the roosters were chiming “cocorico” (or, how the French hear “cock-a-doodle-do”) on my end. After chatting for about 30 minutes (who knows how much that cost him…), I got up and ready for Le Touquet. It was absolutely dismal outside, finally pouring for about an hour straight while we were at the marché. I ended up getting a pair of ankle-high flat grey boots, which Nathalie negotiated in French down to 20 € for me. She also very sweetly bought me a handful of noisette (hazelnut) chocolates, which I ate for lunch.

Shortly after arriving back at my studio, I embarked on the first of several trips down the hill to the train station, first to collect Rachel, who was coming in with the two Lance Armstrongs’ stuff. Then a few hours later, we headed back down to retrieve Pat, who was arriving from Paris after staying there for a night. While we were down at the station, this time at about 7:00 PM, we received calls from the biker boys that they had arrived in Montreuil and were waiting outside my apartment. After an 11-hour journey that involved popped tires and a Google Maps mistake that said there was a bridge over a river where there clearly wasn’t (I said they should have tried to caulk the wagon, but whatever), there they were: exhausted, sweaty and throwing back some beers, which turned out to be 7 € each – only 2 € less than the train ride would have been from Lille. Oh well.

After cleaning up and stocking up on beverages and snacks at the Shopi (a mini-mart) downstairs, we headed back into the bistro downstairs where my Paraguayan friend, Jean, is a waiter. For the first time ever, I ordered a seafood dish as my main course: mussels and fries. Probably the only seafood I can stand, it was very good, but I realized I’m not ready for a full seafood meal yet. I shared my mussels with the rest of the table and concentrated on the fries. As the boys were tired, and the weather wasn’t the best, we passed the rest of the evening in the studio playing cards and drinking French wine and beer.

When I awoke Sunday morning, aside from a headache, something that Julia said to me on Friday suddenly passed through my head: time change. I’m not sure when the time changes in the United States this year, but daylight savings time ended in France on Sunday morning, giving all of us an extra hour of much-needed sleep. My iPhone (with the Orange France Telecom carrier) changed the time for me, but my American Motorola didn’t.

After much-needed coffee and orange juice, we headed out for the weekend’s main event: The Soup Festival! There were over two dozen different kinds of soups, prepared by local farmers and chefs. Some of my favorites included spinach, pumpkin, Saint-Germain and, an oldie but a goodie, Lentil. Unfortunately, I missed out on the tomato garlic soup, and I wasn’t too impressed with the garlic or onion soups. But all the bread was amazing. However, I wasn’t quite prepared for how much of a mob scene it would be. People were pushing everywhere to get to the front, go to the bread station or over to the drinks tent, where sodas and du vin chaud (hot wine, which is divine and tastes like cider) were being sold. But it was so crowded that at one point, someone bumped into me and knocked the lens cap off of my camera. Rachel and I then spent the next five to ten minutes trying to find a tiny black, Canon lens cap on the ground covered in hay. It was useless, so I’ll have to buy another one at some point.

We made two trips to the Soup Festival, as we could re-enter for free for our tickets. In the middle of the day, we toured the ramparts of the village, as the weather was much warmer and brighter than the day before (with the exception of a 30-minute downpour around noon). We also saw a re-enactment of the Battle of Agincourt going on near the Citadelle, being that October 25 was the anniversary of that fight. But I found it a bit odd considering the British won that battle, not the French. After the second round of soup, we grabbed our bags and we all headed back to the train station. I was going with them as I’m leaving for the south of France from Lille on Tuesday, and there was no point in staying in Montreuil another night. Plus, its nice to make the two-hour journey with others when I’m usually by myself. But on the way down the hill, the boys had to stop and grab some souvenirs: two Festival des Soupes signs, which prompted many stairs when we were walking through the Metro station at Gare Lille Flandres later on. It was also extra nice as it was a rare direct train to Lille, although the train itself was an older model, one that Rory said “should have been retired after World War I.” A bit harsh…but true.

At the moment I’m at Rachel’s apartment in Lille, but tomorrow morning, us two plus Liz and Amy will be speeding southward on the TGV to Bordeaux. Tout à l’heure!

After three weeks in France, I was itching to hear a bit more English being spoken. So I went to England. Well, that wasn’t the only reason. The primary reason would be that my dear friend Mary was organizing a petite reunion of the J-Schoolers in Western Europe (more like those in London and +1 from Ireland and +1 from France).

When I woke up on Friday morning, I could see some sunlight breaking through the clouds, so I had some hope for the day’s weather. Typically, what the weather is in Northern France, it is in England. But as the day progressed, I saw it deteriorate all along my journey, finally culminating in pouring rain when exiting King’s Cross-St. Pancras International Station.

It didn’t help that back in Montreuil, I realized as soon as the TER pulled away from the station that I had forgotten my Oyster Card AND my Eurostar tickets. I was slightly nervous all the way to Lille that I going to have to pay a hefty fee for getting duplicate tickets, since it said so on the email. When I got to the SNCF counter at Gare Lille Europe, I asked the woman to reprint my tickets, when she replied, “C’est pas possible.” (It is not possible.) My jaw dropped. I said nothing. My face must have gone pale. (But judging by the photo above, I’m sure you can guess I did make it to England this weekend.) I think she realized my fright by my lack of motion or life in my body, so she went to go talk to her supervisor. He came out with her and started speaking to me in English. He then pulled out a notepad of Eurostar tickets, gave them to her and she hand-wrote my new ticket. The forms were obviously old since they still said “London Waterloo” on them.  But both of them were very nice, and probably extra so since I didn’t cause a fuss, yell or throw a tantrum when I almost didn’t get my way.

While I will say the Eurostar is an incredible feat and the simplest way to England possible (I’ve taken both plane and ferry there), it isn’t the most comfortable ride. Second-class on Eurostar is just as cramped as coach on any airplane, with the exception that there’s no middle seat. But I was in London from Lille in less than 90 minutes. I was invigorated right when I stepped off the train, despite the rain. Few cities delight me and make me as happy upon arrival as London does (a short list would include SF, NYC and Paris). I can’t quite explain the feeling, perhaps its the familiarity with the city at this point. (That isn’t to say I don’t get lost in London easily. And I think I have a pretty good sense of direction. But that city is an absolute maze.) I was also delighted to see Mary waiting outside the Arrivals exit when I ran out the door and practically tackled her. After a quick trip back to her house in Northwest London, we made our way back in to Spitalfields, where I had my first burrito in weeks. Normally, Mexican food is one cuisine I have learned to stay away from in Europe, since only once (in Paris) have I had anything remotely good (or even edible). But recently, Nick and Frank opened up their own burrito shop in London named Poncho No. 8. Europe is a desert, and Poncho No. 8 is an oasis. I don’t think that’s an overstatement, as I’m quite hard to impress when it comes to Mexican food. I recommend it wholeheartedly to anyone who finds themselves in London. Plus, it was especially nice that there were specially-made burritos there waiting for us after-hours, thanks to the order that Laurence kindly put in for us.

Most of the rest of the night consisted of drinking several (and several more) rounds of wine, beer and shots of Sambuca at The Three Greyhounds in Soho (which I mistakenly kept calling The Three Broomsticks, which is actually found in Hogsmeade). If it weren’t for lots of water and a Subway sandwich that hit the spot, I might have been worse off in the morning. While I wasn’t completely myself the next day, I was up and ready before noon for some brunch and shopping near Oxford Circus.

Naturally, Mary brought me to an American-style diner, except they served British-style breakfast. Quite the “special relationship” combo. Afterwards, we met up with her friend/bandmate David, and we set out to complete the one other objective I had for the weekend (besides the burrito): visit Europe’s first Anthropologie, which was supposed to have opened on Regent Street in September. The key phrase: supposed to. It wasn’t that I was going to buy anything, as since I only have U.S. dollars in my bank account, and I haven’t been paid in Euros yet, it would be too expensive for me to buy anything yet. I was really just going to look. But, alas, I couldn’t even do that. Once we found it, there it was: the windows covered in paper and the doors were shut closed on a bright, sunny afternoon. I threw myself at the feet of the doors and wept. Well, sort of. More like I pretended to do so and we all laughed for a few minutes straight. I guess I’m just going to have to go back to London next month.

Anyway, after the failed trip to Anthro, we hopped on the 23-line bus towards Mary’s house, and more importantly, the Sainsbury grocery store near her house. However, London Transport is ridiculous, and we were forced to take three separate 23-buses to get uptown. (There was a 15-20 minute stop at Primark, which I discovered along the journey, and I CANNOT WAIT to get paid so I can go back there.) Most of the bus ride consisted of Mary telling us about her dreams about the Queen (I guess it’s something they all do in England, as I’ve never dreamt about her. I’ve never dreamt about any American presidents either. I might have had a nightmare about Cheney once. Oh no, that was an eight-year reality…), and learning how that in middle-class England, when adding the suffix “-ed” to the end of any noun can exemplify how drunk one was the night before. For example, “I was so bungalowed” last night. Try it.

After about an hour and a half (or more, who knows), we made it to the Sainsbury. The highlight of this store was when we pressed the “Press Here” buttons on all of the plush pumpkins on the shelves, which proceeded to sing “I Want Candy.” Otherwise, Mary picked up all the necessary ingredients for dinner, while I picked up all the necessary ingredients for Pimm’s.

Dinner was quite a success, albeit my petite cold clogged up my nose to the point where I was having difficulty breathing for most of the night. Mary made a vegetable-style lasagna, while Gabriele brought the Spotted Dick. I’m usually scared of most English food, especially given that a lot of dishes have misleading names (See: Sweetbreads). But this has to be one of my favorite English foods now (although, the only other two things I really like are Cottage Pie and trifles…). It was especially delicious drizzled in creamy custard. Plus, anything goes well with Pimm’s. Anything. This evening was definitely more tame than the previous night, given all of our hangovers, but it was still lively and late nonetheless. Plus, it was especially nice to see some familiar, friendly faces after moving over to this side of the pond. (Coincidentally, there was another reunion going on over on the other side of the Atlantic, and they all walked to Brooklyn. Too bad I can’t be in two places at once.)

Sunday was basically a travel day. I got up again around 10 AM, at which point Conn realized he might miss his flight back to Dublin, so everyone’s goodbyes at Mary’s house were quick. I was a little nervous about making it back to King’s Cross on time when the Bakerloo train decided to sit at one station for 10 minutes.  But alas, I made it back to King’s Cross, with £5 to spare. I spent half of it on a copy of Hello! with Kate Middleton on the cover and a bag of cheddar -flavored Kettle Chips. The rest is in my coin purse, mixing with some Euros and ready for their next trip up north in November.

Finally, one major problem solved: I found an apartment. Up until 5:30 PM on Monday afternoon, I was headed for a place where I seriously didn’t want to live.

There aren’t many options to come by in a village with a population somewhere between 2,000 and 3,000 total residents. On my first day in Montreuil last week, Laurent and Nathalie showed me a room for rent in the flat of an older woman. While it was very clean and furnished, I’d be losing a lot of freedom. But as my problems were at a stand-still without an address at least and it didn’t look like there were any other options, I gave Laurent the go-ahead to call the woman and say I’d take the room. She said she could welcome me on Monday evening at the earliest.

Thus, we had the rendez-vous set for 6 PM on Monday, October 6. But around 3 PM that afternoon, Laurent showed me the contract he received from her. He didn’t seem happy with it. Neither was I. Considering I’m 25-years-old, she was treating me like her child. According to the contract, I couldn’t come back after 10 PM (since she didn’t want to hear me coming in later), I couldn’t ever have any guests over night, I could only have one or two friends over at a time before 10 PM, and I couldn’t use her laundry machine. Rather, she would prefer I left my clothes in a bag for her to do at her convenience. I really don’t like the idea of anyone touching my dirty clothes. Nor do I like being subjected to such rules. While I understand it is her home, and naturally there would be rules, hers were too draconian for my taste. But with time pressing and no other options, I resigned myself to the fact I had to take it.

That was, however, until Deborah, one of the teachers at my school who is my age, told me there was a studio for rent next to hers. She finished up with class at 5:30 PM, and that she could take me to see her landlord and the studio then. With Laurent’s recommendation, we sped off at 5:30 as I had an appointment with La Madame at 6. The downside I already knew was that the studio was at least €100 per month more than the other room. But even on the walk over, I was telling myself if its decent I should just take it. And as Deborah told me, at least I’d have my freedom.When we arrived (after the five-minute walk from school), her landlord greeted us warmly and showed me the room. It was clean, slightly furnished (bed, microwave, table, desk and mini-fridge), the bathroom was clean and the landlord was very nice. He even said I could pay half my security deposit this month and the other half in November. I was sold. Normally I’d never take a place on the spot, but I think it called for it in this instance. Deborah and I then ran back to Chez Madame where Laurent was waiting under a canopy as it was raining heavily by this point. I told him my decision, to which he seemed very happy, stating all that’s important is that I’m happy where I live. He went upstairs to inform the woman of my decision and it was settled. After one last night in the Internat, I moved in on Tuesday evening.

With my new address, I was ready to change my address at the bank and get all of my other paperwork rolling. Most especially, getting an iPhone plan. I went into the bank on Thursday (as I was in Lille all-day Wednesday for orientation). My card was all ready for me, but when the banker asked me if I had my pin number, I looked back at him questioningly. He said I should have received it in the mail by now…but I hadn’t. All I had received in my school mailbox in the teachers’ lounge were two letters with codes for accessing my account online. But nothing with a pin number. The banker told me there was nothing that he could do, and that he couldn’t look it up or call anyone. He said he couldn’t try to reset it for at least another week, which at that point would take 1-2 weeks to mail to me as well. I couldn’t believe it. I had a bank card in my hands, and it was useless.

I walked back to the school, sulking the whole way. I checked my mailbox again when I got back, but nothing. Nathalie saw how sad I was and said she’d call the bank’s customer service center for me that afternoon after her classes. I thanked her, and after my last class at 1:30 PM today, I went back to my apartment to bring my laundry to the laverie down the street and meet up with my landlord who was taking me to buy renters’ insurance (which is compulsory in France). But the laverie trip didn’t go as smoothly as I hoped. I was already rushing (I’m the only person in this town who probably is), but it piqued when the laundry machine ate my money (€3,50). I was so frustrated that I had to sit down and calm myself down. After all of the logistical problems I’ve had in the last two weeks, I couldn’t stand one more thing. But then I realized that I was an idiot, not realizing that the exclamation point button on the machine meant “start.”

After finishing my laundry (which actually was quite fast once I figured it out) and picking up my insurance, I returned to the school, first checking my mailbox. And there it was: a big, fat, white envelope. It was like I was accepted to college all over again. I’ve never been so happy to see anything from a bank. I made my way over to the bank and deposited some Euros since I had to use my card at an ATM first to activate the card. I didn’t realize at the time this meant I had to make a withdrawal…

Now that I had my card in my hand, I was ready to head for Orange France Telecom. The closest location is in Berck, about 20 minutes by car. Julia sweetly offered me a ride, and we got there at about 6:15 PM. I walked in the store knowing what I wanted, and as soon as the saleswoman came over to me, I told her. I explained I wanted the iPhone plan with unlimited texting, one hour of minutes per month and, in this country, you can get free TV on your phone. Totes wanted that. Plus, they said I could just end my plan when I leave the country without penalty, rather than having to pay a fee to cancel the subscription early. Thus, I was almost all set with establishing my phone plan, when the woman hit a snag: my bank card didn’t work.

My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw “carte refusée” on the computer screen. I said it should have been activated since I made a deposit earlier. She said that I needed to make a purchase to activate the card probably. Panicking, I asked if there was any kind of phone accessory in the store I could buy, and apparently there was nothing. I asked if I could go buy something and come back, but she said I’d have to be back before the registers closed in 20 minutes. I grabbed my ATM card and passport off of the counter, and Julia and I bolted out the door. We ran down the street but I couldn’t find anything to buy. I suggested a boulangerie, but they didn’t take cards. Julia grabbed me and we ran into a store reminiscent of the dollar store (but not the Euro store), and I grabbed the first bunch of long black socks I could find. They were €4 for three pairs. Fine. I ran back to the register, where I waited for the cashier to walk back. But my card still didn’t work. At this point, I realized I probably had to make an actual withdrawal to activate the card. Julia asked the woman where the closest branch was, and she said it was a few blocks down the street.

Not jogging for about a month caught up with me. At every corner I hoped it would be there, but it wasn’t until the fourth block (pretty much the English Channel), until we finally found the street. I ran down one more block and thankfully there wasn’t anyone there. I could barely breathe anymore by the time I reached the ATM machine. I fiddled around with the card in my bag, stuck it in the machine and withdrew €20. It worked. We ran back up the street, where I had to pause every block and a half to catch my breath. By the time we reached the store, the back of my neck was covered in sweat and I could taste blood in my mouth. But we had eight minutes to spare. This time her colleague took over since she was helping another customer at this point. I wasn’t sure what I would do if it didn’t work. I think probably go crazy. Or find a ticket on the next flight back to America as I’ve been getting fed up with things in this country. But, within a few minutes, he was printing out papers for me to sign. I literally jumped in the air with joy and everyone started laughing. But this time, I was laughing with them. I was so happy. Not just about getting iPhone service again (but trust me, I’m very happy about that), but just that something finally went right. It just seems nothing goes right in this country without a lot of effort.

After having a very busy, stressful week, I needed to surround myself around friends and take a break from worrying about paperwork. So on Friday, I headed out of Montreuil back to Lille for the weekend. I even had a very special visitor, as Sharon visited me on her first stop during her French backpacking trip. When we first sat down for coffee, I spilled everything that happened in the past week and spoke a mile per minute as it was the most English I had spoken in five days.

After heading back to Rachel and Pat’s apartment in Fives (pronounced “feeves”, which is pretty much the Brooklyn/Hackney of Lille, Sharon and I didn’t have much to do as neither of the roommates were at home. But I had their keys since I was staying there for the weekend, so it was no problem getting in (except the 15 minutes I spent at the door trying to figure out the key). But without a TV or internet in the apartment nor a working toilet (it was fixed the following morning), it didn’t help we were extremely tired. After about an hour of staring at the wall and listening to Disney tunes blaring on my iPhone, we walked up the street to the first bar or café we could find to use a bathroom. I don’t think we were prepared for the place we walked into. Or perhaps they weren’t prepared for us. The windows were open, the lights were on and there were people inside, so I made the assumption the bar was open. When I pushed the glass door open, the world stopped. The darts stopped flying, the old people stopped drinking and everyone in the room turned to look at us. It was as if I swung a saloon door open, and it was very obvious we were the new kids in town. I was also immediately surprised by the smell of cigarette smoke clouding the room, since its illegal to smoke indoors now in France. I asked (in French) if the place was open, and the big buff man said yes. Everything resumed as normal, so I walked over to the barman, ordered a coffee and sat down while Sharon went off to the restroom. After I finished my drink (quickly), I followed suit, and we bid them all adieu.

But after another hour of waiting back at the apartment, we were both exhausted, but hungry. There’s not much open in Fives after 9 PM, as most people still out at that hour are probably in Centre Ville or near Rue Solferino. But we stumbled upon an open kebab place, where I ordered fries and Sharon got a vegetable sandwich. I would have gotten a kebab, but I was saving it for my 2 AM meal the following night (which I never ended up getting). While we were eating, a local French guy started talking to us, asking us about where we were from, why I was in France, etc. While I love the fact that I’m getting better at French with each conversation, after awhile, I was just too tired to talk in another language. And Sharon was tired from the fact that she had just arrived after a seven-hour flight from New York with only four hours of sleep, being that she had arrived in Paris about 12 hours prior at this point. We managed to squirm away politely after about a 30-minute conversation, and both went home to get a good night’s sleep.

In France, one can’t get a bank account without detailed proof of an address. But, quite often, one cannot get an address without a bank account. There in lies the problem that faces the American Assistants de Langue.

But, as I am admittedly an iPhone-aholic, my bigger concern was getting a French phone plan. My preference is Orange (France Telecom) since they are the official iPhone plan people in this country. I had my phone unlocked (with AT&T’s permission and even at a place they recommended with a coupon in San Francisco) before my departure. However, when I went to The Phone House (a store that features all of France’s biggest phone carriers in one store), they informed me that I would need both my passport (check) and a French ATM card (darn).

The French Embassy in the US (the organization that recruits the Assistants and very loosely facilitates the program) suggests that we open bank accounts in France as soon as possible. After the visa process, all of our paperwork (which is a lot) depends on our French bank accounts. As does my iPhone.

When I was back in Lille the first week, I quickly sent my school contact, Laurent, an e-mail asking if I could use the school’s address to open an account. He said he didn’t see any problem with it since I have a mailbox with a lock at the school. Thus, I set out on a fine sunny Tuesday morning in Lille to make an appointment to open un compte d’argent.

The receptionist at the bank at was very friendly. She noticed I didn’t speak French like a local, but she didn’t treat me any differently and attempted to speak a little English, but not much. Either way, the appointment was made and I returned that afternoon. After reading on the French Assistantship forums about how much trouble other American Assistants all over France had with opening bank accounts, I was nervous. However, the Lille bank agent proved to be just as warm as the receptionist. She asked if I spoke French, to which I said a little, and she asked for my documents. I handed her my passport, a letter from my bank in the US proving my account there and my arrêté de nomination (my official employment sponsorship from the Académie de Lille that has the address of my school on it). When she glanced at my passport, she exclaimed, “Oh! I thought you were English, not American!” This is definitely the first time I’ve ever gotten this remark. (So I heard from another Assistant more familiar with France than I am, most French speakers can’t tell the difference between the two accents unless they’ve experience an extended period of time around one or the other. Bizarre.)

She asked if the address on my arrêté was the same as my home address. Since I knew I’d be staying at the school for while and my contact gave me permission, I just said yes. (Okay, so it was a bit of a lie.) Then she spoke on the phone with someone, very fast in French so I could only pick up bits and pieces. Then she spoke with someone else. Then her vocal tone dropped. I knew something bad was coming. When she got off the phone, she said that all of my documents were fine and that she really liked that I had a letter from my American bank, but that I’d have to return in two weeks to pick up the card. Thus, she said it would be better if I just waited to open an account at another branch in Montreuil. I relented since it looked like opening an account in Lille wouldn’t get me an iPhone plan any sooner.

Exactly one week later, I found myself in the lobby of the bank branch in Montreuil with Laurent. I appreciated the fact that he took the time to come with me, as it is very evident that the teachers here are trying to help my stay be as pleasant as possible. That’s not something I’m entirely used to after previous stays in France. He explained to the receptionist and another bank agent my situation and that I had to have a bank account open by October 1^st to start on paperwork. He also explained the address situation, and they said it would be worked out. I had to return the following morning (or what is now yesterday).

So yesterday morning, foggy and early, I set out for the bank. However, it was neither the same receptionist nor bank agent there that morning, which made me a little uneasy. I wasn’t sure if the bank agent helping me knew the urgency (not about the iPhone but the bureaucracy/paperwork stuff).  This agent seemed to like speaking to me in English right off the bat. However, most of the appointment took place in both languages, alternating at random times. He first looked at all my paperwork, glancing at my pictures in Xerox copies of my passport and visa. Then he looked back at me and said, “You look very American. Very Californian.” Since I was bundled up in a jacket and scarf in the chair across from him as he smiled, I wasn’t sure how to take this, but personally I think it is always a compliment to be considered Californian, so there. While glancing at my paperwork, typing in his computer, he made a few other strange comments, including mumbling something about America changing after the “Twin Towers” and how “America is afraiding the world.” I heard “afraiding,” thus I’m not sure if he meant we’re afraid or we’re scaring everyone. I guess it could be a bit of both.

After reviewing everything, he questioned me about my address. Since I am actually staying at the school until I can find a place to live and this time my contact instructed me to use the school’s address, I said that’s where things should be mailed. Even on Monday at our first meeting, the headmistress agreed that would be acceptable. But the bank agent wasn’t buying it. He asked for the school’s phone number to call and confirm. I quickly complied, but when he called, I guess the line was busy since he said he would call again later. Then he typed some more, and things started coming out of the printer, with the words “Ouverture Compte d’Argent” on top. It was happening! I was getting a bank account!

That happiness faded fast when he decided to call the school one more time. Whoever answered the phone told him I wasn’t living at the school for long. He gave me the RIB form with a bank account number I needed by October 1 to get an advance in pay (if we don’t do this, we don’t get paid until at least the end of November), and he had me sign all of the forms necessary to open the account. But he also gave me strict instructions that I had to return within 10 days with a change of address or a formal letter from the school stating I was living at the boarding house permanently, or the account would be put on hold (causing lots of paperwork problems) and I wouldn’t get that very much desired ATM card. I accepted this half-victory, half-defeat and returned to the school, where I told Laurent all about it.

I also came to conclusion that I’m going to have to take the room in the apartment with the older woman. I can’t wait much longer on finding a permanent address, and the room is furnished and has Internet access. Laurent said she’d call her back again to see if I could still take the room, since apparently after meeting me (when I barely said a word in either language), she was afraid I’d cause a lot of noise. I’m not really sure where she got this from, perhaps my age. Either way, I just want to have somewhere to live soon. I can’t live out of a suitcase (or three) much longer.

I’ve moved from a city of eight million to a village of 2,000. And no one seems to want to let me forget that.

My Motorola phone woke me up at 6:45 AM on Monday morning, giving me enough time to get ready and throw the last few things in my suitcases. Rachel helped me carry my three suitcases down the two sets of stairs, where I bid farewell to her and the Hôtel Moulin d’Or. As I stepped out the front glass door, pulling a big suitcase on each arm, fog was there to greet me. However, I barely noticed the temperature drop from the previous day after the sweat of carrying my bags downstairs. Luckily the trip to Gare Lille Flandres was short: just across the street. However, I overestimated how long it would take me to get ready and bring my suitcases down, thus was 45 minutes early. However, I noticed quite a few of the trains were delayed, including my 8:35 AM TER train to St. Pol-Sur-Ternoise, where I’d connect for the train to Montreuil-Sur-Mer. The train was five minutes late, which made me very nervous as I only had a 9-minute break between trains, and pulling my suitcases off a train and throwing them back on would not be as quick as it sounds.

The TER train system is far slower than the TGV, which stands for Train Grande Vitesse (basically, Big Fast Train). It’s probably the equivalent of an express subway train in New York when it’s going at its fastest possible speed. But it’s still quicker than Amtrak. However, my train pulled out of the station very slowly, and as it slowly picked up speed and some sunlight managed to break through the clouds, I said tout á l’heure to Lille. See, the town where I’m assigned to teach is Montreuil-Sur-Mer, considered within the same school district or academie as Lille, but its 75 kilometers away, with only five trains per day, none of which are direct. So the minimum possible travel time is 1 hour and 55 minutes on the TER. I assume it’s faster by car. And with the consistency and frequency that French unions strike in this country, I found out it would be impossible to commute. Thus my resolution has been to spend my weekends in Lille, at least, with my other friends in the program.

As the train made its way to the junction point, St-Pol, I became increasingly nervous (as usual) that I was going to miss my connecting train. We arrived at 9:45 AM, precisely when my next train to Montreuil was supposed to depart. As we approached the station, I didn’t see any other trains. And there were only four tracks. The TGV has usually been on time for me in the past, I assumed the TER was the same way. Well, apparently not this morning. When I finished pulling my bags off the train, I asked the station agent where train to Montreuil was, and he replied by telling me it was delayed. “Quarante minutes.” Forty minutes. I sighed, but was slightly relieved when I saw the elevator down to the underground walkway between the platforms. But when I reached the elevator, naturellement, it was out of order. Thus, I had to make two trips down the stairs with my bags, and then two very slow trips back up the next set, since that elevator, too, was out of order.

A gaggle of teenage girls were on the platform. One offered me help, but I foolishly said I could handle it on my own. I did, but it hurt. They all went back to laughing and smoking. If I thought the fog back in Lille was thick, it was nothing like that in St. Pol. I could barely see to the end of the platform, nor anything beyond a few trees past the station. If it were a movie, I’m sure a mysterious character dressed in a trench coat and a fedora would have emerged from the mist. But after 40 minutes, the train did.

After another 20-25 minutes, I arrived in Montreuil. While there were actually some patches of blue sky and the station itself looked a little more alive than past ones, it was certainly clear that I was far from any major city. Especially when I jumped off the train, only to discover by the sand already in my shoe that the platform was made out of gravel and sand, not cement. I pulled my suitcases off the train one last time, and two people, one man and one woman, approached me. Saying my name and speaking to me in English, it was definitely my two contacts from the school. Laurent and Nathalie both greeted me with smiles, kisses on both cheeks like any proper French people would and helped me carried my bags to Laurent’s car. I apologized prefusely about the delayed train, to which they both simply laughed and said, “This is France.” They asked me how I was able to carry such heavy suitcases by myself all this way, and I replied by saying there aren’t many elevators in New York apartment buildings, so I’m fairly used to Europe.

By this time, it was close to 11:30 AM. First thing was they brought me to see an apartment. Well, it was actually a room for rent. Both of them insisted that I did not have to take it, and I should be completely honest with them about how I felt. When I saw the elevator, I was already a little pleased. The catch was that I’d be living in the flat of a much older woman, probably somewhere around 65 years old. It was a cozy room, a bit small, and facing a parking lot, but not bad at all. My only concern was how much influence or authority the landlady might want over me. Typically in French home stays, the owners of the home like to exercise parental authority over their guests. While I definitely understand that anyone would have rules over a potential tenant, I’m a bit too old and independent to take on a foreign set of parents. She also talked a bit, as even Laurent said to me on the way out that she was “a bit of a chatterbox.” Nathalie informed the woman that I would have my decision in a few days, which I’m still not quite sure about as I write this post. The rent was fine, but I believe hosting any guests would definitely be out.

But I’m not really expecting many guests in this town. As everyone I met that day seemed to tell me in one way or another, Montreuil is a very small town with not much going on. Everyone also seemed to make a big deal of the fact of how long my journey to Montreuil was, starting in San Francisco to New York to Paris CDG to Lille and finally to Montreuil. I guess it didn’t seem so bad or so long since I had so many breaks in between the major legs of the journey. Just the suitcases weighed me down. I tried to keep up a smile on my face, saying that the small town didn’t bother me and that I was very excited to be living in France. But I was definitely lost on the inside.

Nathalie and Laurent brought me to the Lycée, which was already in the middle of the lunch break. High school was weird enough when I was a student. And I don’t think I’ve been in one since I graduated. But walking into a crowded lunchroom in France isn’t much different from one in America. They look fairly the same, and with the noise level as high as it was, individual accents were inaudible. But the food was certainly far better than anything I’ve ever eaten in any American high school cafeteria. Only €3 for all-you-can-eat. It was a reflection of the school in general: very modern and upscale. Once a monastery, it was now a very advanced school, with plenty of computer, engineering and science labs as well as clean classrooms and a large library as well. For being in the middle-of-nowhere, it is a fine educational establishment.

In that sense, I’m very lucky compared to most in the program, and compared to most of my friends who are teachers in the United States and the UK. I must also emphasize how nice and friendly everyone has been to me at the school so far. My contacts are both very helpful and kind to me. But I began to feel out-of-place quite quickly. My French isn’t exactly up-to-par, precisely one of the reasons I came to France. I understood most of what was being said to me, but there was only so much my brain could translate at once. I smiled and nodded a lot. Hopefully no one was insulting me, but I really doubt it. But when other teachers asked me questions, I became very nervous and tense, and I couldn’t quite think quickly enough. I kept apologizing for how poor my French is, and everyone insisted that it isn’t a big deal and I’ll learn, but I still felt pathetic.

The feeling was especially palpable by dinnertime. As I’m staying at the internat (boarding school) until I find a place to live here for the next seven months, I can have my meals at the school. Before dinner, I met up with the other assistante de langue at the school, a 23-year-old from Germany named Julia. It’s very nice that I have at least one other person to commiserate with here. Around 5 PM, her school contact brought us to two other rental options, neither of which could fit two people. The first was a very cute, petite French house – but with an emphasis on the petite. This place could only fit one person, or perhaps a couple. While it is fully furnished and with a TV, the upstairs is a loft and the shower isn’t private. In fact, it isn’t a shower, but rather just a bathtub, and since the roof is slanted, there isn’t enough room to stand up. The other option was at the base of the hill, closer to the train station. But it was two beds in one tiny room in an old French home, and the elderly landlady said there was no possibility for installing Internet there. Both Julia and I each looked at each other and left. Both of us need Internet, not just for work, but Skype is our only affordable way to call home. Inevitably, Julia took the small house, while I said I’d keep looking.

I returned to the school as I thought dinner was at 6:45 PM (it’s really at 6:30 PM). I walked up to the ticket machine, flashed the new ID card I had been given earlier, but no ticket came out. I needed the ticket to be served, and I also noticed there wasn’t much food out left. Thus, I walked back out the door of the building and across the courtyard, trying to comfort myself that I could eat the chocolate I bought in Belgium for dinner. When I got back to the front door of the internat, I couldn’t unlock the doors. For some reason, my key kept jamming.

Out of the corner of my right eye, I saw a young woman approaching me. She was one of the RAs of the building, letting me know that I could still get dinner even though I was late. I followed her back into the dining hall, where I was able to get the last helping of steak et frites (fries). But since I was late, I had to eat alone. When the RAs and the students were departing for evening classes, they were asking me some questions. But by this point, I was so hungry and so tired; I couldn’t understand a thing anymore. I was so embarrassed and kept saying desolée, to which they replied it was fine. But when they all departed and as I sat alone at the table eating my dinner, tears began to well up. I refused to let them out, as I would not be seen crying on my first day. But I just felt lost and completely alone, both in language and a new, very small town.

After a week of exploring Lille’s crowded squares, gothic churches and lively nightlife scene, there weren’t many options available on a Sunday afternoon. Usually in France, grocery stores, bakeries, many shops, etc. are closed on Sundays, and no one was going to show available apartments to my friends that day either. Plus we were hungry. So what were we to do? Have lunch in Lille? No…we went to Brussels! Why? Because we could.

Brussels is just a short, 30-minute ride on the TGV from Lille. And with our SNCF resident discount cards (for ages 12-25), it was only €13 per person to get there. After waking up around 11:30 AM (I think we got back to the Hôtel Moulin d’Or from O’Scotland and the African Bar on Rue Solferino around 3 AM), Rachel and I got ready slowly, as Liana and Pat eventually arrived at our hotel room. We had bounced the idea around of going to Belgium soon, but as we sat in the hotel room with the French music station playing on the TV in the background, we realized we had nothing better to do. I checked the schedule online, only to discover that the next train was in 30 minutes, and the following train wouldn’t depart from Lille until after 3 PM. Thus, we sped across the street, through Gare Lille Flandres and then the following 400 meters to Gare Lille Europe. Actually, we made it with plenty of time to spare since there wasn’t a line at the ticket counter.

I had been to Brussels once before in July 2004, and the weather was much fairer and warmer on that Sunday in late September than that chilly, foggy summer day. I never really planned on returning to Brussels, since there really isn’t much to do there besides eat. When we arrived in Brussels (Brussel/Bruxelles, depending on your language of choice), we had to walk a bit to reach the center of town, as we arrived at Midi Station instead of Central Station. After a 10-minute walk past a sketchy flea market and a more rundown part of town, we made it into the Grand Place of Brussels. However, most of the square was closed off since they were cleaning up from their Braderie. At this point, we remembered the reason we came to Brussels: LUNCH. There are several culinary specialties in Belgium, namely waffles, chocolate, beer, mussels and fries. First on our menu were fries. We found a sandwich shop off of the main square where we all got sandwiches with both meat and fries within the bun. It was simple, cheap and delicious.

We had to walk around a bit before moving on to the next meal. As we passed through the Grand Shops corridor, I remembered something I wanted…no…needed to buy: a Swiss Army knife. On the previous night, we had two bottles of wine and alas, no wine opener. Except then Liz showed up with her trusty Swiss Army knife with a corkscrew attached, and we were set. Not only did I realize that would be useful to have around in France, but also a pair of scissors and a small knife couldn’t hurt too – in case I have to fight off some wild animal out in the country where I’m living. Thus, we found a very nice shopkeeper, who informed us what was legal and not legal in Belgium and France (Mace and switch blades are not.) He suggested we travel to Holland if we want either of these items.

After walking along for a bit further, checking out boutiques here and there (including a store that had a full-size Nimbus 2000 in the window), we started making our way to the famous baby statute in Brussels. Unfortunately, about a block before we got there, some local police yelled at us. We started crossing the street when the green walk signed appeared, but by mid-street, it was red. And they don’t really give you a warning with a flashing sign or anything to that effect, so we were caught red-handed by the police. It was a little startling, since they seemed really mad at us, but we walked away with a sneer verbal warning.

After being made to feel like criminals, it was definitely time for waffles. I ordered a strawberry and chocolate syrup waffle, which was so big I couldn’t even finish it. We washed our waffles down with some local Primus beer (and a €3 water for me, hmph) before heading to Gare Bruxelles Central to buy tickets back to Lille. After waiting in line for at least 10 minutes before reaching the ticket counter, we were informed the next train to Lille was in one hour from Gare Midi on the Eurostar. We got on one of the shuttles over from Central to Midi, and made it almost just in time to check-in for Eurostar.

This was my first trip on the Eurostar, so it was quite an adventure. It’s also far stricter than the TGV. The morning train was like hopping on the subway. The afternoon train we were booked on was headed for London, with just one stop in Lille, thus even though we were only going to France, we had to check-in at least 30 minutes prior to departure, go through security, and even speak to UK Border Control. When I got up to the UK official, she looked at me very sternly and asked me how long I was going to France for, which I responded by saying for several months. This caused her to raise an eyebrow, but I quickly pointed out my visa, and she responded by asking me why I was going to Lille. I said I teach English there, which produced a very large smile on her face. I found this hilarious, but I don’t think it would be a good idea to laugh in front of UK immigration officials. They scare me a bit. The train ride home was quick, and it felt like we were barely moving. High-speed rail is just fantastic.

When we got back to Lille, we were all a bit tired. Thus, most of the evening was just finishing off the last bottle of red wine we had in our hotel room, watching some more French TV and packing up our bags as it was the last night at the Moulin d’Or. I also had to tuck in early, as I had to get up very early for the TER train to Montreuil-Sur-Mer, the town where I am living and teaching this year.

I’ve been to France before, so for some aspects, I know what to expect. But those trips were for studying abroad or vacation. Nothing so long term or intense as actually living and working in another country.

After leaving the train station on what was then Friday afternoon, I headed for the flat that three other American Assistants de Langue (language assistants) and I were sharing for four days in Lille. I am really glad that we went this route for two reasons: 1.) I got to know other people in the program right off the bat, so the first day wasn’t lonely, and 2.) it was very cheap. For four nights, it was €200 total for a furnished flat with cable TV, silverware, and (something rarely found at somewhere so affordable in Europe) a clean bathroom. When I first showed up at the flat, the French landlord was friendly, but immediately he asked me, “Would it be possible if we only spoke in English? I want to practice.” I laughed a little and said that was fine.

While getting my bags up and down Stephanie’s five-story walk-up apartment building on the Upper East Side was a feat in itself, getting all of my bags up the narrow passageway that resembled a staircase was a new task altogether. But with the landlord and my new temporary roommates’ help, we all made it up. After the landlord departed, the four of us plus one more assistant headed into Centre Ville (downtown) to check out somewhere for dinner. (At this point, it was almost 7 PM Central Euro time, and I hadn’t eaten since I left America.) Mussels are a specialty in northern France, and thus, our first dinner was at Aux Moules.

The next few days were quite relaxed, at least for me, since I can’t search for an apartment until I reach Montreuil-Sur-Mer next Monday. (For those Victor Hugo buffs, yes, that is one of the towns mentioned in Les Misérables.) Plus, it was the weekend, and since things are already pretty relaxed in a 35-hour-work-week-country, the weekends are even more about just sitting back and enjoying a peaceful day. Since we lacked Wi-Fi (pronounced “wee-fee” in France), most of the next three days were spent at the McDonalds in the Place de l’Opera. Turns out: All McDonalds around the world except the ones in America are supposed to have free Wi-Fi. Thus, both the McDs in the Place and at Gare Lille Flandres looked more like a local college cafe rather than a crowded fast-food joint filled with overweight tourists in big T-shirts and shorts.

What I’ve enjoyed most about Lille so far are her inhabitants. Nowhere in France have I met such friendly people. (To be fair, I’ve only been to Paris, Lyon and Nice, with some Autogrills along the road here and there.) But no one here frowns when they hear my (very poor) French accent, people smile and greet you when you walk in and exit a store and most of all, I don’t feel like anyone is judging me here. I don’t know if that is because of the differences in America between now and before. (Then: Bush, now: Obama. Really, on day one when we walked into a mobile phone shop, when the store owner found out we were Americans, he smiled and screamed, “Obama!”)

I’ve also noticed the Lillois are a bit of an eccentric bunch. I don’t know if that’s because this is a very large college town (there are over 100,000 students at the several universities here), or because its an industrial town (they’ve been hit very hard by the recession), but either way, its a bit grittier than other French cities. I haven’t been outside one day without seeing some group of people (at least 50 or more each time), marching together in a group, chanting for/against something. And it’s not always political. Yesterday, on the way to McDonalds (Yes, I said that, but I swear I only go there for the Wi-Fi), I saw a group of people smiling and yelling about a hugging contest. I’m not sure I understood it completely, but there was definitely a lot of hugging.

Although, it hasn’t just been locals who have seemed a little off. While walking home on Sunday (yes, from the McDonalds), an older man with his white hair tied back in a ponytail started walking without his flip-flops on. His three friends didn’t really seem to notice. He looked at us and smiled, and since he seemed a little weird (He was walking without shoes on!), we didn’t really reply. Then he said to us with his Kiwi accent, “I know all of you speak English. I heard you!” Turns out his flip-flop broke, but they were almost at the car. The four of them (1 New Zealander, 2 Englishmen and 1 American) were in Lille for the weekend and driving back to Calais to catch the ferry back to England. He asked about our program, and we told him we’re here to teach English, to which he replied that we must be corrupting French kids. Then one of his English friends asked with a hint of attitude, “What are you doing in Lily?” (Lille, by the way, is pronounced “leel.”) It’s always nice to hear people speaking your native language when far from home, even with a different accent.