Dans Ma Rue

So what have I been up to these past two months? I think some photos with captions will suffice.

Nocturnes de Notre Dame de Paris - in the late evening you can watch a short film in the Notre Dame after it is shut. It's a very interesting film about the architecture and history of the cathedral.

Les Quatre Temps in La Défense is a massive shopping centre with all your needs: From New Look and Zara to Auchan and Toys'R'Us.

Bois de Vincennes - There's lots of things to do here for the family. There's the Château de Vincennes and the Parc Floral de Paris where we did some climbing and rickshawing.

Saint-Ouen has the biggest antiques market in Europe and there were lots of adorable treasures to be found!

Hallowe'en was spent with lots of Erasmus people in probably one of the best clubs I've ever been to: Palais Maillot. I was supposed to be Cho Chang because of my Asian descent.

Lac Disney - Here we watched a sound and light show with fireworks to remember the gunpowder plot.

Catacombes - Due to complaints and disease, cemeteries all over Paris were dug up and the bones transported to Denfert-Rochereau to lay them to their final resting place.

Armistice Day was spent listening to a speech by Sarkozy on the Champs Elysées.

Mexican chocolate festival - there was a chocolate exhibition near Hôtel de Ville.

Went walking around Bercy to see what it was like.

Panthéon perusing

Jardin des Tuileries

Normandy - went on a trip with the organisation Erasmus à Paris for a crazy weekend seeing the little villages in Normandy and Mont Saint-Michel.

La Roue de Paris is placed at Place de la Concorde near Christmas time each year.

And now I'm revising, but tomorrow is my last exam then we are having an International Erasmus Christmas Party (where we bring food from our nations) and then heading home on the Saturday. Here's how Christmas is appreciated in my street.

Joyeux Noël à tous!

Simple Comme Bonjour

So I promised to blog today, it's been a while. I always mean to but I forget then I have other things to do. Anyway, as my life goes by in this beautiful city, I notice a lot of funny and interesting things about the French. I write down little notes to remind me to blog about the little things which are vital to French life like things as simple as hello, so these notes shall be my sub-headings for this blog. Now I've got a chocolat chaud in hand, the rain pouring on the roof and the quiet clinks of glasses from the brasseries below, so I shall begin.

A chocolat chaud to keep me warm in cold Normandy.

Queues
I like to explore all the different supermarkets around me. I've discovered that the Franprix downstairs has a horrid cashier lady who just doesn't talk to me, not even to say how much anything is yet she speaks to other customers. Also this same Franprix has Nutella pots that cost 4 cents more than the Franprix down the road! This place (Batignolles) has far too many Franprix in a half-mile radius.

Anyway, this little story isn't about Franprix, but about another supermarket that I decided to check out: Monoprix. Monoprix is considerably larger than Franprix and usually sells clothes as well as groceries. I decided to go to the one near Place de Clichy and ventured down the escalators to the non-grocery section. I was in need of folder dividers, the more colourful, the better. (Did I mention how dreary French mathematicians could be?). Victimised by retail trickery, I was distracted and ended up going to the till with more items than just folder dividers when I caught myself in a pickle. For one, the till had a very odd position because someone had oddly put a whole make-up counter too close to it which was causing a weird two-way queue.

In true French customer service fashion, there was one person at a till and 4 empty tills. This Monoprix employee was taking her time to scan each product and make conversation with the customer as if everyone else had written in their diaries that they were to queue at this very place at this very time on this very date and rung that note in the diary twice in red. I emerged from the right side of the make-up counter to find two people on the right and one on the left. The woman on the left had set her basket down because she had obviously written 'queue @ Monoprix' in her agenda and didn't seem phased how slow the cashier was going. In fear of pushing in, I went back round the make-up counter to emerge left so I could queue behind the woman.

Pickle unpickled. Or so I thought. Two elderly ladies appeared from the right side of the make-up counter and started forming a queue there. I looked at the woman in front of me, she didn't seem to notice that these elderly ladies had just taken her and my places in the line of life and etiquette. Suddenly a great stench seeped into my nostrils and a woman had joined forces behind me, in our queue, we were now even: one customer was being served, six were waiting.

I'm going to digress a bit, but you know when you sit on a bus, usually at the back or by a window and there's this smell? Or even worse, there's that guy on the bus who somehow got on without any money and is making everyone around him wrinkle their nose and suddenly find that they want more exercise and get off a stop or two earlier? Or the smell of the guy who comes up to you in McDonald's and tells you to bet on a certain horse which you inadvertently do and win £50 for it? You know the smell? Yeah that one. I've noticed that a lot of French people smell like that. They're not even homeless nor do they look scruffy, nor does the smell come in a variety of odours, just this one horrible stench from many different people. Bizarre.

Anyway, back to the queue. There we were standing and waiting when the woman in front of me blinked and quickly jerked her head as if she'd just woken up, reached down to her pick up her basket and walked away lost in the slipper and nightwear aisle. She left us in the lurch of a queue fight and the first customer had been served and was making her way up the escalators. The first of the two elderly ladies on the right who had arrived after me was then being served. The smelly dame behind me poked me in the back (enough to hurt) and asked if I was before them to which I sheepishly said yes. She then told me to go after the current customer being served.

It was my time to do some 'pushing in' (it's pushing in or it's not, depends on how you look at it) but my Britishness couldn't let me do it. I could not push in in a queue. The next thing I knew, I found myself flung to be the first to be served by the sheer force of the smelly dame who had used all her might and stench to push me there.

"I'm sorry, Madame," the cashier wryly smiled, "The queue actually starts from there." She pointed to the right side of the make-up counter and gestured for me to join the back of the 'right queue'. The stinky lady had already beaten me to it and proudly stood in front of me in the queue, knowing that 2 people had already pushed in front of me, she couldn't have cared less.

The British section of Monoprix in La Motte-Picquet

C'est Vert!It's hard to judge which way to look first when crossing the road in Paris, it's usually the right but you never know. In England there's stop lines and give way lines which easily help pedestrians as to which direction to look first, but these lines do not exist here. When I first arrived in Paris, it would take me much longer to cross the roads because I was polite and waited for a clear and safe crossing. These things do not exist in Paris and you have to commit to cross and wait for the cars to stop for you. If they don't tant pis.

I once found myself courageously on a crossing when the lights had just turned from red to green (no amber) and was in the middle of a large road. The motorbikes and cars didn't seem to care that I was still on the crossing and had gone full speed at me. Luckily I wasn't hurt, but I could have easily been.

Even when the green man is on, you can catch traffic still moving, making pedestrians wait or even buses turning at a green man just after you've cleared their path even if you're still not on the pavement yet.

I was walking with my boyfriend near La Motte-Picquet - Grenelle when the green man was on and we were crossing a busy junction when a car was coming at us at full speed. We obviously had to run to the other side with a French woman who was cursing at the driver shouting that it was green.

Speaking of driving in Paris, you're advised to park without the handbrake (if you can) so that other drivers can push your car in order to get into a parking space. Again around the Motte-Picquet area, my boyfriend and I witnessed a car wedged in between two others where the driver was trying to steer his way out. We stood there for a good few minutes watching this man make tiny reverse turns again and again to squeeze out of the car sandwich. We had left due to timidity but a crowd had gathered and am sure they would have applauded him for his effort (if he ever escaped).

No Uniform
Children do not wear uniform at school, not at primary, secondary nor college. Who knew that this would extend out to what school prepares us for: the real world. I noticed that the métro drivers who all seem to arrive at the platform in the same seated manner: one elbow on the counter and with their cheek buried in their hand, do not wear uniforms. I also noticed how the cashiers at Monoprix do not wear uniforms either but have seen the ones who walk around the shop in uniform just in case you do want help.

Bon-ing
The French do like to bon everything, and I mean everything! I was once eating an apple down the street and a young man came up from behind me and said "Bon appétit!". You can only say "Bonsoir!" after 16h (yes they like to work with the 24-hour clock here) and if you are leaving someone at about 4-8pm you wish them a "Bonne soirée!". If you leave them in the morning, you say, "Bonne journée!" and you must say "Bonjour!" when you enter a shop otherwise you're considered to be rude. I even got a "Bon après-midi!" from the cobbler.

Sleazy Men
Not to say I'm the most attractive woman in Paris but I have had a lot of men say sweet nothings to me. This happens to all women in Paris and I discovered that the Parisiennes do not mind. In fact, they welcome it. I have had smart businessmen, SDFs and sleazy old men say it to me. The most memorable would have to be this guy on the métro. I was on a certain line for a long time and the carriage was getting emptier and emptier. Nearing to my stop, there were just three people left in the carriage: a woman behind me, a man standing near the door and myself sitting near the door on a strapontin. I was a bit wary about the man near me, I didn't make eye contact but he was making me feel very uneasy. When he pulled the handle for the door to open because he was getting off at his stop, he crouched down to come face to face with me and said, "Vous êtes vraiment belle." And disappeared. Frightened with my heart beating because I seriously thought he was going to do something else, I was in shock when I suddenly hear a huff from the woman behind me.

"You are so rude," she tells me, "you can't even say thank you."
That's the Parisienne etiquette, you're supposed to thank the sleazy men.

Eating in Public
I was told in my French lesson that the French find it rude to see people eating by themselves in public. This is because eating is something close to their hearts, a pleasure to be shared and not spectacled with jealousy. If you are to eat in public by yourself, you have to say a quick sorry and cover your mouth when you eat. I found this out in a different way outside the classroom. At my university in Paris, it is very hard to find a time to eat, we are not allowed food in lecture rooms nor in seminar rooms and there's usually 15 minutes break between seminars or lectures (which are used to walk to lectures or seminars). When I finally had some time to eat lunch/dinner before my last lecture, I made my way to the Jardin des Plantes to eat my ready-meal of pasta that I had made the night before. I sat on a bench to enjoy it when a little boy with his mother sat next to me for a break from their walk. In an instant, the boy was crawling near me, grinning from ear to ear and opening his mouth ready for me to feed him. His mother apologetically pulled him back but the boy kept coming back. I was thinking, was my cooking that good? Did my pasta look that appetising? In the end, the mother apologised and brought her son away from me where they found another bench in another part of the park. I quickly realised that the boy had probably only seen food in a sharing environment and when he saw someone eating food by themselves, he instantly thought that the food had to be shared.

It seemed the French animals were in on it too, again I was in the Jardin des Plantes eating another meal which was pasta and this crow did not leave me unless it was fed the chorizo in my pasta.

Quand Tu Dors

I'm really missing my guitar and making music in general. I'm far too shy to sing in this little apartment because I have quite a loud voice when I sing and I wouldn't want the neighbours to hear. So when you sleep I am up listening to music. I'm liking Lucy Rose a lot. Here's something I worked on a while ago but have not finished my cover of it. Sorry this post has no photo, but where there's no photo there's an audio!

Please listen with earphones, I'm yet to have a nice condenser microphone so have been getting by with a cheap microphone made for internet chats hence the poor audio quality.


Sneaky Preview by calicoeannecash

Le Métro de Paris

I feel that since I've neglected this blog and have only really been describing boring stuff like administration (which I only include for those who may find it helpful) not forgetting my rushed descriptions of Parisian explorations, I owe a little post that's a bit more inspirational. I've done my French homework for the week and have possibly done my maths too (I say possibly because I don't want to get out my agenda to find out if I actually do have maths homework). Therefore, I will be writing a little something about my experiences on a Parisian commodity which is a landmark in itself. The Paris Métro.

I live in the 17th arrondissement and my nearest métro stop is Rome. You'd expect it to have a lot of restaurants that play on this name in the area but I've only found a tiny pizza place called Pizza di Roma in which I saw the staff were all watching The Simpsons. As soon as you emerge out of the ground at Rome you'll find yourself facing a big open area of RER railway, lined with tall white Parisian apartments and a brasserie. I remember seeing two guys slumped in chairs facing the road (as most al fresco seating is in Paris) with a pint of beer each. I knew instantly that they were foreign and walking by them, I stood (well walked) corrected as they sounded like fellow Londoners. Walking up Boulevard des Batignolles towards my place you can see a great sight in the distance.

That sight is of the highest point in the city: La Basilique du Sacré Coeur which is all the more magnificent at night.

Rome is only on one line and that is the dark blue Ligne 2 with terminals at Nation in the east and Porte Dauphine in the west. According to a guide to the 17th which was kindly posted in my mailbox, the numbers of the lines are chronological of the time of opening and use of each line where the first métro stop was Porte Maillot also in the 17th.

I found that sometimes it is better to get off at a stop and walk to your destination instead of changing lines to board a train at a station that is only one stop away. Underground, changing lines can take forever and everyone seems to want to get away from each other as quickly as they possibly can.

During rush hour, it can get pretty packed. I know that when I'm sitting on the fold-up chairs and arrive at busy stations like the Gare du Nord, I should stand up instantly. On one particular journey, I was squashed to the end of a carriage with a buggie in front of me. Smiling within this buggie was a little girl who was sucking on her fingers. Her smile was contagious and she was saying "Bonjour! Bonjour!". The mother kept correcting her to say "Bonsoir, Inès. Bonsoir." The little Inès then thought it was quite interesting to pat my leg. Not just in one spot but up and down it, then was curious to find what was under my dress. Much to the amusement of the fellow passengers, I was trying to hold on to a rail for balance and keep my dress down. It was a bit of a Marilyn Monroe moment, but hideously more embarrassing.

One night, when I was returning home from L'Hôtel de Ville, after changing at Charles de Gaulle - Etoile, a saxophone man was blaring out Chris de Burgh's Lady In Red. When I hopped onto the train, I heard a very vague tune that I instantly recognised because I remember listening to it over and over again in order to make my own guitar cover of it. A guy a few carriages down (line 2 has no specific carriages, it's just one long train) who had a very gravelly and soulful voice was singing the Eagles's Hotel California. Unfortunately, I couldn't really hear him and I had arrived at Rome and had to get off.

The following day, I happened to be returning home from L'Hôtel de Ville at about the same time as the night before and changing at Charles de Gaulle - Etoile the same saxophone man was playing Lady in Red again. The next métro was still a few minutes away and the Mr. Saxophone had started playing Celine Dion's My Heart Will Go On. Then followed a platform full of singing and dancing people. It raised the mood of the platform a lot. When he blew the final note, he was greeted with an applause intertwined with the sound of the oncoming train. When I stepped onto the train, I managed to step onto the same carriage as the busker that I heard the night before. He was setting up, tuning his guitar and had put down a tin in front of him. Another passenger had a guitar-like case which he was tapping. The busker (who sounded like he had an English accent) asked the passenger what was in the case.

"It's a Baglama. A turkish guitar." The passenger took it out and played a bit.
"I've got to get me one of those," the busker said.

The passenger continued to play, followed by the rhythmic tapping on his Baglama. When the passenger kept up this tapping, the busker started playing some chords.

"Old pirates, yes they rob I..."

His voice suited the song so perfectly. He was singing Bob Marley's Redemption Song. I could see everyone around me tapping their feet or lightly tapping their knees with their fingers. It was certainly a magical moment that left me smiling when I had to sadly get off the train for my stop. The carriage doors closed and their sweet music faded into the tunnel of the night.

When in Rome...

Va Danser

The Thinker (Le Penseur) in the garden of the Rodin Museum

This blog post is more about administration and evenings out!

During the second week, we had to have a test if we wanted to study French as a foreign language. An e-mail had been sent to us to go to a certain amphithéâtre for 9.15am sharp.

It was 11am and we were all still standing outside the lecture hall. We'd managed to get inside a few hours earlier and sit down, but then were all told to pile out again where a little woman came out and began announcing people's surnames alphabetically. No one heard her. There were about 300 of us there. I just remember thinking that the French had to seriously sort out their administration problems. They did this for a good half hour in which nothing seemed to be happening and finally just let us come in in whatever order. The most frustrating thing was that they didn't seem to be very efficient or quick with what they were doing. I signed my name, wrote down my exam paper number, went all the way to the front of the lecture hall to set down my bag and found a seat near some people I knew.

It was 12:30pm and the last few people were still signing up and setting down their bags. By the time the test finally began, everyone was extremely tired.

The first part of the exam was a listening comprehension where there were 4 multiple choice answers. The tricky part to this was reading all the multiple choice answers (which weren't the shortest things in the world) and listening to the tape at the same time. Therefore, I don't think I did very well in that section. The next two sections were grammar and reading comprehension which I found okay. I managed to finish the exam and we were told that we would get our results the next week where we would be put into classes according to our ability (and we needed to do more signing up for this).

By the third week of being in Paris, I'd managed to sort out my bank account, my mobile phone, CAF for accommodation financial aid, telephone and internet connection and my métro pass.

I chose to have a bank account with Société Générale which is quite close to my accommodation. I'd booked online and showed up on a Saturday. The man I was booked to see was still in a meeting and kept coming out at one-minute intervals to say "J'arrive! J'arrive!" When I finally managed to enter his office, I took out all the paperwork I needed to open an account: attestation de loyer (my first month's rent receipt), my passport and my Erasmus confirmation that I was studying in France. Everything seemed fine, I'd signed quite a few contracts and he'd printed out a load of sheets for me. He then had a look at my attestation de loyer, squinted and said that he would be right back after consulting with his colleague. I saw him go next door (the offices had glass walls) and saw him have a very animated convseration with his colleague who was also in the middle of a meeting. I saw scratching of heads, shrugging of shoulders, jutting out of bottom lips and even a gesture of holding binoculars to their eyes. The man returned, a bit flustered which he blamed on the heat (even though he had air-conditioning) and gave back my attestation de loyer.

"C'est illisible." He said simply with a grand showing of the palms of his hands. So the two had come to the conclusion that my rent receipt was illegible. I had to return the following Monday with my house contract instead, but I could still open my account. The guy typed away at his computer, printed some more documents for me to sign all while he was squeezing his stress ball. His printer packed up and he started fiddling with the printer: putting new paper in, taking it out, taking out the cartridge, scanning it intensely and then putting it back in and acting all surprised when the printer started working again like he was some sort of magical printer doctor. Then he went next door to the photocopying room to photocopy more paperwork. He finally sat back down at his desk in a sweat, squeezing his stress ball again and took out a big laminated book. Since I was aged 18-25, I was able to have a So Music! debit card. He turned page after page of debit card covers that I could choose from, all with a musical theme. Of course I went for the electric guitar.

I left the bank with a massive wad of paper and a promise that I would get my important details (like security codes etc.) through the post and would have to return the following Saturday for my debit card.

I'd researched into getting mobile phones here. Typically, it's not as easy as in England. You can't get a free sim over the internet and just top it up to use 'pay as you go'. The pay as you go contract here is more of a cheap monthly contract. You top up a certain amount and according to how much you've topped up, that amount will last you a certain amount of days. For instance, if I topped up 15 euros, it would have an expiration date of a month. If I did not use that credit for the whole month, it would be lost when the month is up and does not carry on to the next month. After many trips to my nearest La Poste since I discovered they had a photocopier there, I managed to make friends with the people who worked there. This just shows how many times I went in and needed to photocopy something. Damn French bureaucracy! Anyway, whilst in a queue for the photocopier where a man was photocopying what seemed like his entire life invoices, I noticed a stand about La Poste Mobile where they offered a sim card. I paid 10 euros for a sim which already came with 5 euros on it. I had to fill in a form (more paperwork!) to confirm my identity where the sim card will be topped up with the 10 euros that you paid for it. I found this was the best deal for me. I already had an unlocked phone so there wasn't any problems there.

I got my estate agent to fill out a section of the CAF form, included more proof of identity and other paper work and sent it off. My estate agent had also set up the internet for me which was very nice of her and a phone line which enabled me to phone 01 and 02 numbers for free (so I could call London for free!)

In nearly all métro stations, there will be a help-desk. I went to my nearest one and asked for an Imagine R application form. Imagine R is a student discounted métro pass. I chose the year contract which was cheaper than a monthly contract which allowed me to board buses, RER and the métro. I had to attach more proof of identity and university contracts including my bank details so this included more trips back to the Post Office. Since it would take about 21 days to get to me, I decided to start my contract from the 1st October (you can only really start from the first of the month) which was very handy because last night I had gone out and it had turned midnight when I was heading home. I used my Imagine R for the first time and didn't have to worry about all my carnets (a book of ten tickets) any more. It felt good, like I was slowly becoming a Parisian.

Picnic on the Champ de Mars, I am in this photo, I did not take it.

My nights out have been numerous, they have included drinking (nearly) every Thursday at an Irish pub called Finnegan's Wake especially for Erasmus students near my university. Since my university is named after Pierre et Marie Curie, in order to have half-priced drinks the password is a certain element according to its number on the periodic table. My evenings have also included drinking by the bank of the Seine on Quai Saint-Bernard, pique-niqueing on the Champs de Mars watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle whilst eating 'mystery flavoured' Lays crips and ghost-shaped Monster Munch. I've even been to a Scottish pub called The Auld Alliance near L'Hôtel de Ville where they sell Irn-Bru and I ordered un vin blanc and the waitress didn't understand because she only spoke English! Last night I went to Café Mabillon on Boulevard Saint-Germain where I had a very French kir. I also enjoyed drinking a nice chocolat chaud at Le Cavalier Bleu near Centre Pompidou. I think if you order wine there like a friend of mine, you get free prawn crackers!

This past week, I celebrated my anniversary with my boyfriend who kindly came to Paris from London to be with me. We ate a wonderful 3-course meal at Ladurée, famous for its macaroons along the Champs Elysées. The meal came with 4 complimentary macaroons of our choice. The following day we ate at TablaPizza at Place de Clichy which is a bit like Pizza Express. It's not all been fancy, I mainly cook for myself or grab a quick caffeine fix from the little café on campus or at chains like Subway or Quick.

I've only properly been out on the town once so far at Place de la Bastille in a place called La Scène which was especially rented out for Erasmus and international students all over Paris. It took ages to get in (even though we had prepaid tickets). As soon as we entered, it was obligatoire to go upstairs and put our coats in the cloakroom. I descended back down when a security guard said my little bag was "trop gros" and was forced to pay to put my bag in as well. I saw loads of girls with bags bigger than mine waltz onto the dancefloor. Since we had been queuing for quite a while outside we all wanted to go to the toilet so there was yet more queuing for the ladies. I managed to meet more people here, including a Chinese girl who was studying at Paris IV who had come all the way from Shanghai. After the toilets, we could finally enter the dancefloor and go dance. The music was quite funny, it started off with all your standard R'n'B beats and proceeded onto Queen Anthems, the White Stripes and Spice Girls. Then the music took a Spanish turn and seemed to stay that way. It was great fun despite our fatigue and we decided to head out at about 3am. This was the first time I had to use the Noctilien (night buses). I found it quite easy to get home from Bastille, I was only scared when a homeless person who was holding a pole and was calling "Madame! Madame!" in which I power-walked it back home.

Marie-Antoinette's bedchamber in the Château de Versailles

I've managed to venture to the outskirts and out of Paris twice using the double-decker RERs, the first time to visit Ikea and the second to visit Versailles, the town, its palace and the gardens. I went with my boyfriend to the Rodin Museum which has famous sculptures like Le Baiser and Le Penseur. Other places I've been to this month include Le Cimetière de Père Lachaise where the likes of Oscar Wilde and Edith Piaf are buried.

A message for Oscar Wilde

I have also trudged up the many steps of Montmartre to visit La Basilique de Sacré Coeur. I'd entered the Sacré Coeur at about 10pm at night where I saw a lot of Parisian nuns dressed with a grey habit and white gowns just floating about the place (they look like they float when they walk really quickly). It turned out I had arrived just in time to hear their evensong.

The full moon taken from the arches of La Basilique de Sacré Coeur

Du Matin Jusqu'au Soir

So Monday 5^th September 2011 was the day of my inscription at UPMC. I was given a booklet in May outlining the routine of signing up as a student at Paris VI and this included going to the Centre de Scolarité which turned out to be a prefabricated building (and has been for the last ten years). I arrived early and there was already a queue forming. Good, they believed in queues here. I have had a lot of bad press about French bureaucracy and little did I know about what I was to experience.

Looking around me, everyone seemed to be conversing in French. I looked at a girl behind me, she didn’t look French, but I didn’t know exactly where she would be from. When it was 9.30am (signing up was supposed to start at 9) some security guards came out of the prefab and started asking if we had our carte d’étudiant yet. I hadn’t, so he gave me an envelope with some instructions as to what to do. This wasn’t part of the welcome booklet routine. Confused, the girl behind me asked where I was from. I replied, Angleterre and it turned out she was too! She was from Newcastle and had been studying maths at Nottingham. It turned out all the Erasmus students had to go to the Tour Zamansky (this wasn’t in the welcome booklet either).

Tour Zamansky (Tour Centrale)

Giving in a piece of identity at the reception desk of Tour Zamansky that we could retrieve upon our return (in my case my Warwick Uni card) we were allowed to enter with a visitor’s pass to ascend to the second floor and sign up. We all had our folders filled with paperwork that the booklet said was needed and were afraid if we’d forgotten a certain piece (which was expected since the booklet hadn’t been right in any way so far). In the Erasmus queue (yet another one) to sign up here, I met a guy who was also doing maths, who was from the Wimbledon area in London and studied in Bristol. I also met some Spanish people, some Italians and Germans. Everyone was conversing in English by now, probably not so good for me, but easier. I felt more at ease because I remember when I was getting off the escalator at métro Jussieu, I was really nervous and scared for some reason.

After signing up here, I was given yet another piece of paper and a plan of the campus where I was to go to the maison de pédagogie and get my modules confirmed. This involved sitting in a corridor waiting for someone. Nothing was happening, so I went into the main office. I knocked. No one answered, I opened it, the two secretaries didn’t seem phased that I had entered without permission; they were too busy on their computers. I stood there. Should I have waited outside? Should I stand over them to show that I exist? After a long while, one of them finally turned their body away from their computer, yet eyes still on the screen and asked what I wanted. I asked where I was to sign up for 3^rd year mathematics. They had no clue. However, this was Paris and when the French have no clue, they don’t want you to know that they have no clue so they tell you absolute rubbish to hide the fact that they have no clue, furthermore they actually had no clue that I clocked on to the fact that they had no clue. They told me to go to a certain room (I knew this was rubbish because that was for 2^nd year not 3rd). Then they told me to wait until 1 o’clock and return. It was 11 o’clock. I thanked them in confusion, leaving the office in need of more questions than when I entered and bumped into the English guy I had seen in the Erasmus queue in the tower. He had been registering modules from all levels. In fact, I later met people my age and year at university signing up for masters modules (which in turn allowed them to have guaranteed university accommodation). He said he had registered one level 3 module with a woman on the floor above, so I went in search for this woman.

I knocked. No reply. It seems the French don’t really care for knocks and just want you to enter their offices, which is what I did. I had come to the right place. I had told her that I wanted to sign up for some level 3 modules and was on the Erasmus programme. She took my sheet and said half of them weren’t until next semester and one of them wasn’t on any more. So I was to do 3 modules this semester (a massive change to the tens of modules I do at Warwick!) . She gave me a timetable and told me to choose the times of my lectures (due to the amount of students, there are repeat lectures) and my seminars which are called TDs (travaux dirigés). Each lecture is 2 hours long and each seminar is 3 hours long (I haven’t been to one yet). There were about 6 different TD groups per lecture and I was told to go away and come back after lunch with my chosen timetable. This was great, I got to choose my own timetable. I’ve managed to arrange it so I have Thursday and Friday free but I do not know about my French lessons yet. However, the timetable choosing was quite confusing, there were so many blocks and so many possibilities.

After lunch, I decided to tag along to the campus tour organised by the association of the university that helps the international students. I managed to meet more people here, including another British person who was from Scotland, studying Chemistry and originally from the University of Strathclyde. I also began to discover how much of a maze the campus is. The place is set out like a grid with ‘towers’ within it. You could have a lesson in a classroom with a number which is something like 44-45-204 which means the classroom is on the corridor connecting towers 44 and 45, on the second floor and is classroom number 4. You must enter by tower 44 however because you may not be able to access the classroom upon entering tower 45. I haven’t been to the underground mathematics library yet, but will very soon and am excited about it. The university campus is not what people may expect of a Parisian university. You may be thinking old and grand amphitheatres with mahogany corridors and odes to ’68. The Jussieu campus is in a phase of redevelopment. Its campus was made with buildings of asbestos and is now in the phase of getting rid of this by demolishing the buildings one by one and reconstructing them. So sometimes there are diversions for routes from tower to tower. The tour leaders told us to get used to it. I must say though that the Atrium is very nice with winding escalators and colour-coded floors. We were told that the higher the floor, the nicer the toilets. This is true.

These toilets were agreeable.

An artistic working environment.

When the tour had ended and snacks were being given out. People were waiting for a tour of the central and biggest tower. I had run off by this time before the maths office closed to give in my chosen timetable which was signed. I was told that according to the timetable I had chosen, I had a lecture that evening. I had to run back to the central tower, give in my Warwick card and go back to the 2^nd floor to hand the paper in. When this was done, I was on my way down and out of the tower when I saw people from the tour that I knew already going back into the tower. Not retrieving back my uni card, I followed them where we ascended to the 19^th floor to have a nice panoramic view of Paris. We also went into the office of the president of the university which was filled with awards and had a fridge filled with wine. Afterwards, I hung out with some of the Erasmus people I had met sitting on the bank of the Seine chatting. They had gone their separate ways but I had to stay on campus because I had a lecture at 6:15pm. Yes that late. One of my TDs lasts until 9:15pm as well! I bought a cahier to write my notes in and some dinner at Subway and sat in my first ever French lecture alone.

It turned out to be quite hard. Not mathematically hard, this was Intégration 1 and I hadn’t seen anything new, it was just trying to make out what the lecturer was writing down. The ‘n’s and ‘m’s looked the same which they would use as subscript for terms of sequences so they were much harder to read. They would write abbreviations like tq (tel que) instead of s.t. (such that) and Rém and Dem which would always look horrifically similar from a distance which stood for Rémarque and Demonstration. Even more confounding was their use of Prop which I didn’t know if it was for Propriété or Proposition unless I was listening to the lecturer right at the moment. I was always one board behind because copying took longer.

For my next lectures, I knew to sit near the front, but even there and with my glasses on, I couldn’t make out what they were writing. Annoyingly, they don’t have special wax on their blackboards like at Warwick so when you rub the chalk out, it’s not really rubbed out, but just spread over the board making it harder to see what the new writing over the chalk spread is. This is why just before every lecture, a small lady with a bucket and cloth toddles into the amphitheatre. It seems to be always the same lady as well, she has a bowl-cut wig on, dips her cloth which is folded so that it spreads width-ways across the board, squeezes the excess water and then places the cloth in line with an edge of the board and walks with it swiping the board clean. I also noticed how early French people arrive for their lectures. Most of them are there a good 15 minutes beforehand, they are also very quiet and hardly talk to each other. The first day of term, I expected to see a lot of them bisous-ing and hugging saying how their holidays went, but I saw none of this. At Warwick on the first day back of a term there’s always a buzz to see everyone again and a gathering of massive groups of friends. There was definitely none of this at UPMC. There were also a lot of mature students.

I started going to more lectures and TDs, this time getting the hang of their weird writing. My concentration span started getting longer and the 3 hours that TDs lasted seemed to go by very quickly. Mathematics is more spoon-fed here compared to Warwick where there is more of a ‘leave you to your own devices’ teaching approach. I’ve managed to fully organise my timetable now which means I have two 8h30 starts (which means waking up at 6:30am!), one day off and some late ends (until 8pm on two days). By the time it is my day off on a Thursday, because of working from the morning until the evening every Monday to Wednesday, I get so shattered I have actually slept the whole Thursday. I do not know how the French people do not eat during the TDs or lectures when they run through lunch/dinner hours. Between lectures or TDs there’s usually a 15 minute break, suitably timed for a cigarette break. This is not sufficient when you have lecture after lecture for stints of 8 hours a day! Plus, my oh my do they smoke. I come home with hair smelling like I’ve blow-dried my hair with some sort of cigarette smoke machine. Also, when it was blazing hot these past few days (almost 30 degrees), I would waltz in with my flowery summer dress and people would look at me like I was completely strange with their scarves tied elegantly around their neck and their neatly pressed black blazers and turtle-neck jumpers.

My next blog will be filled with social gatherings and more observations of the French!

The spectacle before every cours magistraux: the cleaning lady.

Les Cloches Sonnent

4am start and it was pitch black. No doubt my friends back in Leamington where I had been the day before were trudging back home from a night out from celebrating the first of many 21sts. I shared a night bus with London Friday nighters who, like their hair, looked defeated by the music and the alcohol so had finally decided to surrender to slumber. My mum had accompanied me to King's Cross St. Pancras where I collected my tickets, said my goodbye and was off on the Eurostar.

I couldn't believe it, I was doing it, embarking on my year abroad. All that paperwork and hard work had allowed me to do this. Check-in was stress-free indeed. It was certainly very sad to pull away from London and not see my close friends until Christmas. I also miss the randomers, you know, the ones whom you know of and they in turn know of you, but you probably won't see them anywhere else other than at uni. It was an absolute luxury going on the Eurostar compared to my coached endeavours from a couple of weeks ago.

The sun had risen when we arrived in France. After hearing an announcement whilst on board the train for purchasing métro tickets from the cafeteria coach, I jumped at the chance because I could pay in cash: sterling! When I arrived at the Gare du Nord, looking at the vast space that was the station and the bright light streaming in, I realised that I'd officially started. Reading many of the blogs from previous Warwick students who came to Paris on their Erasmus year, all their blogs started in this very place with this much luggage.

I put my heavy luggage in the cosigne luggage lockers and just carried my backpack to where I was going to live. Thank goodness I had bought métro tickets on the Eurostar: there was a massive queue for tickets. Each staircase I took made my heart drop a bit because I knew I would somehow have to get the heavy suitcase up them.

I stood outside my apartment for 11am as organised with the estate agent. I didn't look too silly because there is a bus stop directly in front of the door so I pulled off waiting for a bus until the bus arrived (the stop was only for that bus) and I didn't get on. I was getting a lot of suspicious looks, maybe because I was wearing quite warm clothes for the 28 degree weather.

It seemed my arrondissement was thriving even though it was Saturday, I later found out this was because of the market on the weekends. Every single child was on a scooter, it was like their standard transport. I almost felt sorry for a little boy who had to walk.

People started to stare more, even the tramp outside of Franprix because I had a massive backpack which screamed TOURIST and FOREIGNER. I couldn’t get my blazer off because that would mean taking off the backpack, taking off the blazer and then somehow hauling the backpack back on to my back without breaking my spine. I had worn my boots as well because it was better to wear the heaviest shoes than pack it. So I just had to stand there looking like a sore thumb. A woman with her child in a buggie was staring, a girl washing a freshly bought apple from a nearby fruit stall was staring and all the summer clad Parisians who passed me by stared. I thought I was being paranoid, but I guess I did stick out because not many tourists come to this arrondissement since it’s quite far out and there’s nothing to see except the market and restaurants.

The bells chimed on the hour and 2 minutes past the hour (for some reason), it was then 11:10. Shit. Had I been scammed? Just like a friend of a friend who was now looking for a place to stay? Just like a guy who e-mailed me through my university warning us of a scam where he had viewed the place, met his flat-mate and paid a deposit to find that the flat-mate was playing ignorant and claiming to not know him at all and would accuse him of stalking to the police if he kept contacting her. I finally saw a woman carrying a wooden fold-up chair in a black business dress and bleach blonde hair. She apologised profusely for being late – she was trying to find a place to park. The place was quite busy since it was market day. It was definitely the woman from the facebook photo (that I had stalked). She showed me in and we ascended to the final floor which was where my studio is. It looked just like it had in the pictures. We went through the inventory and she answered all of my questions. She had bought new things for the studio: a new mattress, new cooking equipment, a new shower curtain, new bed sheets, pillow and duvet. I signed the contract, paid the rest of the agency fees, the deposit and the first month’s rent and I received the keys. She asked me to make a copy of the mailbox key since the ex-tenant was still expecting some mail. I thought this was expecting a lot of me. Cutting keys? How would you say that in French? She said that she would give me 5 euros which she said would be enough. She then decided that she would come with me and do it herself but needed some change because she only had the big notes that I had given her. She decided to buy an apple, she bought four apples: one for me, one for a cleaner and her daughter. She apparently needed to pay the cleaner for cleaning one of the apartments when someone had just moved out. We returned outside my apartment and there was the woman with her buggie who was staring at me earlier. She instantly recognised me as the ‘girl-with-the-back-pack’. As soon as she started talking, I knew instantly that she was Filipino. My estate agent introduced us both and the usual Filipino questions were asked:

“You’re a Filipina?”

Yes.

“Really?”

Yep.

“Your parents are Filipino?”

Uh-huh.

“Really?”

Yeah.

“Both of them?”

Mm-hm.

Apparently I don’t look it. The two extra apples were for her and her daughter. When we had to go our separate ways, I say separate ways but I was outside my door, I finally had the studio to myself. Exhausted, I unfolded the sofa bed and put the new sheets on it then just lay there. It was so hot and I did not want to think about my heavy suitcase that I had left in the Gare du Nord.

I made my way to Gallieni to meet my dad who was arriving by coach. We struggled to get that suitcase to my place and as soon as we settled for a bit, we were off out again to get my other suitcase. I’d brought my emptied backpack this time to fill it with some of the suitcase’s contents. It took quite a few trips up and down the stairs emptying and filling but we managed to get it up the stairs. I live on top of a little supermarket so my dad and I had a little shop and then ate.

The next day was spent finding the nearest Monoprix, which was shut because it was Sunday, but we walked down the Rue de Lévis which was where the open market was and found a small household goods store which had nearly everything I needed (including a whistling kettle). My dad insisted on buying some roast chicken and I must say it is probably the best chicken I've ever had. It was chewy, not watery and had so much flavour and not dry at all!

A photo of my kitchen corner

Tired all week-end, I didn’t do much but just unpack, I was excited about Monday yet scared at the same time. My dad was leaving on Monday and I was going to be properly alone in Paris for the first time. Also, I was to start my studies at Université Pierre et Marie Curie – Paris VI.

Partance

So the last time I left you, I was still homeless. As soon as I got back to London, fatigued and a bit confused from the lack of sleep I said a quick hello to the parents and instantly went onto the computer to check the new advertisements on craigslist that I had missed that weekend.

This is basically what I did for the next week. I received quite a few replies from adverts that I had answered months ago but I'm pretty sure a few of them were scams. As usual, I answered the adverts on craigslist that I was interested in. After a few e-mails exchanged with an estate agent/landlord about a studio in the 17th arrondissement (and a bit too many questions from me), I decided to put down a deposit for the place.

I didn't just do this after a few e-mails which is what I advise you not to do. There are quite a few sites which do help you. So using this site on paris rental scams , I managed to check up on the IP address of the estate agent, looked up her estate agency and if she was part if it (yes), if the estate agency was registered (yes), facebooked the estate agent (which said that she worked at the estate agency). Her e-mail address was proved to be French and after some advice from my family, I sent the deposit on the agency fees which was 300 Euros. I had agreed to pay the rest when I arrived and had signed the contract.

This took about a week, the estate agent, being busy doing viewings of her other properties, didn't reply instantly and she would usually reply the morning or afternoon after I had sent my questions. Then I realised that I had to get insurance as all renters do in France. My estate agent said that it would be easy to get with my French bank account. However, this is why French bureaucracy fails epically. In order to get a French bank account, I need proof of a French address, but in order to get the French address, I need home and contents insurance, but to get that, I need a French bank account!

Only recently have I sorted this out, because this started a correspondence with my 'dedicated advisor' on amaguiz.com. It's actually quite easy to apply for home insurance on-line with amaguiz, everything is done on-line you don't need to send in any documents. I basically filled out the form that asked about the accommodation and myself and got a reasonable quote. With this quote comes your 'dedicated advisor' and for me, this was Adeline. When it comes to payment, you can choose to pay annually or monthly, I chose annually. They take the first month's payment by card transaction and then they set up a standing order for the next payment whether you've chosen annually or monthly. After asking if I can pay all in one go with my UK account, Adeline told me that it is an essential part of the contract to only pay from a French account (to show that you do live at that address). However, since I've already paid the first month's payment, I've got insurance cover at my Paris address for a month and there exists a provisional contract for my home insurance 30 days after I move in, in which I must enter my French account details and then sign the contract.

Phew. So I sort of found a loop-hole in getting insurance without a French bank account.

Now all I've been doing is sorting the mountains of paperwork that I need to register at my university, booked a bank appointment with Société Générale to open an account (which apparently will take about 5 minutes), packed, changed a lot of pounds sterling into euros (ordered through the Post Office) and set up a transaction account with the Post Office so I can exchange my money between my UK and French account easily and for free.

Now there are only two days until my leaving and I am at once scared and excited. Apparently there is a meeting/party for international students which is my first organised meet I guess. These last few days, I will be spending in Leamington Spa to meet friends, to say goodbye (and to collect kitchen crockery that I left there over the summer). The next time I post will be when I finally have internet in my studio apartment (in the second week). The only thing I am dreading is pulling my luggage through the métro which has such a lack of escalators ...

Escalators down from Waterloo East to Southwark Station

Il pleut

My sister had been travelling around Italy and was due to return to a rioting London on Thursday. I asked if she wanted to come to Paris and she jumped at the chance.

Early Friday morning, after somehow (I have no recollection really) getting to Victoria Coach Station, checking in and waiting for a Eurolines coach, I was finally on my way to Paris. I had small hand luggage so travelling was relatively easy. (I hate lugging huge suitcases. Believe me, I've done it a lot since my parents do not drive so getting stuff from home to university accommodation in Royal Leamington Spa was always a dreaded nightmare.)

There's one thing about the British passengers I was travelling with. They like to complain and threaten with letter writing. Obviously foreign drivers have no idea as to how scary a British letter can be so like to ignore this threat. Our Portuguese driver pulled over onto the hard shoulder an hour and a half into the journey and came upstairs to where all the passengers were seated. According to my recent driving theory test, he was breaking all the rules of the use of the hard shoulder. He paced down the aisle singling out all the men who were travelling by themselves.

"London?" He shouted, pointing at a guy sitting on the opposite side from me.
"Excuse me?" the guy replied, more annoyed at the chore of taking his earphones out stopping him from listening to Dylan's Forever Young. The driver said it again a bit louder this time.

"LONDON?"
Confused, the guy replied, "What?! I'm going to Paris!"

I was getting quite worried. The driver was either trying to save a passenger from making a very wrong journey or finding out the coach's destination in an ingenious way.

Happy with the young man's reply, he returned below and we started off again. There were no other hitches to the journey except for when we had to turn around in a country lane disturbing what seemed like the land of goats somewhere in Folkestone.

We took the Eurotunnel, the other passengers had run out of things to complain about and persons to write letters to. 9 hours after our departure from Victoria we arrived in Gallieni, Paris where my light luggage made me easily hop off the coach, thank the driver, descend the escalators and buy myself a carnet of 10 métro tickets. I was going to meet my sister at Voltaire which was the nearest station to our hostel.

As soon as I got on the metro, I received a phone call (yes you can call on the underground! Unlike London...) it was from an estate agent that I had previously spoken to on the phone back in London. She was scheduled to show me around an apartment that evening which seemed perfect on-line. She was calling to tell me that she was still willing to show me the place that evening but the landlord had suddenly refused to sign CAF (Caisse d'Allocations Familiales) - financial aid from the government for renters. The reason why? The estate agent didn't know. I asked for the landlord's contact details so I could persuade them myself but the landlord had withheld details from being passed on by the estate agent. I could afford the place but it would probably mean I wouldn't be able to eat for the year. So I had nothing to do that evening.

We stayed at Richard's Hotel on Rue Richard Lenoir, I'd booked it on-line since it was the cheapest. Luckily my sister and I had our own room, unluckily it was on the 5th floor, there was no lift and my sister had a suitcase. The man who checked us in begged us not to ruin his stairs. When we finally made it to our room, out of breath, we put bedsheets on the bed and collapsed onto it. The room was pretty basic: a little cupboard, a table with the British flag on it, a sink and mirror and a double bed. The room was quite small though. Toilets were on the stairs and our nearest shower was on the floor below. Opposite, we had a view of a beautiful apartment. Through one of the windows we could see a colourful nursery, hanging mobiles and stickers with the balcony decorated with wind spinners and flowers. They had two cats that travelled from balcony to balcony of that apartment by the guttering.

It rained and rained and rained that evening, our hostel was close to the Boulevard Voltaire which just so happened to be teeming with estate agents but all seemed to be closed. Fatigued, my sister and I set off for the Latin Quarter where we rediscovered the Shakespeare & Co bookshop and ate at Jardin de Notre Dame restaurant where I had snails for the first time!

The next day, I found out that two rendez-vous I had organised with other apartments had been cancelled due to them being rented out on the Friday. So I spent the day walking around looking for an open estate agents, even though I knew most have them had been closed. To make it even worse, the weekend was when those who hadn't gone on an August holiday went on holiday because of the bank holiday weekend. It was Assumption Day on the Monday. Whilst my sister sat in an internet café, I walked down Boulevard Voltaire in the rain, stopping now and again at each à louer sign to check out places for rent. I crossed and recrossed the Boulevard not realising that I was getting very weird looks from a woman, her elderly mother and her little girl. I realised that from all my crossings and stoppings, it looked like I was suspiciously following them and as soon as they had walked past me, I stopped to look at a closed estate agent. Not finding any open estate agents, I walked all the way back to where my sister was, away from the suspicious looks and we decided to walk around the Notre Dame area again. I found an estate agent that was actually open, a man was inside shuffling papers and there was an affordable rental in the window. This was the first time during my visit that I had to have a proper French conversation in Paris and it all went so quickly. It turned out the rental in the window was already taken and he didn't have any more places within my budget. It felt like another hammer hit on a tent peg, and my optimism was running out.

The rest of the day was spent in the same way, in the end my sister and I went to Monoprix and bought loads of vegetables and sandwich stuff for our dinner and breakfast. We bought plenty of fresh vegetables (mainly for my sister, she'd been on a high-carb Italian diet and was in desperate need of protein and vitamins). We walked all the way to Quai d'Orsay in search for the American Church. I read somewhere on the internet ages ago that they posted up housing bills there. We finally found it and there were housing bills! Along with job offers. I was scrutinising each advert with a phone in each hand. One phone was my sister's which I would use to phone (it was cheaper on her phone) and mine was to take notes with some reminders of what to mention when calling. Each person on the other end said their apartment, flat or studio was gone. There was a magazine nearby called FNAC, I picked one up and called people on there. Each one had the same answer.

Whilst looking at the housing bills for the third time in case I missed out someone, a man who looked like he was in his late 50s approached me. He had his spectacles perched on his nose, a satchel bag slung over his shoulder and curly grey-white hair.

"Are you looking for a job?" He asked. Most people were speaking English and the adverts were in English because it was the American Church.
"No," I responded, "Accommodation, I'm going to be a student here soon."
"What kind of place are you looking for? A place to yourself or to share?"
"Ideally a place to myself."
Then he asked when I would start and reached into his satchel bag to pull out a very important looking chunky diary and opened it to reveal a business card. He gave it to me and said to contact him if I really needed a place, it was a room to rent in his apartment. Unfortunately I couldn't get CAF if I was renting a room because apparently that's what happened to the last girl who rented his apartment...

I expressed my thanks, but I did not see myself at all renting his room. His business card said he was some kind of vice-president to an association of journalists and lectured at the Catholic Church (whatever that meant and wherever that was). He said there were more bills at the American University which was around the corner. My sister and I went there and also to its other location in the 7th arrondissement but no bills to be found.

As it rained some more, we stayed in our hostel room and I had one more viewing on the Sunday which everything seemed to be relying on. Scared that it would be rented out before I could see it, I found it very difficult to sleep. I went to sleep to the sound of the rain.

We checked out of the hostel and I was scheduled to visit a place in the north-east of Paris near métro Crimée at 3pm. This was the earliest time the landlord said he could do since he was arriving back in Paris that day. So in the morning, my sister and I decided to climb the Notre Dame de Paris. Since it was Assumption Sunday, Notre Dame was full of Catholic mass goers and entrance to the top of the cathedral was free. We queued for about an hour.

There were 400 steps, a helper wished us good luck as we reached what is labelled as 1 in the leaflet below.

Here is a picture I took from 3:

We went to the very top and then descended to have some sandwiches that we had made earlier. After eating, we took the métro to Jussieu where we were to change for Crimée. Jussieu is the nearest station to my soon to be university: Université Pierre et Marie Curie. When we were waiting for a train at Saint-Michel, I decided to check my mail just in case and this costed a lot of money on my phone. I had received two e-mails from the person I was supposed to meet in 2 hours. I read the oldest one first.

Is it possible if you could make it earlier?

He was asking to meet in 10 minutes, I could make it!

Then I read the second e-mail.

Sorry, the apartment is rented out.

I phoned him. He didn't pick up. I phoned again. Still no reply. My heart sank, this was what I was relying on due to all the mishaps that had occurred over the weekend. Optimism had been thrown at the window and trampled on by the on-coming train. We took the train anyway and decided to get off at Jussieu to find any more housing bills since it was a university campus.

I walked up the stairs and through a gate towards what I thought was Tour Zamansky (where I would have to register on my first day). Still feeling a bit depressed, a man from his little booth (I'm guessing he was security) shouted, "Madame?!"

He asked what I wanted and said the gate was only open if I were going to the museum on the right. I asked if there were any housing bills posted up anywhere. We had quite a long conversation in French. I guess the guy was lonely in his little booth because he was telling me his life story and how it took him 3 months to find accommodation. Somehow he had made me feel a bit better, saying that the landlords giving places away before promising to let you view was typically French. After talking to him, my sister and I made our way to Ecole Militaire, I don't know why, we just wanted to be near the Eiffel Tower I think.

Sitting on a bench, staring at the Parisian life passing by, I felt so down. After almost half an hour, I decided to check my expensive internet again and look at craigslist. There was a new advert within my budget and even better, there was a phone number! I phoned straight away and asked if the place was still available.

He said yes!

I felt so happy, and quickly asked when I could view. He said I could view in an hour's time and texted me the address. We made our way to Trocadéro which is where the apartment was situated (near the Eiffel Tower!) and met him. To pass the time, we visited the Passy cemetery where the likes of Débussy and Manet are buried. The building was amazing, it had glass doors with a digicode, blue carpet and a concierge, the landlord greeted us and brought us to the apartment. The viewing was very positive, it had everything I needed and there was a launderette closeby. I gave him some documents as we discussed how I would rent the place and he seemed very impressed that I was going to Paris VI. He said that I was 90% positive in getting the place, he just had one more viewing. The only problem was that I was to move in in two weeks time and the person to view it next was willing to move in straight away. He had to discuss with his father if it was worth it to lose two week's worth of rent (about 400 euros) to someone (me) who would rent it for 11 months or rent it out straight away to someone who would have it for 2 months.

I just sat looking at the Eiffel Tower waiting for his answer. My sister and I decided to eat at a nearby restaurant called Café le Chalet where we ate on the terrace and had a very amusing waiter named Xavier. I got a text message through saying that unfortunately his father had decided to give it to the girl who was willing to move in straight away. I had expected it. So my weekend was very unsuccessful. Stressed and defeated, I returned to London.

I can just say that all this independence is extremely difficult, but I am still looking for a place and shall update very soon hopefully with a happier story.

C'est toujours la même histoire

So the past few weeks have been hectic (in a dull way?). After sitting around the house watching many a This Morning with a flicker of The Wright Stuff and the proceedings of Loose Women whilst responding to ad after ad of accommodation in Paris. Yes, I have received my results. I did not feel the wave of relief or joy after receiving them because the knowledge of my results had a bittersweet after taste which I will not divulge into here. Nevertheless, I am to spend my next academic year in a foreign city and there was accommodation to sort out!

I had replies on post-it notes on my desktop all ready in French and English:

Hello/Bonjour

A nice quick greeting.

My name is...

Let's get personal.

I am writing in regards to your advertisement on craigslist...

I did forget to change 'craigslist' when I copied and pasted sometimes so the landlord must have thought "What?! I never posted on that website!"

I am very interested in your accommodation.

I just want a place to live and work in!

I am a student and will be living in Paris from 1st September 2011 to 1st August 2012, could you send me more information and any more pictures please?
Thank you,

Jane

Then I hoped the landlord would get in touch with me and handle the rest. I was a bit taken aback by all the documents that I needed. I started looking at the lower end of the ladder, the EUR400 advertisements (400 Euros a month) to find studios with surface areas less than the required amount to make a student eligible for rental aid from the French government. So I upped my bracket to 500, 600 at a push.

It turns out any apartment/flat/studio in Paris that's not in the suburbs and at these prices per month were scams. You cannot get cheap in Paris. It was always the same story:

I like to travel a lot so I won't be able to show you the apartment but if you send me the money through Western Union or moneygram I assure you you will get the keys by recorded delivery...

I am a missionary, GOD BLESS YOU, (did I sneeze?) I am in Africa and I want a faithful human being PRAISE BE TO GOD to look after my blessed apartment, GOD BLESS!, I have lived in the flat for the past few years with my family but I will not be able to show you the studio as I am spreading GOD'S GOOD WORD, if you could kindly with GOD'S KINDNESS send me the money through Moneygram GOD SPEED...

Hello, you sound like a person who is very responsible (I literally just said my standard message of being interested in the apartment) and will not let me down, I am currently studying in the USA and am the only one with the keys and cannot go to Paris at all...

I've just been promoted to work in London so I must leave for London tonight so cannot arrange viewings of my flat.
That's alright, I live in London! We could meet up and discuss things further?
(I didn't really want to meet up and discuss things further, I knew it was a scam straight away, they'd used the exact same words in an e-mail from a previous scam but I wanted to play along.)

Hello, I've just won a plot of land in Nigeria and must take my whole family there to continue bidding on it. Send me the money....

The replies that I got that weren't scams were ones expressing sorrow that their accommodation was already rented out. Great. So I e-mailed a woman from the university I will be studying at to help with university accommodation. I did not realise that she had sent an attachment until too late. My Warwick mail (my university e-mail) was the only mail in her sent list that did not receive the attachment so I looked like a right douche bag saying she hadn't sent me it. It was details about various university accommodation around Paris especially for foreign students. It turned out there was only one left, to share with another foreign female student. The pictures didn't look too appetising nor was I willing to share.

Don't get me wrong, I have looked into sharing but I have my reasons why I stopped thinking about it.

So I've upped my bracket even more, taking into account I will get financial help from the French government through CAF (Caisses d'Allocations Familiales) so the max I will go for now is EUR900 and have started contacting French estate agents who charge about a month's rent as an agency fee.

What am I looking for in an apartment? I don't really mind how big it is, as long as I feel comfortable in it, because I know there'll be times on my year abroad when I'll miss my family, my friends, my hometown and I don't want it to be a depressing room. There are some must haves though: internet and washer/dryer, fully-equipped kitchen, bed and desk. A balcony would be a plus, the nearer to the centre of Paris, the better.

I've received a couple of phone calls from these estate agents and am off to Paris this weekend to hopefully finalise accommodation!

So here are the websites that I found were helpful for me:
www.craigslist.com (watch out for scams!)
www.vingtparis.com (estate agents, very friendly indeed!)
www.seloger.com (private landlords and estate agents adverts)

www.pap.fr (same as seloger but these go quickly, so keep refreshing and instantly phone/e-mail if you're interested in something)

www.parisattitude.com (estate agents, deal in English, they have great information on their website about each furnished rental)

Happy hunting if you're trying to find an apartment in Paris and good luck! I'm going to need it too...

The next update will be filled with the results of my weekend, so until then!

A picture of my desk in my halls of residence, Bericote - Westwood during my first year at the University of Warwick.

Bonjour!

Hello, thank you very much for reading this blog. I thought I should write an introductory post. I will be writing about my journey, as one may put it, of my experiences to do with my year abroad. All photographs included in this blog have been taken by myself.

I am currently in my family house in London in a very frustrating part of my life. Day after day since term has ended, I've been waiting for my results. As each friend from university receives theirs, the more annoyed I get that I do not have mine. These results establish my next academic year, either to be spent in Paris or to stay where I've spent the last two years.

I am a mathematics student at the University of Warwick. A challenging degree that was not easy to choose. Since secondary school I enjoyed everything so it was hard to whittle down all my favourite subjects to a few that I would study for GCSE bearing in mind that it would restrict my choices for A Level. The same problem occurred for A Levels restricting choices for a degree. But there was one thing I was excited about ever since I was in secondary school after gaining a excited interest in the French language. I wanted to live and work in Paris.

I remember being hardly able to keep still or even breathe when I was told in year 12 that I was to spend a week in Paris on work experience, the feeling was too strong to describe; a mélange of excitement, fear and anxiety flushed through me whilst I sat on a chair in the kitchen giving the news to my mum.

My degree choice kept in mind my passion for mathematics and French and each establishment I applied to, each course I applied for had to follow the conditions that I wanted to spend a year abroad. And here it is coming ever near but still not knowing if I am actually going.

The first mathematics friend on my course at Warwick, who turns out to still be a good friend of mine, remembers me telling him on the first day that I wanted to do an Erasmus year. The application process and all the paperwork has finally been done. Meeting people who have gone through this experience made me think more about how independent an experience this was. Sorting out your own accommodation, making things happen for yourself, setting up your own bank account, your own French phone number...

Should I really be thinking about these things when there is that possibility that I may not be going due to results? Should I get my hopes up for something I've dreamed for since I was 15? Is it right for a 15 year old to want something so much and be an arm-length's away from their dream 5 years later to have it snatched away from them? Should we dare to dream?

These are all the thoughts that have been going through my head for the last two weeks. No one seems to be in the same position as me so all I can do is discuss my feelings and feel like a broken complaint record. I have made some great friends at university, on my course and through accommodation. I even met my boyfriend at university. It seems selfish that I want to pursue something that I've wanted for so long for myself and only myself. Next year is the final year for a lot of my friends including my boyfriend and I will not be there. It just seems that I will be missing a lot of things next year if I go away, yet gain a lot of personal experience. So the year abroad comes with ups and downs already.

All I can do is wait.

A picture I took as the Eiffel Tower sparkled in the night, Summer '10