Book Review: 'The Paris Wife' by Paula McLain. (Which could also be 'The Autun Girl' by StarrySeven)

I don’t know if it’s a good kind of ironic or a bad kind that, after having just moved to France and being in the process of discovering that living alone in a foreign country can be very lonely at weekends in a small town when every single last shop and café is closed and the locals seem to disappear altogether as of 11pm Friday night until 6am Monday morning (probably to some secret, really cool, really fun party), I am reading The Paris Wife by Paula McLain.  Ironic because it is told from the perspective of the wife of Ernest Hemmingway, affectionately called Hadley, and follows the story of their romance, marriage and the life, or rather separate lives, they live as a couple.  The story really begins following their move to Paris when, with Ernest shutting himself away with his work in an effort to forge his career in writing, Hadley is daily left to her own devises in the big, beautiful and unfamiliar city, becoming ever-more lonely as Ernest becomes increasingly consumed by his work.  Owing to their lack of money, they live in a dingy, small flat in a dirty building, in the 5^th arrondissement, which in the book is described as being quite down-market and where no-one who is anyone would choose to live (it’s pretty nice now, isn’t it? I dunno...).  I’m just very much connecting with this character at the moment, she’s cut off from her family and friends, disgusted by the rats at the market to the point where she wants to drop her bags in the middle of the street and run in the opposite direction but doesn’t because she feels it would be ridiculously dramatic (I feel exactly the same except for it’s not rats at the market but cockroaches in my house (ils sont petits, mais ils sont là quand même) and it’s making me become paranoid and hyperaware of all bugs.  I’m even losing my patience with spiders, which is unlike me because I really like spiders. This is how bad it has gotten.  I’m normally not in the least bit bothered by insects (except ladybirds) but now I’m practically unable to put my feet on the floor because I think a cockroach will scurry up my trouser leg.  It’s making me feel physically sick and I’m losing my appetite bit by bit every day), and she’s just feeling lonely and nostalgic for home.  I don’t miss home (yet, I’m sure it will come closer to Christmas) I’m just craving people.  I know hardly anyone, and those people I do know are not yet the kind of friends where I would feel at ease going shopping with them, or whatever.  I mean, I’ve not even been here two weeks yet, people are still getting to know me and I them – which is fine – but at the same time being cut off from everyone else in the world because of this town’s lack of internet in houses and public places (in this day and age), is just getting to be tiresome and difficult.

I mean, I’m not someone who has to be with people all the time (in fact, a lot of the time, I’m quite happy to be on my own), I love France and I really love my little town, I just kind of wish I could share it with someone.  This is going to sound so, so cheesy but I’ve been thinking recently, it’s true what they say; it really is other people that make life worth the ride.

‘…I also know how important it is in life, not necessarily to be strong, but to feel strong, to measure yourself at least once, to find yourself at least once in the most ancient of human conditions facing the blind, deaf stone alone with nothing to help you but your hands and your own head’ – Primo Levi, Bear Meat

All week I’ve been reminding myself of this quote as I’ve faced new challenges and situations everyday. Without a dictionary, books or the internet; it’s just been me, alone, with nothing to help me but my hands and my own head.  As it turns out, I don’t need much else. And when I measure what I’m doing now against what I thought I could do before I got here, I realise that I’ve been pretty harsh on myself, and that actually I’m not as useless as I thought.  And that realisation has definitely made me feel strong.

“Hmm…Does it smell good?” Understatement Mr French Brasserie-Man; Earl Grey is my 5-a-day bergamot and citrus massage for my stressed and troubled brain.

So I took my mum to the station on Monday and it is now Friday and already it seems like a lifetime since she left.  Not that I’m counting the days by the last time I had any proper company or a proper meal (but if I were, I have definitely have to say it’s been four days, as my cooking skills have drastically deteriorated over the summer, and so far this week I’ve managed to burn a Halal Pizza to a crisp (that’s a different story) and since then have stuck to a simple bit of baguette with cheese and tomato), and I’m not being a massively emotional about my mum leaving or whatever, I can look after myself pretty well (cooking aside), but it has been one of the longest weeks of my life.

So, Tuesday was the day I met my first class.  There’s that stereotypical dream (that I swear no-one has ever had) about getting to school or work and realising that you’ve forgotten to get dressed or whatever, well meeting the class for the first time felt just like that; the teacher got me to stand at the front, introduce myself and then asked me to talk about England – for fourty-five minutes – to a group of teenagers, of which at least half couldn’t care less and were probably not listening and were just wondering when they were going to get their next nicotine kick (incidentally, it’s SHOCKING how many of the students smoke, like when you walk up to the school at lunch-time, literally every single one of the pupils you walk past is smoking).  It was traumatic. For them. For me. For all involved. Honestly, I wanted a cigarette afterwards, let alone them.  I went straight to my brasserie afterwards. It took two coffees and three mini biscuits to snap me out of my ‘omigosh-that-was-horendous’ stupour.

And on we go to Wednesday. I had to be up at 5am to get to Dijon by 10am; oh my, 5am is a disgusting time.  It might not have been so bad but I hadn’t slept very well that night thanks to Herman and the girl he brought back -_- way to many chinchilla antics to sleep. Anyway, so off I trudge at 6am to the gare, (which is another dark and cold hour which I very much dislike) and several trains and buses later I am in Dijon and have met an load of really nice people, who I really hope to meet again during this year, three of who are in the Dijon academy from my university!  What a small world.  And I met another girl there who is from Derby, even smaller world, haha.  So that was a good day :) apart from it being very long.  After stopping for two coffee’s (they’re 1€ each and small so it’s not too excessive to buy them in two’s :p) I bought a bottle of wine on the way home to make Kirs, but I was so tired, despite the coffee, that I couldn’t stay awake long enough for it to chill.

Thursday, I spent all day until 3pm in the Brasserie having Earl Grey after Earl Grey after Earl Grey trying to stay calm doing paperwork and admin rubbish, and then spent an hour and three quarters setting up a bank account in a French bank in French. ‘Nuff said.

Today, I met two more classes and had one-on-one sessions with them, which was fun because I got to just take the reigns for a bit and structure what I did in the sessions myself.  After that I did yet more admin, then came home and drank a lot of wine and now I’m on the sofa writing this.  Blame the wine if this entry is rambling and boring, it’s a pretty good reflection of how rambling and boring this week has been.  I can’t wait for next week when I get to properly start with the students and get into a semi-routine. Oh and I’ll finally be able to get some internet or a phone :) maybe one day I’ll even be able to post this blog :p

"Vous avez une bête dans le grenier?! Non, ne-la-touchez-pas! Ça serait peut-être plus grande que vous!"

So, I’m finally here :) alone in France. Scary times.  Especially scary times because I don’t have a phone or the Internet or even a landline phone…I’ve gone back in time to the dark ages.  I also have an unidentified beast, which I’ve named Herman, living in my loft, who runs about at night, rolls around heavy bottle-sounding objects and somehow swings my light bulbs from the wires.  And to top it off, although I’ve been here four nights, this will be the first in my new house that I spend alone as I have just taken my mum to the train station and said good-bye so I’m feeling a bit low at the moment, what with my only company being a huge rat / chinchilla / squirrel / chipmunk-type squatter up in the rafters keeping me awake and the lack of communication to anyone in the World outside of my tiny town.  Or anyone in the town in fact, unless I walk to their house and knock that is.  Actually it’s not quite true that I have no company whatsoever, I have a stray kitten who has started coming to my house for fuss and stands at the back door meowing for hours and sleeps on the bench next to the door all day.  Me and my mum saw him eat a lizard whole yesterday so I’ve decided to call him Bear, after Bear Grylls, who will also sink to eating anything that moves to survive – just like the cat.  Poor, little, lizard-eating Bear!

So, I’m a bit sad and alone halfway up a mountain in France. I’m not Carrie-Bradshawing it just yet though (unlike her, I can, at least, speak basic and understandable French which has gotten me through all situations thus far) – Autun is one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever been too, let alone had the pleasure of living in.  Think Beauty and the Beast’s tiny, provincial town, but bigger.  It is technically a small city by France’s standards, but it’s possible to walk from one end to the other in about half an hour, passing several boulangeries, several brasseries, a really beautiful cathedral and the Lycée at which I have just started working.  Très French, darling.  Speaking of brasseries, on our first day here, mum and I found a cool, quiet one where they play Miles Davies all day and the coffee is only 1€. I have a feeling I’ll be making good use of that this year.

AWOL in Août

So this is my first entry for this blog.  I’m never sure what you’re supposed to write about in the blog entry really, but I’m going to use it as an introduction.

So, hello. My name is Micha. I’m a student studying French. Pretty much just your average girl.  I guess the reason why I’m starting up this blog is because I’m going to be starting my year abroad in…oh, 12 days time and was just looking for somewhere to write all about it.  And if I’m honest, I just want a place where I can write about a lot of stuff really, where potentially everyone could see it, but in reality, probably next to no one will.

Anyway, for the first seven months of my year in France, I’m going to be an English teaching assistance in a beautiful, charming and typically French town just outside of Dijon, in the Burgundy region.  Up until about two weeks ago I was getting pretty excited about this until I started looking for accommodation only to realise that finding anywhere to live was going to be much more difficult than I had first anticipated, which started to mar my happy-sunny-rainbow thoughts with clouds and scary goblins.

Not only is it more difficult than I first thought because there isn’t all that much on the market, but to top it off – it’s August.  To those who know anything about France and its culture, you’ll no doubt be thinking ‘Ahh, rookie error.’ Anyone else might be thinking: ‘What’s the problem with August?’  Well, France is on holiday.  The whole of France.  Not just some of it – the whole bloody country is on holiday and, according to the many people I have tried calling, ‘will not be back in the office until the 3rd September’.  While I absolutely do not begrudge people a summer holiday, what does irritate me is that I came back early from my holiday to find myself somewhere to live only to have forgotten the cardinal rule of not forgetting that France goes AWOL in Août (it’s my own fault that I forgot, but still).  Ah well, at least I know for when I start work there that they are a relaxed nation who take plenty of holidays (something I will take full advantage of this year, believe me. Uni ‘holidays’ aren’t all they’re cracked up to be when exams come straight after them and you’re trying to get 2:1’s and firsts). And luckily September starts tomorrow, hopefully bringing with it a flow of wonderful and overdue replies to all my letters, emails and calls * sigh of relief *.

Anyway, despite this minor hiccough, I’m just desperate to get there now and start speaking, thinking and living French.  It’s been all this time in the making and the longer I stay here in limbo, waiting to uproot for a year and venture to la belle France, the more my subconscious is lulled into thinking that this abstract idea of ‘the year abroad’, this allusive term which has been knocked around the halls of the language department for the last year and a bit, is never going to happen and is just that; an abstract idea.  And even though I now have a countdown going, I’m not getting nervous, or particularly excited or anything, because I just can’t convince myself that at the end of it, this is actually happening and that I am actually going to be leaving.  Which is why I’ll be happy when I’m just finally there with a roof over my head :)