notice the lack of door handle on the outside

As the story goes, I had the window open because I was dancing in my room and it had gotten rather warm. My keys were sitting on my desk, where I had left them last night after I went to bed. Now my keys usually includes my room key because I lock my door when I leave the house. Keep in mind I live in France so of course I have ancient locks on all the inside doors. These locks actually happen to be off the ship that my landlords great, great, great grandfather owned before he built the house. So really, they’re not house locks, their ship locks. At any rate. Remove the key and you can’t get into the room even if the door isn’t locked.

So here I am, sweaty, ready for a shower and some more productivity. I’ve just emerged from my room in naught but a towel and have turned to partially shut the door when a blast of wind decides to rush through my room and slam the door. The door inches from my face, me, in a towel, in the hallway, my keys on my desk. Hello freshman year*, do you remember me? because I’m remembering you.

This is about 11am. By 1pm we’ve managed to get our landlord’s mother to come over [our landlord lives & works in Paris, but is here on the weekends] to see if she can sort out the door. I’ve work at 3pm, which means I need to catch a bus by 2:15pm in order to get there on time. But this is France. And from 12-2 or 3 everything is closed. [yes I mean everything... well almost everything]. After about what must have been ten or more phone calls over the course of a few hours we get someone in saying they’ll come by in about half an hour. It’s about two, so I know I’ll at least be late to my first class, but maybe I can make the second class. At 2:55 I finally get back into my room. By 3:05 I’m out of the shower. Yeah, still didn’t make that next bus to make my 4pm class.

We’re having second keys cut, because apparently they don’t exist. At least I won’t be locked out for more than a few minutes in nothing but a towel again. As much fun as that was, I’m sure my school would appreciate me showing up to work.

*locked myself out of my room during a shower on two occasions, luckily for me though my roommate was nearby both times.

For once I just don’t want to know if trip number three will continue the pattern or break it. So far I’m two for two for mildly disastrous trips from Lille to Dunkerque, at least while traveling alone. My first trip involved a missed train and a lot of panic. This trip involved a fifteen minute layover, buying a ticket in that fifteen minutes and running back to the platform only to board the other train that happened to be on platform 43. So instead of heading on a quick train to Dunkerque I ended up on a slow train back to Calais. [The train from London crosses the channel at Calais, thus back to Calais] From there I had to catch a train, which left eight minutes later to Hazebrouck to make a two minute layover to catch a train to Dunkerque, which of course had to stop in every station between Hazebrouck and Dunkerque. I keep wondering how I manage this. When I’m traveling with others things go more or less smoothly. And when I’m navigating a bus or metro system I don’t get on the wrong line or go the wrong direction. I certainly don’t end up in the wrong city. So what is it with me and the French trains from Lille to Dunkerque. At least I’m home, though I still don’t have internet. How that works I’m not sure. It’s been a month and a half nearly since I was first told I’d have internet. Though S and C have internet at theirs, looks like I know where I’ll be lots more until things get figured out.

Last I left you I was on my way from Lille to London after my sejour in Rouen and afternoon in Paris. (Sorry, that really will never get old) Since then has been a rather lovely relaxing trip, apart from me realizing I deleted almost everything on my computer. This is why you back things up people. Seriously.
Anyway, back to my adventures in Europe.

Tuesday: Left Rouen for London, stopped over in Paris, sat in the train station in Lille. Arrived in London, approximately 9:30 at night local time and was promptly-ish met by a very excited M. After getting back to Golders Green we decided promptly that it was time for bed and stayed up until 2am talking and catching up.

Wednesday: Wandered around Camden looking for costume bits for Halloween. Largely a success seeing as we didn’t have to make any more costume runs. Spent some time sewing costumes and then went out for a drink with a mutual friend.

Thursday: Pretty sure we spent the day sitting around watching TV and sewing. I had to sew an apron for S’ Strawberry Shortcake costume and then had to sew an entire shirt for my Lucky Bear costume. M finished up bits for her Rainbow Bright costume. Not sure anything else happened.

Friday: Friday morning amounted to not much, except a late start and much anticipation. S was coming up from her family’s flat in Southern England to visit for a few days and celebrate Halloween with us Americans. M was waiting for a coworker to show up so they could go through footage they had shot for a promo for the bar they work in, so I ventured out to Victoria station on my own. I actually kind of like riding the tube, when it isn’t rush hour, and when I don’t have to go through the skeezy stations. Got up to the topside of Victoria just as S got in, I was in the middle of texting her to see which train she was on when she called me to ask where I was. After replanning our trip back [we had no desire to go back through Euston to get on the Northern line because, for some reason, everyone decided 2pm on Friday was an excellent time to travel]. By the time we got back to the flat it was just about time for M to head off to work, so S and I sat around catching up on all 3ish days we hadn’t been hanging out. After a bit we headed over to the bar where M works and sat around watching people until she got off work. Half an hour later we’re wandering around Brick Lane looking for another bar none of us really knows, but a troupe of clowns is waiting there for us. The clowns happen to be none other than La Navet Bête, think more Cirque less Circus. M has been working on promo reels for them and was meeting with them to drop off her latest one. They were rather a lot of fun and I hope my travels back to the UK end up with me back in their presence.

Saturday: Woke up around 9ish, at least S and I did… M got ready for work and S and I wandered around London. We ended up in Soho and bought tickets for Avenue Q that evening. Then we wandered down to Oxford street as it wasn’t too far off and it was the last day for God Save the Cream [sidenote: I really do hope that they get a proper business set up soon, that place was amazing]. After grabbing a London style picnic lunch we wandered back towards Soho. Not entirely sure where, but somewhere in Soho, in what looked like the back garden of a church we sat on a wall and people watched while we ate. We then continued on to Avenue Q, which we found, after I was relegated to asking directions (really people, just keep looking when you know you’re near, that way you don’t ask for directions to the place next door). The musical however, was great. I already knew all the songs, but it was wonderful to be able to see it live. I must say it is rather brilliant. After we got out of the show we headed back to M’s flat to get ready for Halloween night. I think this may have been the best Halloween to date. Good friends, dancing, good music, being out until all hours of the morning, good memories of ridiculous conversations (I’ve seen what’s in there).

theoretically more to come from my last few days in London when I’m more awake and have time to write… until then.

Friday marked the last day of classes before les vacances de toussaint. Saturday marked the day S and I left Dunkerque for the beautiful city of Rouen. After missing our train in Lille we boarded the next one, which got us into Rouen at the same time anyway.

Our hotel was a 15 minute walk down the main boulevard from the train station, and right on the river. It also happened to be across from a fun fare. We never went but every night was greeted with pretty lights shining on the water. It didn’t take us long to get settled, so, as it was late and we hadn’t eaten we went in search of food. Luckily some things are still open at 10pm. Rouen is a bigger city than Dunkerque and doesn’t completely shut down at night or on Sundays and Mondays.
The first full day there we spent the morning and early afternoon wandering around the city center. There was the square where Joan of Arc was burned and many cathedrals. We even found a portion of an old cathedral that had been mostly torn down – so of course I tried to climb it. For lunch we had decided on a traditional French picnic. Mostly because we found a market open on Sunday morning, but also because fresh food from markets is possibly one of the most delicious things ever. So after purchasing 2 figs, 2 apples, a hunk of cheese, a small loaf of bread (that may be the best bread ever, miel et chevre (honey and goats cheese)) and 2 desserts, we set off in search of somewhere to eat. Or the plan had been to eat that later and find something for breakfast, but we ended up at cafe with a plate of chips to share and a glass of cidre each. Then, still being hungry, and deciding to change our plans we sat down in a square outside one of the main cathedrals to have what is now known as our epic picnic.

The wandering of town continued for a while, but still tired from not having slept much we went back to the hotel for a bit of a break and to suss out what we wanted to do the next day.That night we found a creperie for dinner. Not Breton crepes (our favorite) but Normandy crepes, which pull a close second. In Dunkerque you get Flemish crepes, which while delicious are a bit odd (think crepe pizza).

The next day we had decided to either visit the forêt de Roumare (Roumare forest) or the jardins des plantes (botanical gardens). The bus ran near the forest, so after purchasing tickets we hopped on board and set out for the French countryside. From where we got off the bus to where we traipsed off the road and into the forest was about a 45 minute walk. We then spent about 3 hours wandering around the Roumare. All in all we figure we walked at least 8 miles our second day in Rouen. This is completed of course by another French picnic involving boulangerie sandwiches, pastries, & chocolate.

Day three involved S and me leaving Rouen. Our plan had been to drop of our suitcases at the train station and then wander around until our 2pm train decided it was time to show up. This however didn’t work because the station at Rouen isn’t big enough apparently to have luggage lockers. So we asked if we could take an earlier train out of Rouen. We already had an hour and a half layover in Paris, why not extend it? So we did. We also decided to take the next train after our originally planned departure out of Paris. So we spent the afternoon walking around Paris [leaving our luggage, and my camera in a locker], buying another epic picnic, and trying to reach the eiffel tower. However, we are both bad at remembering Parisian geography and guessing distances. We made it within eyesight of the tower and sat down to watch the sun set behind it near les invalides.
Basically, I went to Rouen for the weekend, then spent the afternoon in Paris before heading to London.
I’m not sure that sentence could seem anymore surreal, cool, or unbelievable. Part of my just doesn’t believe that this is my life. However, it is, and that is amazing.

Remember back in school, when it was the Friday before break and you were waiting for the last bell of the day to ring? You’re sitting there in class, tapping your foot, stealing glances at the clock, thinking about anything but the lesson,  and really just counting down the seconds. Remember that?

Yeah, I’m reliving that.

Except for now I’m the teacher…

Still can’t shake that feeling that working 3-6 on the Friday before break is going to be my longest day yet.

Most days I get up and go about my business, either that be teaching English, making lesson plans, or running errands and wasting several trees with paperwork so I don’t get deported, but only every so often does it really sink in that I’m living in France. It’s easy to see that I live somewhere new, that I haven’t spoken to my Uni friends in weeks, that I’ve got new friends I might never have thought to hang out with, and that most everyone around me speaks a foreign language, that I mostly struggle through, with ease – especially little kids. That I’m thousands of miles from where I grew up just doesn’t seem to have any meaning than ‘a long ways away and 9 hours earlier’.

After the shock of Dunkerque, and friends (S, C & J) were found things became good. There’s a bit of routine, cooking at either J and mine’s or S and C’s each night, it’s a bit of normalcy. I get to cook for people, debate the differences between American, British and Canadian English, and I get to commiserate in not having internet at home (still!), or rage about paperwork fiascos. You basically have to hand over a detailed account of who you are to do anything in this country… even open a phone line. But then I get to explore too…

There was the aweful nightclub along the beach, really aweful music and an expensive cover. But then there’s the moments where you realize you live a 15 minute walk from the beach and that you can go walk down in the sand under the starlight. And of course the incredibly out of place yet adorable Bretonne Créperie on the strip in front of the beach. It could not be more of a hole in the wall place but it couldn’t be more quaint either. S and I have only been there once but we fully plan on returning. At the very least it’s open on Sundays and at lunch, which is absolutely unheard of here in Dunkerque. At the very most it is this little shop run by an elderly couple. They cook the crèpes and gallettes right there in front of you, and if they weren’t some of the most delicious ones I’ve ever eaten (pictures next time I promise). Then, when we ordered two to split she comes up and says (in french) next time let me know and I’ll make one after the other.

Even though I’ve only been in Dunkerque a little less than a month I go on vacation this Saturday. S and I are going to Rouen, then I’m taking off for London to see M. Where perhaps I’ll meet up with C and S. I’m looking forward to Halloween in London. I know it isn’t as big a deal over here as it is in the states  but fun shall be had.

I’ve been postponing really writing about Dunkerque as I don’t feel compelled to write anything about the city or (most of) what I’m doing here. I don’t want this to be one long rant, or page of complaints, which is what I fear will happen. Then there hasn’t been internet at the place I moved into (it’s comming), so that was an excuse as well. I’m now sitting here (mostly failing) at typing on a french keyboard; years of typing all reduced to nothing because this keyboard is vastly different. But, back to Dunkerque.

La Plage (the beach) is probably my favorite part of the city. It has a lot of character where the rest of the city can tend to fall flat. Dunkerque doesn’t have as much time on it’s side as other European cities; much of the city was rebuilt after World War II, so everything has a 1950s mass produced feel to it. At first I was really dissapointed with the city, but it is growing on me. It is now at least a bit familiar and not so foriegn.

At school I’m still observing until the 12th. This mostly involves me sitting in classrooms, bored, possibly talking about myself, telling the boys that I’m 23 and single, because that is what they want to know, and telling the girls that yes I do speak french, I can understand you, I just can’t speak to you in French. Theoretically I’ll have my final schedule by the time I leave today, midday Friday and it won’t change week to week thankfully is on a two week rotation.  My students have extremely varried levels of English. It’s mandatory to take English, but not everyone actually cares enough to learn how to speak it. I have noticed several students who are quite apt though; I hope I get to work with them.

Outside of school has been good, aside from the lack of internet – the need for internet and instant communication just shows how much our society has changed in the past twenty years. Last Wednesday a bunch of new Dunkerquois, met. In otherwords, all us foreigners met on the beach and drank cheap french wine. There were twelve of us in total: 3 americans, 2 british, 3 canadians, 1 german, 1 spanish, 1 chinese & 1 netherlandais. About seven of us stayed together through dinner at one of our flats. I rather like the assistants here, we seem a good mach for a group of mismatched young twenty somethings.

On top of this little bit of work, a bit of socializing, and a lot of trying to figure out where money is coming from, I’m also dancing. I’ve found a studio that does ballet and contemporary/jazz dance. There’s a lot of talking that goes on, but I think that’s because these girls (and boy) have been together for most of their dancing careers. The studio is also pretty lax, but I think it’ll work for the year.

So, here I sit towards the end of my second full day here. Really just my second day… do we really need to count the 2 hours I was here on Saturday? I’ve accomplished a bit. I have: a phone, an appointment to set up a bank account, a bus pass, a carte 12-25 (discount on trains), and a place I want to try to live in. I need: a place to live, a bank account, paper work for le CAF (rent reimbursement for students/young people), paperwork for my school, a train ticket to Lille next week, my doctors visit, to return my OFII (so I don’t become an illegal immigrant), oh find somewhere I can take dance classes, especially pointe… bah.

The first day was awful. The city isn’t at all what I wanted. Or perhaps I just fell so much in love with London that nothing compares. Eugene is where I’m from, it will always be special, but I can feel that I absolutely need to spend time in London. Dunkerque is not London. If you include all the surrounding area, Dunkerque is about 200,000 – which is half as big as I was led to believe. Small cities are okay, it’s fine. They’re charming – sometimes, and besides I’m in France. There’s nothing wrong with small cities, it’s just a different kind of life. Perhaps that I didn’t get to walk anywhere that first day I couldn’t get a feel for the city because today was better and I got to walk the streets. It was better, but not great, maybe good. Oh, and French drivers are crazy, and not in the I’m a really good driver crazy sort of way. I mean Ils sont fous! (They’re crazy). London drivers have this smooth calm about them, there’s a magic and a dance to the weaving traffic. French drivers, eh, well, it’s just as congested (even here) and there’s a lot of starting & stopping… there isn’t a good flow. I much prefer walking here, or at least taking the bus.

Dunkerque is a port city, with a lot of factories. There is also a nuclear power plant. There isn’t a lot of green. (there’s more green in London) The beach is bare and the buildings are wind-warn. The natives have strong accents. And by strong I mean, I can’t quite understand you, are you speaking French? There is something quaint about it though. Perhaps that’s the frenchiness that I remember from my last visit slipping in. Half of everything is closed on Mondays, stores close at lunchtime, always say bonjour and au revoir when you go into a place of business, etc. There’s a market on Wednesday and Saturday – I fully intend on going to it. Hopefully I can ease into it all, and it won’t feel so foreign. And tomorrow I’m meeting with another assistant – from the UK. I’m glad I’ll get to speak English again in person with someone who fully understands this all. Then Wednesday a bunch of us are meeting at a parc. So each day I think is going to get better.

My mantra lately seems to be Well, at least my life isn’t boring/it’s an adventure, right? and that’s keeping me going. That and the constant reminders than it will get better and I can do this.

(a bit of time travel here – last Thursday 24 September)

On our second day off from pretty much any requirement except for our own passing fancies Melissa and I found ourselves wandering down Oxford Street, trying not to completely empty our pocketbooks at all the stores. The sheer amount and size of which is amazing in and of itself. Some we dashed into and meandered about, fingering the pieces that struck our fancy, others which we avoided, either due to lack of interest or the fact that they were so far out of our price range tears might have been involved. Just saying. At any rate, just as we passed Selfridges, which is, as Melissa put it, “What Bloomingdales wishes it could be” we see a sign. Black with white lettering and hot pink splashes of color. We’ve just been discussing how Selfridges often has emerging artists put together their displays. The sign says – open until 3, God Save the Cream, and then something about Icecreamists.

Here we are, at 2:40, curious as always and a bit hungry. We walk in, past a pink velvet curtain and down a staircase. What we are met with is a rather brilliant display with a posh underground club vibe. After standing in a bit of awe and wonder in the doorway for about three minutes a bubbly yet almost punkish waitress comes over to us and asks us if we’d like a table. At this point we feign to just be looking and wander over to the “bar”. I wish I had a menu, so I could tell you the names, but they were all very stylized and very British. Except for maybe Obamarama – a white chocolate ice cream of some sort, but much more interesting than just white chocolate. We took a table.

Shortly we were handed menus, quite a unique experience at an ice cream shop. Most of the menu was consumed by the kinds of ice cream they had on hand. There were however a few ice cream cocktails both of the alcoholic and non-alcoholic kind. The rest of the menu consisted of a bit of well written history, most of which was entirely true (we asked). Still intrigued, but unsure, we kept it safe and ordered a scoop of ice cream apiece. Melissa’s was a kind of dark chocolate, and mine was chocolate and hazelnut. Talking later, we were trying to decide how the made the flavors so pure and decided that the secret ingredient must be angels tears. That’s how amazing this ice cream was. It was the smoothest, richest, yet not overwhelming, with had a lot of depth, just plain delicious ice cream either of us had ever had. Not to be cliché, but we may never be the same again.

This morning started normal enough, couldn’t sleep past 9:30 even though we had been up late the night before. Nerves were getting the better of me even in my exhausted state I upped myself and showered. By 10:30 I was ready to leave. By 11 I had finished the novel I was reading. 11:30 (!) saw Melissa and I out the door in search of an early lunch. We ended up at an all you can eat Chinese and Thai buffet. It’s always interesting not knowing exactly what you’re eating.

Back to Melissa’s flat, and dragging 100 pounds of luggage down what must be about three flights of stairs. Up looks more daunting, but I think down is a lot more trouble. By the time we made it to the tube station both my suitcases were broken. Granted one busted a wheel on the way over here, but the handle on the other one snapped. Back to that for a moment. We’ve turned the corner, off the cobblestones that make up the alley way behind Melissa’s flat and onto the slightly less treacherous London sidewalk. Step, step, thud. I’m not sure if the handle so much broke as did it’s supports, which rendered it mildly useless as it pulled all the way out. Moments later when we’d thrown away the now useless handle and continued on our way. A little old lady steps around the corner onto one of the stones that likes to sink when you step on it. She trips on the ledge that hadn’t been there when she steps down, luckily straight into me. As I caught her with one arm and kept her from completely smashing into the ground. So my misfortune with broken suitcases saved someone a bloody and maybe broken fall. And I’m alright with that.

Melissa had to be to work at 1 so I had to manage myself through Kings Cross to St. Pancras by myself. Normally, no big deal. Even with two broken-ish suitcases, no big deal. They stations are across the street from one another and I didn’t have to actually carry anything except my laptop bag. Except for the escalators. Large bags on those things generally scare me. Having to manage two unwieldy ones at the same time, when it’s so busy there’s a queue for the lift, not fun. So I get about a quarter of the way up and I’m still fighting with my heavier bag, which happens to be on the step above me, sort of. There was a moment of realization, in slow motion, that this could end up with me falling backwards. I’m not going to say I’m clairvoyant, but I’ve got a pretty good grasp on the principles of causation. In a jumble of arms and legs and moving conveyer belts I tumbled backwards. And miraculously, almost like a movie, two strong, handsome young men reached for me and my things. After a brief struggle, I was able to get my feet under me without any further disasters. One of them helped me pull my luggage to the side, out of the chaotic crowd and talked to me while I rearranged myself. I wasn’t hurt, and my luggage wasn’t too worse for wear, it already needed replacing anyway. So, I continued on to St. Pancras, where I stood looking confused until someone came to help me. Mostly I was tired from carrying my own weight (possibly more than) in belongings.

Now, here I sit on the eurostar, watching England roll out before me as we speed past. Honestly I can’t wait to return.

…

I’ve arrived in Lille. I started off rather excited, though a bit sad to leave London. Though as I entered Gare Lille Europe and thought about how much my French had atrophied and the fact that I had no idea what I was doing, fear quickly found hold. It was probably only helped by the two broken suitcases and a very tired body. It is however, rather amazing what small successes can do to help fight fear. So far, I’ve procured a trolly, gathered my ticket, and gone back to get the necessary carte 12-25 (that gives me discounts on travel), and purchased something to eat. Though I have to say I’ve so much adrenaline pumping through my system that I’m absolutely not hungry. Now I wait. One hour until depart. One hour and a half until I arrive in Dunkerque.

…

Or not. Here’s the part where my train was late, and then I’m tired and stand in the wrong queue, subsequently missing my train, which leads to me crying at the train station until a very nice French woman who didn’t speak any English let me use her iPhone to try to contact Olivier (the teacher I’m staying with). I managed a two sentence email in French saying I’d missed my train and I’d take the next one, having no idea if he’d get the message or not. So, then comes buying another ticket to Dunkerque (thankfully they’re only 7 euros) and running-ish across the street to the other train station. Let me not forget the two nice French girls who probably took English in high school who offered me tissues and tried to help. Fighting with my luggage up and down ramps, almost missing my second train and having a very bedraggled British man offer me a napkin, because, you guessed it, I’m still freaking out and tearing up. Granted halfway through our trip I realized he was British, which meant he spoke English, and therefore we could understand each other. It’s amazing what being able to communicate in your own language does to calm you down. It probably helped that he put things in perspective (he’d just had all his money and his passport stolen) and pointed out that if he were the one who was supposed to pick me up he’d come back and check when the next train came in.

So I make it to Dunkerque with no fewer than 3 more random people helping me with my luggage. Let me say how much I hate broken suitcases.

And Olivier was there waiting for me. And his girlfriend cooked us all dinner. And I managed to converse in French (and English) even though I’m beyond exhausted. Oh, and I have some pretty impressive bruises.

It’s been a day, and then some, goodnight.