A Real Guy’s Night


Jordan came down on Sunday. You may remember him from such appearances as The Best Night Ever, or The Time I Split My Head Open.

Obviously, things were doomed from the get-go.

It was meant to be a fairly quiet night. Jordan had a job interview in the morning. He came over late in the afternoon to catch up. Later, Sam called and invited us out to his place for dinner. We went, with the intention of coming back to catch a movie, and just have an overall quiet night.

October 8, 2005 | Filed Under Alcoholic, Classic | Leave a Comment 

French Markets

I had trouble sleeping that night. I crashed when I got into bed, but I was wide awake at 3am. My body thought that it was mid-afternoon, as it would be back in New Zealand. I was not impressed.

That next morning, I got up of my own accord at a more normal hour, and went downstairs to find Jean-Luc, who showed me where everything for breakfast was kept.

It was quite a surprise. Everything was sugar-coated.

No muesli, no cornflakes. We had cocoa-puffs, frosted cornflakes, toasted baguettes dripping with Nutella, I couldn’t believe it. All my childhood, sugary breakfast cereals were not allowed, except for the rare treat. Yet here, it was staple. And the same in every other house I had breakfast.

But hey, I wasn’t complaining.

After I had suitably feasted (I must have eaten two large bowls, I was starving. My stomach was confused as to why I wasn’t eating a hearty dinner) and cleaned up, Jean-Luc, the kids, Gaël and Enora, and I, went to Saint Romain for the local market.

The town square had been covered with stalls, selling fresh meat, cut in front of you. Chickens and rabbits innocently do rounds in small pens, awaiting a buyer for that nights dinner, or the Sunday Lunch. The kids loved the rabbits, wanting them as pets. It was not to be.

There were stalls selling clothes. Sweatshirts, jeans, shirts, underwear, everything you need laid out on a table, ready to buy along with your veges and meat.

Jean-Luc made his purchases, while the kids showed me a few of the stalls. They were quite excited, talking away to me, gesturing exuberantly. I followed none of it, just smiled and nodded, uttering the occasional “oui” for good measure.

We have farmers markets in New Zealand, but they are nothing like this. This was fairly small in scale, but to me it was utterly amazing.

I learnt to love the markets. They were places to get bargains in pretty much whatever you needed, along with some of the freshest, and cheapest foods you could get. They’re also a much nicer place to shop, you can go leisurely at your own pace, can make small talk with and bargain with the sellers. It’s much more intimate than the cold stores that spread aggressively throughout France, threatening the survival of the marché. Thankfully the french, proud as always of their culture, refuse to let such a large part of it die.

I need to speed up these entries a bit, it’s time I started jumping from one event to another. It seems I’ve been writing about every little detail that happened every day. Since I said that I would like to cover my experiences last year, 44 days ago, I have only covered my flight to France, my arrival, and my first day. In 8 posts, probably totalling around 6000 words, or more.

Bah, I’ve always been long-winded.

September 7, 2005 | Filed Under Classic, La France | Leave a Comment 

France, First Day

“Ben?”

“Ben?”

mmmm…. whatisit…. ?

Groggily I open my eyes.

Wha-? Where am I?

I takes a little while for everything to come back. The plane flight, the train, the smiling people picking me up a the station.

“Ben?”

‘Yes?’ Crap. ‘Oui?’

“Est-ce que tu veux prendre le petit dejeuner?”

Oh god. What? Petit dejeuner, that’s breakfast. ‘euh, oui, attends’. My groggy mind slowly begins to turn, the realisation hits me that this is real. That I have to speak French. Oh, crap.

I look at my watch. It’s 11am. I’ve been asleep for 16 hours. Yet I’m exhausted. I feel as though I could easily sleep another 16.

I pull on some clothes, and leave my room, and see Jean-Luc down in the living room smiling up at me.

“On doit aller faire les courses. Tu viens avec nous? Tu veux prendre le petit dejeuner avant?”

Shopping. I was going with them. Something about having breakfast first. I responded with a non-committal grunt / oui, still trying to get my bearings.

He shows me where the shower is, and I clean myself up. My first shower since I left New Zealand, god did I need it. I get properly dressed, and go downstairs, to find Jean-Luc waiting for me to go shopping. I figure I must have said something wrong, he thought I didn’t want breakfast.

Which wasn’t really that bad, as I wasn’t hungry at all. My body thought it was 11pm.

I put on my jacket, scarf, and gloves, yet still acutely felt the cold as we headed outside to the car.

We pulled into a small looking supermarket at the next village, Saint Romain, called Champion. Inside, I was amazed at the amounts of mass-produced packaged food. All I could see was plastic. Ham sold in packets of two, four, or six slices. Hundreds of different kinds of yoghurts, desserts, anything in plastic punnets, all individual servings of course.

Jean-Luc bought a few things for lunch, while I looked around absorbing everything I could.

back at the house, he set himself to preparing lunch which I went back up to my room and began unpacking my belongings, settling myself in for a year. It still seemed so surreal. I couldn’t really believe it was happening.

I heard Jean Luc calling again, and went downstairs for lunch,where I experienced my first meal “a la francaise”. It was nothing flash, but was delicious, and interesting. It was, of course, four courses. Which in itself had me stunned. We began with half a grapefruit en entrée, followed by the actual meal (I believe it was lamb, or something). Then came my favourite part of any meal, the cheese. Jean-Luc walked over to the fridge, and got out a plastic container of at least four different types of cheese. I mean, sure, everyone knows that the French are very cheese, but to see there on the table the equivalent selection of cheeses that one in NZ would see only at the most flash of dinners was quite an anticlimax. For dessert, I think we had “rix au lait” or creamed rice.

I couldn’t wait till the next meal. I was full and satisfied, but still, I couldn’t wait. Call me greedy if you will.

First thing on the agenda for the afternoon was to enrol me at school.

It was about a 20 minute drive from our township of La Cerlangue to Lillebonne, where my school was. On the way, we had a very-much one way conversation, with myself attempting a few times to say a few things but finding it easier to sit back and listen. We drove through a few villages on the way, each with it’s own ancient church. La Cerlangue had one from the 13th Century. I couldn’t believe it.

Better yet, as we were driving though the forest, I glimpsed something that really caught my attention. Something solid, non-forest like poking through the trees. I kept looking, and suddenly it dawned on me exactly what it was.

A castle.

Oh my god. A castle, a fucking castle not ten minutes from my house.

We rounded a bend, and there it was right in front of me.

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(Photo taken from bottom of hill looking back up, later that year in Summer)

I was so excited, I wanted to stop the car right then and check it out. I didn’t ask though, I just stared in amazed wonder. I’ve loved castles since I was terribly young… and here was one, a real one. Jean-Luc could tell I was amazed by it. He told me that it was the “Chateau de Tancarville”, had been built in the 12th Century, and inside it’s ruins another had been built in the 18th Century.

I passed it twice a day, six days a week, for the following year and never got sick of seeing it.

We continued on towards Lillebonne, where yet another historical wonder awaited me. As we drove through the center of town, I looked right.

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(Again, photo taken in Summer)

And saw a Roman Theatre. Dating from the First Century AD. I was bowled over. I couldn’t believe it. A castle, and now a roman theatre! Not only that, but not two minutes further up the road, on the left, was yet another castle.

History was surrounding me. It was everywhere, everything was covered in layers and layers of it. It was amazing.

At school, Jean-Luc conversed with the school secretary, much of which flew completely over my head. The obligatory remark was made, however, when she learnt that I was from New Zealand.

“Ah! Le pays des All Black! Est-ce que tu joues au rugby?”

No, I don’t play rugby. She seemed thoroughly taken aback, as in, how could a New Zealander not play rugby?! If you saw me, you’d understand. My friends would understand.

Back at the house, I was in sensory overload. Two castles, and a roman theatre, thousands of years of history… I wanted to be out there and seeing it all.

Unfortunately, my body didn’t agree. It wanted to know why I’d been seemingly up all night, and wanted nothing more than to sleep.

Jet lag does suck.

Early night for me.

September 2, 2005 | Filed Under Classic, La France | 1 Comment 

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 

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