Meet the Family

It was soon dark outside. Talk between Kitty and I ground to a halt as we started giving in to complete exhaustion. An hour in to the journey, we arrived at Rouen, Kitty’s stop. We said brief goodbyes, and she hopped off the train.

It was a lot emptier now. Exhaustion gripped me, I was fighting to stay awake, fearing for the safety of my luggage. I was also afraid I would miss my stop, a fact that was heightened each time the bus slowed and I heard the conductor saying something undeciferable over the loudspeaker.

A drunken old man in the same carriage as I tried to strike up a conversation. My french was good enough to be able to understand someone if they spoke very slowly and clearly, pronunciating perfectly.

An old drunk guy is not prone to do this. To me, he was ranting gibberish. I tried the old “je ne parle pas francais” and “je ne comprends pas” but it just seemed to annoy him. He began yelling something at me, perhaps the french xenophobia coming through, perhaps thinking I was just pretending to to not understand him.

I was very thankful when he got off a few stops later… however by this point I was the only person left that I could see. When the conductor again uttered his distorted information through the loudspeaker, I stumbled up to the next carriage, and asked the sole inhabitant “quelle ville?” my accent dripping kiwifruit and buzzy bees.

“Yvetot” was the response. Not that I new where or what that was, I simply heard “eavetow” and knew that it didn’t sound at all like “le harvre”.

We continued onwards, and after a while, the garbled announcement came again. I strained and concentrated intently trying to make out what was being said. It sounded like Le Havre. Maybe. I wasn’t too sure. I put off as long as I could, noticing that everyone else was getting off the train. I poked my head out the doors. I couldn’t tell. But I had a good feeling about it.

I grabbed my luggage and descended from the train, praying like hell it wouldn’t leave me in some random place hours from where I should be. As it turns out, it didn’t leave at all. I was at the end of the line. Which was Le Havre.

What luck. I had probably been told that I would be getting out at the end of the line, but I couldn’t remember. Too much of a blur.

It was dark outside, with a light misty rain falling. I began walking with my gear along the quai owards the lights of the station. I couldn’t see anyone.

Then I looked up and saw three figures approaching me, an adult flanked by two children. I could only see the shadows at first, and then slowly they came into view properly. They were walking slowly, casually but purposefully, with smiles on their faces. I recognised Jean-Luc, my host father, from the photos sent, and the two children, Gal and Enora. It was like something out of a movie.

They helped me with my gear, and led me to the car. We spoke a bit. Well, mainly, Jean-Luc spoke and I listened. As we drove through Le Havre he told me how I could visit it on the weekends, if I wanted. It was the close city, after all.

I soon fell asleep, finally succumbing to exhaustion, awakening as we pulled into the driveway.

The house was absolutely beautiful, in classic Normand style. It seemed huge.

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It wasn’t covered in snow, however, that’s actually a photo from earlier this year, it’s all I had on hand ;)

Inside, I was given the grand tour. The lounge was absolutely beautiful, with an Oriental theme, ornaments and designs from Japan and China. Passing through the lounge one entered the dining room, then the official entry way to the house (we’d come in through the garage) and then into the kitchen.

My room was upstairs, above the garage. What was cool was that the lounge didn’t have a second story, yet lay between my room and the rest of the rooms, so I had a nice pathway against the wall looking down into the lounge. I”ll post a photo to show what I mean later on.

I dumped my gear in the room, and sat down on the bed. Someone called my name, and I grudgingly went to see what was happening.

Dinner time.

The kids had been sent to bed, so it was just Jean-Luc, Marie-Louise, and myself. I did not last long. I must have been at the table about 15 minutes before they realised that I was beginning to fall asleep. They told me to go to bed, an offer I was not going to refuse.

I went back upstairs, and clamboured into bed, falling asleep immediately. I was that exhausted. 40 hours of travelling since I had left Napier, with only three hours of sleep.

But, I’d made it. I was in France.

August 18, 2005 | Filed Under Classic, La France | Leave a Comment 

Paris, la cité de l’amour

As we entered the city itself, Kitty and I glued ourselves to the windows, staring out into the foreign city. Everything was different. The street signs were not only in French, but were a completely different style, fancy looking. There was not always a footpath. The apartments loomed above us, built in that distinct Parisian architecture. Even the lampposts were different. We lapped every little detail up.

Out driver pulled out her cellphone (thank god we were no longer speeding along the motorway, and we instead trying to navigate through traffic-stricken Paris, she obviously didn’t think concentration was required. I begged to differ.) and made a quick call, presumably to the place where we were to be dropped off. She yabbered something in french, then hung up with he words “dix minutes” or, ten minutes.

We continued winding through the streets, merging with traffic from various lanes (the French driving, while ‘bad’ by our standards, is not actually dangerous. While they pull off some absolutely suicidal manoeuvres, they’re all expecting one another to drive like that, so are fully prepared) before pulling up in some small street. A youngish looking man was waiting outside for us. Thankfully, he spoke to us in english.

He helped us take our baggage inside, and up to the STS offices. Here, we experienced French Elevators for the first time. Not flash elevators, one person elevators. That are rickety and old. Which don’t look appealing, until you see the winding, narrow, steep staircase.

When we finally got our baggage and ourselves up to the third floor and settled in the offices (it took several trips) we chatted to the dude, who told us that we would be catching the train in two and a half ours, Kitty getting off half way at Rouen, to meet her host family and make her way to Dieppe, myself continuing on to Le Havre.

Basically, we had two hours to kill.

The only thing we really wanted to do was sleep, but there was no way that was going to happen. The dude left us, as he had a meeting to go to, but told us to feel free to take a wander in the streets of Paris.

We decided that, really, we couldn’t be in Paris and just sit in the office the entire time. So we ventured out, into the city.

Brock, when I told him about this a week or so lately, found it all incredibly amusing, that I’d spent and hour “wandering the streets of Paris with a lovely lady”.

Before you get your hopes up, no. Not romantic. No point in even trying. We both had far more important things on our minds at that point. Considering that we had a year of living in France ahead of us, and that within a few hours we would be meeting our new families… it was quite a stressful time.

That being said, wandering the streets of Paris for that short amount of time was simply amazing. I have no idea what part of Paris we were in. We didn’t see any major landmarks, but then, we didn’t want to head too far away either, for fear of forgetting our way back. But just strolling these streets, cobblestones beneath our feet, I couldn’t really believe it, that I was here, in Paris. In France. That I would be here for a year. That I was about to live a year completely different from any other in my life up until that point.

Exhausted as we still were from the flights, we didn’t stay out long. We headed back to collapse into comfortable chairs, and talk idly about friends back home, hopes and fears for the year. Crazily enough, we were told that our host-fathers were workmates in Rouen, and that we would probably be able to meet up for weekends in the city if we wanted, which sounded pretty cool. It was reassuring to know that there would be that link, someone to see who spoke English.

The time came to leave for the train station. We proceeded once again to organise to get ourselves and our baggage down to the bottom floor, using the ridiculous elevator, and loaded ourselves into a Taxi, Yannick leading the way.

We arrived at the Gare Saint Lazare, just on time as it seemed that the train was pretty much ready to go. Yannick wanted to help us onto the train, but was stopped by an official. They spoke briefly, and a young ticket-collector was called for, obviously the “one who spoke english”. That is, he knew how to say hello, and make a basic sentence. However at that stage it was very much appreciated. He found us some seats, told us to look after our bags, and, while profusely apologising for his “bad english”, showed us where to find the “Water Closets”. The public toilets. Called, in French, “Water Closets” (pronunciation: Vorteur Clouseets). They even had a ‘WC’ on the door. Bizarre name.

He left us, and we exchanged “here were go again” looks. I worked out that by the time the train arrived in Le Havre, it will have been 40 hours since I left Napier. In which time I had had all of 3 hours sleep. I was jet-lagged, and knackered.

The train pulled out of the station. I looked out of the window, watching the unfamiliar city go past. In the distance, I saw once again what looked to be the Eiffel Tower, though I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t get over the incredibleness of it all.

In forty hours, I had been on three different continents. Been in four different countries. Left behind any familiar culture.

I couldn’t help wondering, where was I being taken now?

August 6, 2005 | Filed Under Classic, La France | Leave a Comment 

Arrival!

France 2004: Part 3: Arrival In Paris

L’Aeroport Charles de Gaulle is confusing as hell. Especially after over 30 hours of travel.

We were supposed to be met at the airport by an STS France representative. Upon descending from the plane, we looked around, to see no one. Of course, it never occurred to us that there was no way that they’d be able to get in this far, we had not even picked up our baggage yet. Only passengers and Airline staff could possible be in that lounge…

Like most huge airports, it had awesome flat escalators, to help you ‘walk’ the long distances between terminals and the baggage claim areas. They are actually quite fun, although we weren’t really in the mood at that point. The stress of being in a huge foreign airport, hardly understanding the spoken language was getting to us.

We waited quite a while for our bags. We checked and double checked that we were in the right place. Triple checked. Waited some more. Quadruple checked. Walked around the terminal a bit. Whatever-the-fifth-time-is-called-ple checked. Finally a German dude I recognised from the plane got his bag. They slowly came out. Kitty’s bag was broken. As was mine. Not impressed. Inside were little pieces of paper saying that out bags had been physically opened and searched in LA. Lovely.

We had our bags. Where to next? We had no idea. Obviously there must be a way out. I mean, people were somehow leaving. There was a distinct lack of people standing around with bags. There must be some trick that they all know and we don’t. We made a few more tours of the terminal, looking for a way out. The way we came wasn’t possible, it was a one way escalator. We asked a few people, and were pointed in a few different directions, most likely because of our french being misunderstood for something like “Where are the toilets?” or “From where can I throw myself out a window to get out of this horribly designed airport thingy?”. Finally, we found the rarest of all treasures, an airport employee who spoke english. Suddenly everything fell into place.

Customs. We had to go through customs.

Which was hidden away in plain sight.

Customs was a breeze. No checks, just walked straight through. Suddenly, there were people everywhere. Screaming, yelling, photos being taken. Clamouring to get a sight of us. Well, not us per se, more everyone was trying to see, and greeting, the people they knew coming out. The poor lady from STS who had been waiting all the time as we circled in the Airport came and greeted us. In french. And told us flat out that she refused to speak English with us. Lovely.

Next thing you know, Kitty and I are bundled into a Taxi, zooming down the French motorway at 150kph, on the wrong side of the road, with a driver we can’t talk to.

Oh fun.

August 3, 2005 | Filed Under Classic, La France | 1 Comment