Exodus

Well this is my last blog post about my year abroad! I arrived back in the UK two days ago after a very weird week of packing up and saying goodbye.

There are lots of different emotions I felt at leaving but I guess all I can say is that it has been a good year (7 months). The first three months were crazy and disorganised and I felt so in-transit the whole time that it was almost as if I wasn't actually treating my flat as my own space, my own home. But these past few months of living with Dora made me realise how much I needed someone to live with.

There were visits around France and Europe which allowed me to see good friends and reminded me of how much there is I haven't seen on this continent, let alone in the rest of the world.

I said goodbyes this week to the other assistants I've met here which also is a little weird because it seems like only yesterday we were all meeting for the first time and we had absolutely no idea what was in store for us for the next seven months – school-wise, accommodation-wise, socially...

I couldn't have asked for better friends this year – the ones that let me crash on their sofas in Paris, the ones that came from all over the place to visit me when I was having my blue first three months and the ones that simply stuck by me, especially my dear Dora – the flatmate I never knew would become my best friend here. 

I also couldn't have asked for better colleagues – they did everything they could to welcome me to the school, ease me into the life of teaching and made me laugh a lot too, it has to be said. They are great and I hope I'll see them again one day:

I couldn't have asked for a better location, really. I know it's not in Paris, but the business of Paris (and expenses) can be so overwhelming that sometimes it's nice to retreat to the old “banlieue”. I am fairly certain that I couldn't have had a better year abroad – not in Martinique, Guadeloupe, Réunion, Guyane Francaise or the Cote d'Azur...those places will always have a magical quality about them I'm sure but this year it was important for me to experience reality too.

And most importantly, I couldn't have asked for a more wonderful family of Africans that welcomed me into their home – literally. Church this year has been in an apartment, no-one wants to have to cram into an apartment and hold a church service, but in their case they didn't even have a building and they hardly had any money to rent one.

Two weeks ago, on Easter Sunday, in the relatively small apartment, they proudly announced that they have found a room in a building in Viry-Chatillon (mid way to Paris – my place) which they will be able to have church in from now on. They don't really have money to rent it and there are about twenty five of them maximum who actually turn up, but in their own words: Hallelujah!

We have been in this together all year. Everyone has come again and again every week, the pastors, families, kids, etc. and instead of giving up and saying they'll never get their building for church, a place to actually play musical instruments and a place where lots and lots of people can come because there is space – instead of giving up on this ideal, this African family held their faith. They held onto their faith and in the end, they were blessed with the building they wanted.

The whole experience made me believe that God is at the centre of their faith and if they can't trust anything else, they hold onto God and they are blessed by it. This is what all faith should be about – not religion nor rules nor arguments about songs to play in church services nor disagreements about other things that Christians don't see eye to eye on. Faith is exactly what happens when there's a group of you fighting for the same thing – church building, maintaining your community against the odds and trusting in God, one hundred percent.

Well that's really it from me and from my year abroad. It seems like just yesterday that I was writing my first blog post – from McDonalds – and I was tearful with frustration. But at the same time, that was light years ago and so much changed in the space of six months. So I guess that if any of you reading are about to embark on an adventurous journey into the unknown or simply moving to a new city, don't worry yet. If you set your heart on really doing it, you can't let those worries get in your way.

And now I think that it's time to take a hiatus with this blog. This year was the perfect opportunity to start a blog and I think that it's been a great project for myself. But the next step with writing for me might have to involve something completely different.

So readers, until then!

goodbye

I guess now is the time when I should be wrapping everything up and patting myself on the back and saying “hey you did it, you survived!” another year in France gone past.

Saying goodbye is the odd part that doesn't ever seem to fit in, no matter how far on the scale of sweet-to-sadness the goodbye ends up on. It is when you're the one moving when goodbye doesn't fit in – everyone and everything else disappears into the background which you leave behind and then you have to keep moving and keeping your spirits up, for the next step ahead in your new horizon. Those backgrounds fade away from sight but no matter how hard you try they'll never fade away completely because you'll always close your eyes and hear the laughter of those old friends and smell the breeze and see the buildings, the skies and the horizons that you left behind, all of which keep on living without you there.

There have been many weeks leading up to this moment, the moment I know is coming to an end and strangely I waited for this moment a long time ago I thought that the end in sight would be a triumphant and victorious moment but in actual fact the ending to this era is in sight and the emotion is somewhere in the middle on the scale of sweet-to-sadness.

I can't describe the feeling that goodbye gives in so many words, except that it's difficult to define and I might have to describe it in the airport instead. This weekend I was in the airport again, and over the past few years I've ended up in the airport, waiting all by myself, and watching the airport life go past. It makes you think as you're looking out over this particular horizon, the runway where aeroplanes are always landing. It makes you wonder at the idea that this is a special place because this is where lives are changed, changed because here is where you are moved from one place to another, and with it moves so much more than just your belongings.

I've ended up looking out over the runway, late evening as the sun starts going down, looking at the different planes out there. Absurdly, I think to myself that if you gaze on out of focus, those planes look like cartoon birds, rolling lazily across the tarmac. This is their back garden, landing and ascending as frequently as birds do.

Time to leave, as ever.

But like I said, goodbye, the word doesn't sit well with me. I won't leave, I'll tell myself it's a temporary change. My whole life I've been telling myself just that, watching from the glass walls at that enormous stretch of golden tarmac on those days where the sun is brilliant and the lazy planes are stretching their wings. They're like old friends, those cartoon birds, old friends that are always coming back to me, pulling me away from the ground, sending my life spinning and always projecting me up into the clouds with them, without a moment to properly say goodbye.

Down here on land, where friendships form and reality takes shape, emptiness is filled by something at least. Up in the sky with the clouds and the quiet and the planes outstretched wings guiding you forward reality stops – just people sleeping until land appears again.

When the solid ground impacts the wheels, that's when the change happens and the reality takes its shape again. For days or months or years, in your heart you are restless, excited, touched, tearful, even, and the planes in the sky leave their trace; every time you look up there they are calling to you and beaming at you from those places you can't reach.

That's the nature of airports. The place where all kinds of thoughts can enter your mind and make you think about what it does to you, moving and changing and living all over the world.

So here I am in France, saying goodbye again and here I am wondering in spite of myself what comes next. It is a big open horizon, that's what change is; what comes after is the next mystery to solve and in between there's now, I suppose, to make the most of the last days.

The Love/Hate Relationship

 Greetings. As I'm sure many of you already know, there has been a beautifully sunny weather in France over the past two weeks. Spring has arrived early here, which in Paris means picnics, saxophones on the Metro and cold beers outside. It is starting to look pretty everywhere – the Champs de Mars has even been re-opened after a long, sad, wintry hiatus of inaccessibility.

This means that there will be picnics in front of the Eiffel Tower soon.

There are flowers in the woods next to my apartment, birds, squirrels, rabbits and ravens scampering around everywhere. Maybe it's not Martinique, Nice or Mallorca, but it's something beautiful all the same.

I took the opportunity this weekend and the previous weekend to push aside my dissertation, teaching and reading boring pronunciation studies and enjoy the sunshine because 'life is what happens when you're busy making plans' or something like that (I just wanted to enjoy the sunshine).

"Les jonquils de printemps"

Les jardins de Tuileries

Montmarte

I had two visitors over the past two weeks and we were extremely lucky on both weekends to get such great weather. Although Paris never gets old, I have now been to see the Mona Lisa at least five times, walked inside Notre Dame and the Sacré Coeur at least ten times and taken part in a couple dozen “Eiffel Tower” photos. But I am determined to be a good tour guide.

I have to say, even the Mona Lisa viewing feels better when it's sunny outside.

Now that March is upon us, it reminds me that my trip to France, the year as a teaching assistant somewhere in a rural wood outside of Paris, is drawing nearer and nearer to the end. Last weekend my friend Deborah and I were discussing the “year abroads” whilst sitting on the terrace of a café, in the sunniest sunshine. She suggested that I seem to have a “love/hate relationship” with France which I have to say made me laugh out loud (a real LOL ha).

It's kind of true, to be honest. Anyone who has been reading this blog this year will know that there's been a lot of “merde” over the past six months – whether it's France's fault or not is a different question though. However, I have concluded that even though there have been many frustrating moments which have happened to happen to me this year while I've been in France, I can't really say that it's a “hate” relationship. In France, I have:

1. made some of the best memories of my life
2. drank so much wine I can't remember only that it was good
3. Met some of my most fabulous and genuine friends
4. Tried many new things, from going skiing, eating escargots and swimming in the sea at night
5. Not just learnt a language but become a part of it

Over a period of 4 years, I have been back and forth to France, never quite finishing or saying goodbye. There have been some seriously cool moments here, especially with the friends I made from all over the world. These friends I made in my first year in France are the friends I knew that I'd never forget or lose touch with because we all had that drive to travel in the first place – the drive to move away from 'the comfort zone' and dive into something new without being able to see the outcome clearly.

“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”

This is the moment, this year, when I was really alone for the first time and trying to figure out how I was going to meet friends and make more memories; this was when I realised who my “fabulous roman candles” are.

It hasn't exactly been a case of making new friends, but establishing the ones I've made over the past four years, in all of my different situations. Without asking, they came to visit me. Week after week. The ones who are mad to live, just like me I guess.

(Mad to live in France, you might think).

So when it comes down to it, maybe there is some sort of love/hate relationship. There has to be that in order for anything good to become unforgettable. But more importantly in the love/hate relationship is that I love it – the part where I love France and I am proud of myself for making so many true friends here and for discipling myself to learning French to the point where now it's a part of me. When a language starts becoming a part of who you are, you can't go back.

However, I think that this year is when the era in France ends: I can sense that there's something different for me after this. Unlike what everyone seems to think, that I'll be coming back here as soon as I can when I've graduated, I'm fairly certain that a new country and a new era of experiences are on the horizon.

“The best teacher is experience and not through someone's distorted point of view.”

Happy

There is one thing I want to write about this week

1. The Happy Show

For quite some time I haven't updated this because I had writer's block again for quite a few weeks (I've been busy too but that's no excuse not to write – nope, writer's block it is).

So, "The Happy Show", which is what I wanted to write about 2 weeks ago because I went to this exhibition in Paris called “The Happy Show” by Stefan Sagmeister an Austrian graphic designer. I approached apprehensively because to me, “The Happy Show” is a title which is bound to disappoint many who are really seeking “Happiness”, whatever that is.

But this was the first wall in the entrance of the exhibition:

It soon became apparent that the show is not a “formula for happiness” as I had apprehensively disregarded, neither is it a collection of paintings and sculptures that depict happiness: It is an info-graphic breakdown of one man's experiences and judgement of happiness based on statistics, experiments, psychologists' theories and personal evaluations. In short, it doesn't aim to dictate, but to subjectively demonstrate aspects of happiness.

As I progressed through each stage of the exhibit, I read the walls which contained quite a few statistics about “happiness” relating to humans relationships with other humans. These were statistics about marital happiness, statistics of happiness in “types of love” (Passionate vs. companionship), statistics of happiness among people with different relationship statuses etc:

To be honest, when I read all of the above, it didn't surprise me but what did strike me was that even though statistically “compassionate love” ends up making for a higher percentage of “happy people”, there are tons of people who never have this. And this was where I did not trust the statistics.

Is that to say that most people who never get a long term companion in love end up unhappy? Is it also to say that most people who pursue “passionate love” (ie sex but not necessarily commitment) all their lives also end up unhappy?

This was a big part of the exhibit and instead of making me nod and think “yup, those statistics are spot on” it challenged me to wonder “Is this how people measure happiness? With love?” I found myself unconvinced by this because more and more these days I find that people I meet define their happiness by their relationships: but not necessarily on other terms, and they don't always appear happier than the average Joe.

According to these statistics, happiness in relationships is much higher in passionate love than in companionship love but routinely over a shorter time frame (so high level dopamine quicker = short term happiness, lower level dopamine longer = long term happiness). But where does it analyse the happiness levels in people who are without either of these types of relationships?

(When I thought about some of the happiest moments of my life, very few some but not all, of those moments were relating to romance, actually).

And when I analysed the things I saw in the show: statistics about happiness in romantic relationships, self-image, self-confidence and other such typical things that humans have insecurities, I realised that all of us, every single one of us can't be 100% happy. A lot of the time we are telling ourselves that we're happier than we are or we're telling ourselves that we're unhappier than is true in reality. This was demonstrated in “the gumball machine meter”:

You take a piece of gum from the machine that you think corresponds to your 'level' of happiness (on a scale of 1-10, 10 being the happiest). I took a gumball from the '9' and it didn't work so I settled for 7 and it gave me one. I don't know why this is, but I think it was supposed to show that whoever takes one from either of the extreme ends is fooling themselves most of the time – it's unrealistic to be '9' most of the time but it's equally improbable that you're on a '3', no matter how bad you feel.

This gumball machine meter lead on to a pyramid which breaks down the necessities in order to be happy, showing that physiological needs are the base and self-actualization (creativity and such) is at the top, nowhere near as important as food, water and nuture. This links into the gumball machine in the sense that, in Western culture where most of us have food, water and nuture and the basic necessities we should hypothetically be much happier than a '3' or maybe even a '5' because a lot of our basic needs are already fulfilled (yet many who live in this culture often claim to be depressed or unhappy in some way).

“The Happiness Show” is one man's experience, he says himself, that the show is merely one man's analysis of happiness according to him using data he's collected over a period of 10 years.

But the show doesn't aim to make it's viewers “happier”, however that could be measured, it says from the very start. However, in my opinion it is an important topic which has been explored creatively through the arts for ages and I think that it's aim in this particular creative project was to express to the viewer that happiness is something that should be explored, and it did explore many aspects of the areas in which society measures happiness.

I truly value all the relationships in my life, especially with my friends. The people that I make friends with are people that add so much to my happiness and the true friends are the ones I can be apart from for a long time but are still the same when I talk with them again. But even in my relationships with friends, my happiness isn't dependant on that one other person.

This year abroad hasn't been an easy journey; from the very start it has seemed like there have been challenge after challenge to my happiness. Perhaps at the very start, I wasn't as prepared as I am now to be able to face the challenges to my happiness. But I guess challenges have enabled me to become much stronger in who I am and be proud of what I can do.

Before this year in France, I started this blog because for years and years I wanted to write and I wanted people to be able to read what I could write. I was a little bit scared about what people would think about what I wrote and so because of shyness, fear of what others would think, I held myself back. But I always knew that I expressed myself best in writing – to friends in cards or letters and to my teachers when I wrote them essays . Sometimes my teachers told me that they wanted to see me writing more; but it's possible that when I was a teenager, I felt too awkward to do that.

And since I've started this blog, I've been amazed by what a liberating hobby this has become. It's not only added greatly to my happiness to be able to express my writing publicly but it's given my friends quite a lot to laugh about.

I guess I want to say one more thing about happiness before this post is over: If you can't trust yourself, don't worry about it. But trust Pharell, who doesn't care about what anyone else thinks, just that he's happy:

And only sometimes, the merde continues.

 Hello again and apologies for not having written for a while.

Now I'd rather not let anyone be disturbed by this title, because life is far from the 'Vie de Merde' I wrote about many, many blogs ago in October and November. In due course I will explain myself.

I tried my very best to be optimistic about everything bad that came my way this year even though at times I was angry, upset and just plain frustrated at the way things were.

• No internet for three months
• Living alone in the middle of the countryside for three months
• Losing (and paying) for a new passport (THEN FINDING THE OLD ONE TWO MONTHS LATER)
• Bureaucratic people telling me to go away and come back when I had more paperwork (and thus not getting important things done)
• Paying great amounts of money just to GET internet (doesn't seem fair really does it when you just want a phone line in for four months?!)

But as I've said before, the turn of events, the amount of bad stuff that kept recurring was just too much for me at times. Every time I went to McDonalds, I couldn't stop thinking about how impractical it would be to write my dissertation from there. And often when I got stuck in CORBEIL ESSONNES for an hour at a time waiting for a train or bus which never wanted to arrive, I would think to myself “What in the world am I doing here and why did I ever think this year would be fun?”

So this month, January, notoriously know as one of the most depressing times of year after Christmas, made all the red flags go up for me. I was apprehensive on the Eurostar back from London. But then that month turned out to be full of laughter, Pringles and loud music late at night. It was the friendship I needed, some form of solidarity to get me through the next following months. And I actually haven't looked back on the first three months, as Edith Piaf would put it “C'est payé, balayé, oublié, je me fous du passé”.

But this morning, when I logged onto my emails to print out the tickets for my flight to Barcelona next week for the February half term holidays, I got the shock of my life when I realised that, being the total idiot that I am sometimes, I had booked a flight on the 14^th from Barcelona to Paris and a return flight from Paris to Barcelona.

My experiences with Ryan Air, Easyjet and Jet2 have never been a bundle of laughs. Actually that's a lie, I've hated every minute of flying over the four years. But the worst bit is undoubtedly the booking part. One day I want to hunt down the person who invented online reservations and 'reservation codes' and 'check in online' and 'print your own tickets' and kick his ass.

So there I was, staring at the screen trying to believe that the screen was wrong and I was right, but fifteen minutes later I came to my senses and accepted that the screen was right and I was wrong (as usual, one-nil to technology and Rachel).

So I guess that means there's a 'frais' (Oh how I hate that word – it means charge) in order to change the flights (because as much as I'd love to, I can't spend the rest of my year abroad in Barcelona).

Well anyway, this unlucky bit of misfortune has nothing to do with the unlucky events that took place from October to December. I know that very well. 

But often I can't help thinking to myself “Why does this unlucky stuff happen to me consecutively in the space of four months?!”

Sometimes, the merde continues, even when you think it's gone, but it's been an hour now since I was staring dumbfounded at the screen and after sitting down and writing about it to calm myself down, the feeling of vexation – Stage 1 of Grief 'Denial' has been somewhat replaced with Stage 5 of Grief 'Acceptance'. During the writing of this post I think I must have gone through Stages 2, 3 and 4 'Anger' 'Bargaining' and 'Depression' without many consequences except that my face looked like this the whole time:

To fellow friends abroad, or preparing to go abroad, all of you sorting your lives out on foreign ground: have no fear. Merde or mierda or Scheiße may come your way but don't give up. I admit, I almost wanted to, when I had to re-read terms and conditions in FRENCH for what felt like the hundredth time this morning but in spite of all things bad, don't give up on yourself.

Luckily, I haven't given up yet, don't think I will. But how not to is a constant lesson that I have to keep learning every week.

Until the next time! (and apologies for this being short and somewhat one-sided. The next post will hopefully be full of sunny photos of beautiful Spain).

Running, Yoga and Le Comptoir Général

 Hi,

As the title would suggest, this week I've finally worked up the courage to get off my bum and exercise. After a relaxed week of intermittently studying (allophonic variation and other phonological concepts which are making my brain hurt) and hanging out with my new flatmate, I think I needed the Wake Up Call of Doom which this weekend's run round Paris instilled.

First things first: generally speaking, I wouldn't describe myself as unfit. I can endure most forms of exercise (within reason) and my muscles aren't completely dormant – they've just been resting well this winter. However, the extent of my exercise routine now is one ballet lesson a week and walking to the train station (which is what the government most likely defines as “sedentary lifestyle”).

I spent Saturday evening at a friends' apartment in Paris and on Sunday morning we woke up to go to a free yoga class which was several miles from where she lives.

“Let's run there” was the overall consensus the previous evening over fish & chips.“It's only 3 miles”.

The night before we'd gone out in Paris to this place called “Le Comptoir General”.

We had to queue up for about 45 minutes to get into this gratified, “ghetto” club opposite Canal Saint Martin, but once we got in we realised it was nothing like what we were expecting; it was better:

Here's the tipunch, a typical cocktail from the Antilles. It consists of double rum, a squeeze of lime, a cinnamon stick and a taste of "cane syrup" (I couldn't taste the syrup though) served in tiny glasses a la style Parisienne.

I can honestly say it's the first time on my year abroad so far I've really felt like I was actually in Martinique (a mere shard of the shattered dream).

So anyway, on Sunday morning as we started off our run from Gare du Nord I was feeling great. The winter air does give you an incentive to keep moving, well at the beginning of Exercise Session at least.

Mid-way Exercise session I could feel myself lagging, or at least my body was telling me “Now is when you'd be slowing to a walking pace for the sake of your poor, dormant leg muscles, if you were on your own”.

But in spite of this, my respiratory system was telling me I could keep going. And my “Working Out” playlist was finally being put to good use, so I kept up the pace against the odds.

Twenty five minutes into Exercise Session (aka four songs distance from our free yoga class) I could feel myself lagging gravement, lagging in the way that if my muscles, lungs, etc had voices they'd be saying “No! No! No!” repeatedly to every beat of the background music. I could feel that horrible ache below my ribs, the first sign of a stitch – to those of you who remember P.E. lessons at school where the teacher made you “run laps” or the horror of all horrors, bleep tests; that awful cramping sensation which makes you feel as those the whole side of your ribcage is on fire, sympathize now.

As we arrived at the yoga class and finally slowed to a stop, I caught sight of myself in a shop window. I looked like this:

It's always a slight wake up call when I catch sight of myself during or after a run. As soon as I get into leggings and trainers and attempt to run around in public, I like to imagine I am a graceful, innocent, doe-like creature who wouldn't hurt a soul:

But in reality, I have as much grace and poise as this:

One-nil to Exercise vs. Rachel. Yoga class next.

I have to say, I am not 100% sure about yoga. It's not the stretching and legs-in-the-air or balancing on one leg – I do ballet remember – it's more the “Open your spirit” and “make a huuuuum noise so that the energy can flow”.

Anyway it was my first official yoga class, which also happened to be in French. There was barely any space so we lay our mats out in the fire exit and then proceeded to follow the instructions in French rather cluelessly. “Main droit a coté de la cuisse gauche...” and “Inspire...EXPIRE!” (Inhale, exhale).

It was a bit like Twister, if I am telling the honest truth. Plus it was made even more complicated due to the fact that every five seconds we were forced to adopt this position:

and then this:

In actual fact it is called "the Upward Dog":

#doggyyoga

None of us could for the life of us understand every word the woman was saying (she wasn't even within our field of vision there were so many Yoga attendees in the room), so what we had to do is continually glance up and around at everyone else while we were trying to execute this position:

I enjoyed it nonetheless (the stretching and balancing part) except for this position, which is deceptively more difficult than it looks:

We finished off with some “Namaste”:

And then lay flat back on our Yoga mats for five minutes at the end with our eyes closed which I have to say provided me with an opportunity to fall asleep for a short while.

After that we sat cross-legged and all of a sudden the room was filled with a HUUUUUUM noise (All the Yoga clichés are true! People sitting cross-legged and humming!) at which point one of the girls next to me dissolved into giggles, which set me off and the rest of us.

I am sure that it wasn't “Yoga Etiquette” though, because there were some extremely concentrated people a few rows in front of us who looked mildly annoyed – whereas others were fighting back grins themselves.

After Yoga we went for a coffee (which turned into coffee and one of the most, if not the most, delicious slices of cheesecake I've ever eaten). 

Anyway, that was my weekend of fun for you – conclusion: Time to Start Running Again and Time to Stop Giggling and Ruining the “Energy”.