You can go hard and (only then) can you go home

I've been in Bordeaux for about a week now. I've met some fantastic people, seen some incredible things and drunk so much cheap vin rouge that if you cut me I'd probably bleed a zesty Cabernet Sauvignon. And considering where I'm staying in at the moment, I'll probably find out sooner rather than later if I do actually bleed wine... when I inevitably get stabbed.

I've touched on this before, but it's not a nice area. When I've told people that I'm living in Lormont, their reactions have ranged from mild distaste to wide-eyed looks of genuine fear. It's very near the school I'll be working at, but the tram network in Bordeaux does a very good job of making a massive city seem much smaller than it really is so living right next to your workplace is nice but largely insignificant. 

The room I'm staying in isn't brilliant either. In what must be one of the most baffling interior design decisions in living memory, they've decided to build a wardrobe into the bathroom wall, right next to the (open-plan) shower. Given that the wardrobe door doesn't close properly, any clothes in there end up completely soaked in a matter of seconds. I've also been forced into a temporary diet of Nutella sandwiches and Chupa Chups by the useless kitchen facilities here (no fridge!?) so finding a nicer place to live is definitely my top priority for the next couple of weeks. 

But while I may have been struggling with food, I've adapted pretty well to the Bordeaux-style liquid diet. As every British student knows all too well, student alcoholism is an exacting science; one that demands the careful measuring of the alcohol content of potential drinks against the financial battering a heavy night will leave on a flimsy student budget. For wine, I've personally adapted a system where you divide the alcohol content percentage by the value of the bottle in Pounds Sterling, which gives you an easy-to-understand indicator of inebriation value for money. 

Back in the UK, my best find with this system was a £2.99 bottle of Australian red, which at 14% gave me an APS (Alcohol/Pounds Sterling) rating of 4.68. So I'm sure you can imagine my shock when the first shop I walked into in Bordeaux was offering local wines at around 2 or 3 euros per bottle, with one particularly suave-looking bottle at 13% selling for €1.34. At current exchange rates, that's an APS rating of 12.14. MIND BLOWN. 

But unfortunately, there are occasional downsides to living in such an impressively wine-centric environment. A couple of days ago, a few of us decided to grab a few cheap bottles and have a cheeky apero (which is basically a less twattish word for 'prelash') in another assistant's apartment. However, as soon as we arrived, we realised we had all been thwarted by the same common enemy- the cork.

As someone who's never spent more than about £5 on a bottle of wine, it's quite easy to forget that corks even exist. If I'm being completely honest, I don't actually even know how to use a corkscrew. Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one in this situation- we had all completely forgotten to bring corkscrews along, meaning we had to go on a late-night hunt around the local corner shops looking for something to open our wine with. Predictably, as soon as we got more than a couple of minutes from the apartment it started tipping it down, so we had to run off and hide underneath the nearest tourist monument for a bit of shelter. Unfortunately, it wasn't quite heavy enough to wash away our corks in the flood, so despite our well-laid plans the bizarre sight of a large group of tourists huddled from the rain under l'Arche de Victoire staring bemusedly at our well-sealed bottles must have amused many a local resident.

Thankfully, memorial arches make great rain-blocks

Thankfully we managed to eventually open them with the help of a sympathetic shopkeeper and his corkscrew, so the crisis was averted and we all went on to have a great time in a nearby salsa bar. Unfortunately, my only other night out over here didn't end up quite so well.

As I've already mentioned, Bordeaux's a pretty big place. But late at night, when the trams have stopped running completely,  it's like a gigantic urban desert. Or at least it would be, if deserts were filled with drunk-drivers who all drive on the wrong side of the road... if you're lucky. From what I've seen so far, late at night they seem to quite like driving along tramways and pavements too. 

ANYWAY. Having been used to clubbing in Exeter which is comparatively a bit of a country backwater, I got to 3:30am and decided to call it a night. Naturally, by that point all the trams had stopped for the night, leaving me stranded, drunk and several miles away from home. After about two hours stumbling the wrong way down a French motorway, I finally got home at about 5:00 only to check my phone and see a text telling me that if I'd stayed out for another hour or so the trams would have started again and I could have got home in less than ten minutes.

So, a couple of lessons learnt this week: 

1) When you decide to go in France, either go out properly... or don't go out at all. 

2) Even the British can learn something from the French about student drinking. Who knew? 

I'M IN FRANCE

Having talked to a lot of people about their years abroad before I left for France, the one thing I'd been told more than anything else was that I'd learn loads of new things while I was over here. I've only been here a couple of days so far, but I've already managed to pick up one useful nugget of wisdom; if you're planning on crossing the channel on a budget, invest in some armbands and swim. It'll be far less painful than flying by Easyjet.

I hadn't flown in almost three years before Thursday, but I remember flying being an awful lot easier than Easyjet made it. Having spent hours on end rearranging my stuff between my two suitcases to leave them both a matter of milligrams below the weight limit, I went to check in my bags only for the receptionist to smile sweetly and ask;

Do you have any objects with rechargeable batteries in these bags?

I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in saying that I haven't bought any portable electronics without rechargeable batteries since about 1999. And even then, that was a Game Boy Color with an optional Charger Pak. Apparently rechargeable batteries pose a serious combustion risk at high altitude, which is clearly bollocks as if it were at all true I'd have crashed and burned from 40'000 feet long ago with all the other overexcited eight-year-olds on the same plane to Hong Kong with their brand new copies of Pokemon Red. 

Regardless, I had things with rechargeable batteries that needed transferring to my hand luggage. This wouldn't have been a problem if this hadn't included an old spare phone I'd packed and put in a box right at the bottom of my bag, which I'd since sealed shut with several metric fucktons of duct tape. Thankfully it wasn't too busy at the airport so I didn't cause too much of a pile-up, but there was one old lady behind me who audibly tutted while I was rummaging through my stuff. I would have been angry, but I'm sure I'll have the last laugh when Easyjet next clamp down on sharp objects and ban travelling with dentures.

That wasn't all the weird stuff, either. Even ignoring the loud confrontation at the airport car park which sounded decidedly like the fallout from an extra-marital affair, or the couple behind us on the plane who spent pretty much the entire two-hour journey latched onto one other's faces with occasional slurping noises for good measure. Nope, perhaps the stupidest thing about Easyjet was their onboard smoking policy. I understand and appreciate the blanket smoking ban, but if you're going to do that... why would you still build ashtrays into your toilet doors?

To top it all off, my Blackberry overheated and stopped working just before we got on the plane. This would have been annoying as it was, but given that I needed a phone to arrange my lift from the airport to the other side of Bordeaux, it had threatened to leave me completely stranded too. Having invested in a brand new Blackberry less than a week ago to replace my useless old one specifically to avoid this sort of situation, it was exasperating to say the least. I realise they aren't the most reliable phones in the world, but I don't think expecting it to still work two days after buying it is that unreasonable.

Eventually I managed to coax enough life out of it to send a quick text, so I'm not still stuck at the airport looking for someone else susceptible to Branston Pickle bribes to get a lift from. But anyway, all of that is completely irrelevant now, because I'm here and it's incredible. Even though I'm not living in the nicest part of town, it's only a ten-minute trip by tram to get to the centre of what is undoubtedly the most beautiful city I have ever seen.

Le Grand Theatre, as understated as the rest of the city

Since I've been here, I've actually been relatively productive. I've set up a bank account, filled in enough paperwork to make myself pretty much solely responsible for global deforestation and almost sorted out a phone contract. I'll be able to finally get a French phone number as soon as my bank card arrives, but until then I was pretty proud of my French blagging skills in choosing a new deal. In my search for a new contract, there were minimal communication difficulties despite me not having any idea how to translate 'rolling contract' or 'sim-only package' and briefly forgetting that the French word for telephone is 'téléphone.'

Speaking of phones, the first thing my mentor did upon arriving at the airport was to apologise for not calling me and telling me when he'd be there to pick me up. Apparently, he'd just got a new phone and his had completely broken too. I opened my mouth to comment on this coincidence before noticing the phone sat on his lap- which just so happened to be exactly the same model as mine. That's not a coincidence: that's an inevitable consequence of a universal truth.

Because even with all the things about France I've learnt since I've been here, the most important lesson I've learnt since I've arrived is something that's a constant the world over. And that's the fact that whatever you're doing, wherever you are... your Blackberry will never work properly. And at the moment, at the beginning of a year in a new country when everything else is scary and new, having something that works (or doesn't) just like it does at home is actually kind of weirdly comforting. So RIM, for making your phones so consistently, impressively, reliably, loveably shite... I thank you. From the very bottom of my little 'rosbif' heart.

Branston Pickle plane bombs

I'm leaving for France tomorrow. Holy shit.

I'm just about ready to go. My alarm's set for 02:00 tomorrow morning (oh joy) to catch an early plane from Luton, which is a horrible thought. I can't remember the last time I had to get out of bed and go somewhere at 2AM. Unless you count waking up drunk in hospital, and to be honest I can't really remember much about that either.

My plane leaves at about 6AM from Luton, and should hopefully get into Bordeaux at about 09:30 local time. Once I get there I'm meant to be meeting up with a delightful Frenchman called Thierry, who'll be my senior at the school I'm working at and seems like a top guy. He's very kindly offered to pick me up from the airport and give me a lift to where I'm staying... if I bring him a jar of Branston Pickle.

Pretending for the sake of diplomacy that paying for petrol money with table condiments is completely normal behaviour, I've gone out and invested in two (TWO!) jars of pickle for my new French mentor. I've even stuck little bows on them in a definitely-not-sucking-up attempt to get off on the right foot.

Oh yes

A little bit too pleased with my efforts, I dropped them both in with the rest of my hand luggage and completely forgot about them. At least, until earlier today, when I realised my mistake- they weren't going to get through Customs. If water bottles aren't allowed, I can't see them believing me if I tell them I desperately need two jars of Branston Pickle at hand for a flight across the channel. Unable to bear the thought of my beautifully decorated pickle jars being destroyed on suspicion of containing liquid explosives, I jammed them into the tiny amount of space left in my big bag instead.

On that note, I finally finished my packing yesterday. I'd started packing a week or so ago but never got very far. Until Tuesday, I'd got so far as to find a few socks, two forks and a spoon and left them in an otherwise empty suitcase in the front room for people to trip over. But yesterday I decided to blitz it and get it over with, and in just a few minutes I had completely exhausted my paltry Easyjet weight allowance. Exasperated and wishing I'd done all this sooner, it was then that I remembered a suggestion I'd heard recently from someone who travelled a lot. His advice was this:

They don't weigh what you wear or what you've got on you. Just pull on as many shirts and jumpers as you can and Easyjet can't charge you a penny.

I'm not sure this is a great idea; taking some stuff out my bags would be a much more sensible solution. Who even needs a duvet anyway? But it's a tempting option and I may do it regardless.

So if tomorrow I'm found passed out from heatstroke under the blistering Bordeaux sun with three jumpers, five shirts and a jar of Branston Pickle in each pocket, there's no need to worry. Honest.

Oversensitive Drama students probably shouldn't read this one

I HAVE SOMEWHERE TO LIVE.

Admittedly, it's only temporary. And it's slap bang in the middle of the one part of Bordeaux I've been told to steer well clear of. But it's relatively near where I'll be working and staying there shouldn't be too financially demanding on my limited budget either. The key word there being 'shouldn't.' 

Unfortunately, it hasn't quite worked out that way, as all the main French banks only give accounts to people who have places to live. Which is all well and good until you realise that you're probably going to need a bank account with quite a lot of Euros in it to pay for somewhere to live in the first place. It's the perfect trap for us stubborn, non-conforming Brits and our awkward individual currency. To be fair, it's probably still a decent trade-off for not having to face total financial meltdown alongside most of the Eurozone, but I'm going to complain regardless. 

As I wasn't particularly keen on the idea of carrying a month's rent in cash around on French public transport, I started looking into other options that were less likely to get me mugged and pushed under a suburban tram. A few minutes of internet research later, I found what seemed to be the perfect solution- a range of bank accounts from Barclays and HSBC which allowed me to access my money in three different currencies with minimal charges.

Feeling particularly smug, I started to fill in an application form for an account with HSBC, problem apparently solved. It was only several minutes later that I noticed this bombshell in the small print:

'If you have £25,000, or currency equivalent, you're eligible to bank and save with us.'

It probably won't surprise you to learn that like most students, I don't have £25,000. Or any currency equivalent, for that matter. I wouldn't know what £25,000 looked like if it wasn't for all the Friday evenings I've wasted in front of The Million Pound Drop. A quick look at the Barclay's website revealed similarly stupid restrictions and I was right back where I started. So, yeah. Fuck you, Bob Diamond. 

Thankfully, it's all sorted now. I've got a nice Euro Traveller currency card which would be perfect if it didn't immediately single you out as a 'rosbif' every time you use it. But I can live with that- it's the other niggly things that are winding me up. 

One recent example for you- the French government have demanded that all British Council workers supply translated birth certificates. This wouldn't be a problem, but they've also demanded that it be translated and certified by high-ranking local officials. Having sent mine off for translation, I've been told that I'm going to be charged £108 exactly for the privilege.

At first, this seems excessive. But when you realise that most of a birth certificate doesn't need to be translated in the first place, it's hard not to feel robbed. They're made up of names, addresses and dates... none of which need changing at all. Indignant, I counted the words on my certificate that needed any sort of translation, and came to a grand total of... two. 'Pharmacist' and 'Programmer.' That comes to £54 a word. If students were paid at that rate for all their assessed university work, every single Arts and Humanities student would come out with enough cash to set up about a dozen of those stupid HSBC accounts and still have more than £1,000,000 left to spend on Vodkat and Pot Noodles and all the other things us students waste our money on.

Unless you study Drama, in which case your degree is still pretty much useless. Hard luck.

T - 14 days

Fourteen days. Two weeks left in England before I head across the channel for eight months. Alone.

Not with my Franglais-fluent family, or with ill-at-ease science teachers on the school exchange trip whose understanding of French culture was limited to croissants, baguettes and anything else with a French-sounding name on the Sainsbury's bakery shelves. It'll just be me and Bordeaux. And I'm scared shitless.

Not least because, to be honest, I'm not really in a position to be poking fun at anyone else's language skills right now. After a summer holiday spent occasionally volunteering but mostly sat in front of endless repeats of Total Wipeout, my ability to speak French has deteriorated to the point where I'm now mostly just speaking in English but slightly louder, with the odd 'oui' thrown in and a thick French accent so bad that it's probably slightly racist.

I'm also lacking a translated birth certificate and a medical note from my GP, meaning I'm still unable to be paid and unable to join any sports clubs in the whole of France. It's a little humiliating not being allowed to do sport on medical grounds (even boules, which apparently counts) but that's the situation I'm in until my GP learns enough French to write out a medical certificate for me. Throw in some worryingly high expectations set by the Oxford-educated guy who last did the teaching job I'll be starting in three weeks' time and the reasons behind my pre-departure anxieties might seem a bit clearer.

But all my other worries paled into insignificance when I realised last week that I had nowhere to live.

Admittedly, I probably should have tried to sort this out sooner. With a slightly warped sense of priorities, student habits kicked in and I decided that it was more important to work out whether Bordeaux was far enough towards the south of France to pass my midday naps off as 'siestas' or not. After extensive research, I've discovered a lot of interesting stuff about brain-wave patterns while sleeping and how much a daily siesta increases the risk of contracting type-2 Diabetes (26%, if you're interested) but I still haven't worked out if daytime naps are socially acceptable down there or not.

Regardless, it took me until quite late last week to start actively looking for accommodation, which proved much harder than expected. Searching for sensible student lodgings meant filtering through the amusingly high number of scary-looking French men in their fifties posting adverts online looking to share their single-bedroom apartments with women between the ages of 18 and 25. Not quite fitting these criteria, I'd just about resigned myself to homelessness before noticing a missed call from a French number on my phone.

I'd only given my mobile number to one place in France- a small hostel for young workers right next to where I'd be working, which had told me last week that they would be fully booked for months. Without thinking, I picked up the phone and called them straight back, panicking straight away when a man with a very thick French accent picked up on the other end.

I'd known that my French was a little rusty, but I hadn't realised it had got to the point that my instinctive reaction to someone speaking quickly to me in French would be 'Hola.'

Lots of work to do... but there's only so much I can do here. Flights booked. Roll on the 20th.