Home alone

A couple of weeks before I left the UK and moved to Strasbourg last September, I made the decision to live by myself for the time I was in France. I’d never lived by myself before in a country where I’d grown up speaking the language and knowing the culture, let alone somewhere new. And that was part of the reason I wanted to do it.

Today I thought I’d explain a bit about my reasoning behind that decision, and what I feel I’ve learnt from the experience.


First of all, a brief history of my living situations: prior to beginning my Year Abroad, I’d only ever lived with other people. Before university and then between terms, I lived with either one or both of my parents in a family home. I also had the good luck of never having to share a room with my brother apart from when we were away on holiday. Once I got to university, I lived in halls. In my first year, I had an ensuite room to myself in a staircase with six other students and in my second year I had my own ensuite room again and lived with 5 friends with whom I shared a kitchen. So as you can see, I’ve always had a space of some size to call my own, but the step from having a room of one’s own to a flat is noticeable nonetheless.

I will say that part of the reason I decided to live by myself was in some aspects a matter of convenience. I didn’t know anyone else who was going to be in Strasbourg prior to going out there; the nearest person I knew beforehand was a friend from Oxford who was also going to work as an English assistant in Alsace, but she was based down at the very bottom of the region and several hours’ train ride away. As such, if I were going to live with other people for the time I was in Strasbourg, I’d need to either find a flat share that was looking for another person and hope I got on well with them or find someone to flat hunt with fairly soon after arriving. After I’d got my head around the idea of living by myself and had actually become quite excited by the idea, I was quite happy to do so and leave out what seemed like yet another step in the process of finding somewhere to live in a new place.

I will pause here to say that there are of course many advantages to living with other people. For one, there’s always the cheery thought of “if I died in this flat, I wonder how long it would be before they found me…” On a slightly less morbid note, there’s always someone to help with the housework, and if you can coordinate things, you can even shop for food together and buy in bulk to save money. From the perspective of a languages student on a Year Abroad, provided your flat mates are native speakers of the language you’re trying to learn or even just reasonably fluent themselves, then there’s someone else to speak to and practise your language skills with.

The best advice I can give when it comes to deciding this is to know yourself. Know whether you function better when there are always people around or whether you really value having time to yourself in your own space. Know whether you’re quite happy to get all the housework done by yourself or whether you start convulsing at the thought of having to do the washing up. In general, my advice for making housing and lifestyle decisions on the Year Abroad and in any similar situation is to know yourself. I’ve learnt over the past year that I function much better when there’s a decent amount of sunlight and good weather, so on reflection Alsace may not have been the best choice in that respect. But I also understand that some of these things are lessons you’ll learn afterwards and all you can do is carry that knowledge forward to the next time you’re in a similar situation.

The main reason that I decided to live by myself in Strasbourg last year, rather than convenience, was because I wanted to prove to myself that I could, that I could not only survive but even thrive and enjoy living by myself for the best part of a year. I figured if I could go through the hunt for housing alone in a foreign city in a foreign country where I didn’t yet know the language of looking for accommodation, then when I came to do so again later elsewhere, whether back in my native country or in another foreign one, I’d already have had a bit of a crash course in the whole process, and thankfully I feel it’s worked (although I’ve yet to put it to the test).

Another part of living by myself was seeing how I’d cope socially. While I am more introverted these days than I was a few years ago, there’s still an extroverted side of me that benefits from being around people and doing things socially on a regular basis, so I figured that living alone would make me more determined to get out and make friends and find things to do in the city, rather than having the default setting of going home and talking to my flatmates, possibly not in French. What I will say is that didn’t always happen, and although I did use my living situation as a source of motivation for getting out and doing things, there were also many occasions on which I didn’t feel I had the energy to go out into the city, and not having anyone around in my flat meant that there was no one who could pressure or persuade me into doing something in quite the same way.

At first it was quite strange. I remember the first evening feeling as though things were too quiet, and as though I were just waiting for someone else to get home and start making noise just by virtue of being there. But as the days wore on, I soon got used to my new environment. By which I mean I soon developed the habit of singing, talking and generally making small noises to myself when I was in my apartment, a habit which I’ve found rather more difficult to shake since returning to living with other people. Sorry family.

But in addition to proving that I could live by myself, I also wanted to have the experience of taking an apartment and making it into a home for myself for my time in Strasbourg, without having anyone else there to do it for me or to enter into an apartment that was already someone else’s home. I’ve taken pride in the fact that my rooms at university have often been described by others as being quite homely (although ye be warned: it takes a fair amount to achieve that aesthetic and the car is always ridiculously full when I go back to university), but there are differences between sorting out a room that you live in for 8 weeks at a time and one that you live in for 8 months. For one thing, I didn’t have to plan my room around the fact that I would need to be taking everything down and packing up again in about 2 months’ time.

See, for all the time that I was in Strasbourg, I technically had 3 registered addresses, and each of those felt like home, although it did take a little while for me to be able to say that of my apartment in Strasbourg. That may well sound strange to some of you, but I’ve always felt that my homes were multiple, or at least from the age at which I started classifying my residences as either Mum’s or Dad’s.

I was recently talking to one of my friends that I met in Vienna, Ed, about the idea of home following this post that he’d written which touched on the subject. Just before we met, he’d done something similar in moving across the globe without the aid and reassurance of having family at his destination.

Part of our discussion incorporated the idea of what components do or don’t constitute a home. Interestingly, his definition wasn’t linked to a physical place particularly, and while I tend to think of my various homes in terms of the geographical space they occupy, there’s a lot more that makes a place feel like home, the chief of which is the people. I’d even go as far as to say that the only things we ever really have a lasting connection to are other people, purely by virtue of the fact that they move and change with us as we do in a way that physical entities can’t, whether that’s a house or even a country. Even religion, to some extent, I would argue is something that doesn’t particularly change and instead it’s our relationship to it that changes and the effect it has or that we give it in our lives.

The reason that I consider home to be dependent only partially on the place is because I feel as though I have multiple homes and also because I can be somewhere and it not feel like home. I think if you can feel a sense of being at home in a place regardless of the physical space and geographical location, then that’s a pretty amazing thing and the confidence and reassurance it can bring you is hugely valuable.

When I say that I have multiple homes, that is partially in a physical sense of different places, but, just as I think that love is something that has to be built and takes time and effort, I think home is the same. All the places that I do or have called home at one time have felt like home because of the things I’ve done or built there, and not just because I walked into a place and felt as though it were already a complete home for me. I’ve certainly walked into places and felt a more positive energy about them from the moment I got there, such as my college at Oxford, but I’ve still had to put part of myself into that place. Like a horcrux à la Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort, if you will.

I think that home is also something dynamic, and the reason it conjures up feelings of safety and relaxation is not because it remains still and fixed, but because it moves with you and your relationship to it is the thing that remains more constant. With nostalgia for a home that you’ve known or a time when home felt more reassuring, I think that the reason it feels that way isn’t because home is something constant, but because you’re remembering it within the context of who you were at that time. So because we as people are ever-changing (or at least that’s what I think), home is also by necessity ever-changing with us. Time for a song lyric.

          No matter where the journey leads you, if your path leads to somewhere new, you’ll always have a home in this heart of mine. – Home (Scott Alan)

This is part of the reason why I think that people are so instrumental to the idea of home and also why a home is itself dynamic and changing like a person. We as people are forever changing, and any home we have and continue to have has to change with us to remain so.

That’s also the reason that I don’t think that a place that has once felt like home is forever and always a home to us. How many of us have gone back to a place we once knew and loved deeply, only to notice little things that have changed about the place or things that we previously didn’t notice that now annoy or upset us in some way? We change, and the homes that don’t change with us cease to feel like home.

On a related note, Ed also wrote about the idea of arriving into a place that already feels completely like home, where you’re instantly recognised and loved even if you’ve never been there before, which he described as being like the idea of love at first sight, albeit with a place. Another close friend of mine once said to me that they didn’t believe in love at first sight but they did believe in lust at first sight, partially on the basis that lust is more of a physical and visual emotion. I agree with the idea of love at first sight not being a case of love as we later come to describe it, but I think that’s partially a failing of the English language to have just the one word ‘love’ that we use to refer to so many different and varied emotions. I’m all in favour of a development in English that would result in having many different words for love, like the oft-quoted idea of the Inuit people having many different words for snow to differentiate between them.

Essentially, that’s the reason that I talk about ‘making’ or ‘building’ a home, because I think that something intrinsic to the definition of home, or of my definition at least, is the idea of it being something that you put time and effort into. But like a lot of emotional or philosophical journeys, I also think it’s one that doesn’t really have a finish line. I still phrase it as ‘building’ a home, but I think it’s a project that is always under construction and for which there is no singular fixed end point. Have another song lyric to finish.

          It’s where you’ll never feel lonely, whenever you’re alone. That’s how you know you are home. – Home (Frank Wildhorn)

This lyric, from the song somewhat appropriately titled ‘Home’ in the musical Wonderland (a darker take on Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass), I think best encapsulates the moment that Strasbourg began to feel like more of a home for me. Yes, to begin with things were pretty lonely and I found that quite difficult in the first few days and weeks, but when I reached the point where I began to find enjoyment and solace in the loneliness, perhaps better termed the most positive solitude, I began to feel like my flat and the city of Strasbourg had become home.

The eleventh hour

My contract for being a teaching assistant in Strasbourg stated that I was to work 12 hours a week, split as 9 hours a week at the lycée and 3 hours a week at the collège. However, it soon became clear to some of us teaching in the city that our hours weren’t going to be quite as we’d originally suspected…


Fear not, it wasn’t as sinister as it might sound. In hindsight, I’d maybe now rephrase that part of the contract to say something along the lines of: “you will be paid for 12 hours a week, assuming you are not the cause of any hours’ lessons being missed, and you should expect to work up to 12 hours a week, depending on the members of teaching staff you work with”.

Part of the contract was that if the main teacher with whose class you were working was absent for any reason, then we were forbidden from working. Not just that we didn’t have to work, but that we weren’t allowed to work in those circumstances. As silly as that may sound, the reasoning behind it was that if something should happen in the class where you need assistance, such as behavioural issues or even a situation that would require medical assistance, it is the job of the class teacher who has undergone the relevant training and has the necessary expertise to deal with it.

In practice, I didn’t need to call in the other teacher whenever these situations happened in one of my lessons. I had a couple of cases of students whose behaviour was becoming an issue, so I just spoke to them directly as I’d seen happen in so many lessons beforehand, and in one case I spoke to the class teacher afterwards who then pulled him from all of my future lessons. On the medical side of things, it required all of my First Aid training and knowledge to tell a kid who was having a nosebleed and was used to them to go to the toilets and clean himself up and come back when he was ready. He was fine and back in the classroom 10 minutes later.

The whole being forbidden from taking a class in those situations was really more of a precaution, but one that given the potential risks, we made sure to follow. As for the advice we were given on the training day of only sending students to the toilets in pairs, because if they fall and hurt themselves then it’s your fault, we didn’t observe that one quite so strictly.

However, because I wouldn’t teach if the teacher wasn’t there and also there were several situations in which I was told I wasn’t teaching at last minute notice, I rarely actually managed a full 12 hour working week (I know, life was very hard for me). Next year back at university and then life in the working world after that are going to be rather different sadly.

The reasons I had for last minute cancellations were great. There was the fairly regular “I’m doing a test with the students”, which became more and more common as the exams got closer, to the point where I’m fairly sure I heard it at least once a week towards the end. Sometimes we had “I’m behind on work with this class”, which didn’t happen too often and was usually either with lower ability groups or ones where the teacher had been away for a period of time. There was the 10 day period when two of the teachers I worked with had gone on a school exchange trip to Boston, so I didn’t have any of those classes and some of the students in my other classes were out on the trip too. Even during the weeks of exam invigilating, I still didn’t manage to do all 12 hours, because the exams taking place meant that my final year classes got cancelled. I’ve also learnt that some methods practised in schools are clearly universal, because as we got to the end of term, there was also the excuse of “it’s the end of term so we’re just going to watch a film”. Fair enough, I can understand that, especially given that a lot of my lessons were the final slot of 5-6pm, when the kids were reluctant to work at the best of times. However, I feel we might have been pushing things a bit when I heard this about 2 or 3 weeks before the end of term…

As for staff absences, most were health-related as you’d expect; either the teacher was ill or their child/other dependant was ill. The prize for the most obscure and also most prolific absence excuse though, goes to the young teacher I worked with briefly at the start of the year. She was pregnant and due to go on maternity leave at Christmas, but just after the start of November she started (brace yourselves) having irregular contractions. When this first started she was signed off for two weeks, but then they persisted in plaguing her, to the point where I didn’t see her back in school again before I left. To be fair to her, she did go in when possible to work with her classes that were closer to exams, but as mine were still a year or two off, they weren’t top priority. But because she would only get signed off work for a week or so at a time, there was no long-term replacement strategy in place, which meant that I just kept getting those lessons cancelled every week. It got to the point where I began referring to her in conversation with my fellow teaching assistant friends merely as “Contractions Lady”, which was also my standard line explaining why I hadn’t had lessons on a particular day.

The ways I found out about these absences also varied. There were a couple of boards up around the school that listed any teaching staff absences for both pupil and teacher reference, which after the first few times of waiting in an empty classroom for half an hour, I got into a better habit of checking every day. I tried to get into a good pattern with my colleagues whereby they would text or call me if they knew that my lesson was going to be cancelled for any reason, but unfortunately that didn’t quite stick with some of them. Of course, when you’re in physical pain or you’ve got something rather pressing to attend to, texting a colleague is probably not going to be high up on your priorities, given that you’d hope that when you ring the school office to tell them, they’d pass the message on, but that rarely happened. Thankfully the one teacher who almost always managed to call me was the one I worked with for two single hour slots when I otherwise wouldn’t be going in to the school. In the case of the afternoon lessons, they were usually after my weekly trip with Liz to have coffee and cake at a beautiful and surprisingly calm pâtisserie that was right next to the cathedral, so I would sometimes get a call midway through my mille-feuille or dôme caramel to say that I didn’t need to come in. I was always keen to reassure her that it wasn’t a problem and thanked her for calling. The other class was a morning one and because I lived so close to the school, I only needed to leave about 15 minutes before the lesson started to still make it there on time before the students. However, the effect of this was that I would still be in bed at 8:30 or so when I was teaching at 10. As such, I came to develop mixed feelings towards the 7:45 phone call to tell me that I didn’t need to go in. On the one hand, it did mean that I didn’t have to get up straight away, but on the other hand I had then been woken up and so a lie-in was less likely. Still, I really can’t complain.

In my final week of teaching before my contract ended, it looked as though I was going to actually teach a whole week of 12 hours of lessons. Granted, that was partially because I’d rearranged my lessons from the week before so that I’d be free to spend time with Meg and Rowan whilst they were over visiting me, instead of having to keep running off to teach for an hour or two, but still. Hell, I was even going to do more than 12 hours because of that at one point, but then I found out that one of the teachers I worked with was going to be absent on the final two days of term when she was sitting some teaching exams to gain further qualifications. As it was, during my final week I did 10 hours of teaching plus just over 5 hours of invigilating in the speaking exam preparation room, a highly glamorous task which involved getting the students to sign their name to say that they had come for their exam and handing them some rough paper, at a rate of 6 or 7 students every 15 minutes.

There was one week when I worked 12 hours, but that wasn’t because nothing got cancelled. It was the week of my birthday and I’d previously rearranged my classes on the Friday beforehand so that I could go to Paris that morning and not have to worry about the two classes I’d otherwise have taught in the afternoon. Having shifted those two classes to the following week, it was only because I ended up having two lessons cancelled for other reasons that the overall total worked out at 12 weeks.

As it was, there were only one occasions on which I actually managed to work a 12 hour week without having rearranged classes, and that was the first week in November. After that time, through one reason or another, I never taught a complete week of my timetable without changes, whether they were last minute ones or otherwise.

Things my students say – Part 3

This is now part 3 in this series, after the previous post became so long that I had to split it into two. Sadly this is also the last in this short-lived series, so I hope you enjoy the third and final instalment!


While the majority of the anecdotes I have are from the lycée with the 15-18 year olds where I spent most of my working week, there were some equally great moments at the collège. It took one of the students I saw on a fortnightly basis nearly 5 months before she realised that I could speak French, despite the fact that I usually ended up saying short phrases or giving complex instructions in French when they didn’t understand the idea in English. The following lesson she came in and was far less chatty than usual. When I asked if everything was ok, her reply was “I’m scared because you speak French.” Clearly it’s a skill to be reckoned with.

Her’s was a strange class though. About 6 weeks before I finished working there, a group of them asked their main teacher what they should call me, despite having quite happily settled on ‘Mister Tom’ less than 2 months into me working there.

It was also one of my classes at the collège that had decided to do an end of year musical, after the success of the play they did the year before. They were reading and studying abridged versions of Matilda, Oliver Twist, and The Wizard of Oz, so I did some listening comprehension work using songs from the various musicals. It would seem that The Scarecrow has alcoholic tendencies, given that several of my students were very keen to tell me that the lyrics was “I’d drink some things I’d never drunk before / And then I’d sit and drink some more”.

Using songs as a means of working on listening skills was a technique I learnt from my A level French and German teacher, so about a month later I employed the tactic again and managed to pass off an hour of listening to Taylor Swift as teaching English. Hey, at least the students were interested and engaged!

With the group working on a class musical I did an introduction to musical theatre one lesson so that they had a clearer idea of what they were doing, which basically involved defining the key aspects of a musical before playing them various songs and getting them to identify the reason what the song was doing in the show and who was singing. One of the boys who was determined to seem too cool for school told his classmates that “because it’s a musical, it has to be pointless”. I later saw said pupil unironically rocking out to Defying Gravity when my back was turned and he thought I wasn’t looking.

When the class came to writing scenes for their musical they decided to use some of the songs from Matilda, The Wizard of Oz and Oliver, so I spent one lesson working on pronunciation for Food, Glorious Food from Oliver. Despite vaguely knowing the song, I realised during that lesson just how obscure some of those lyrics are. “Can we beg, can we borrow or cadge” or “peas, pudding and saveloys” – anyone?

One of my favourite classes to work with at the collège, and sadly one that I only saw sporadically, was a 6ème group (11-12 year olds) who’d just started at the school and were still very much in the young and cute stage. Whenever I was with them, it was almost always together with their main class teacher as extra help in the classroom. The teacher who’d had them until Christmas decided at that point to go on maternity leave (she wasn’t pregnant; she’d given birth just over a year ago but wanted to take some time out to spend with her daughter. No I didn’t quite understand either…), and so the class got a new teacher after the holidays. That in itself made me realise how much a class can change with a different teacher; they went from a quiet, shy and respectful class to a noisy one that was rather hard to control over that particular vacation. One day I was working with the new teacher, at a time when the class had been moved into a different room because of mock exams taking place, and so the class didn’t have access to the bilingual dictionaries that they’d been used to using. Given that I hadn’t seen the class for a while, I decided to reintroduce myself by standing at the front of the room and saying “hello, I am your dictionary!” It seemed to go down well, especially given that later when they were doing work in pairs, I heard one girl tell her partner to ask me rather than their main teacher, on the basis that I was nicer.

I clearly gained something of a reputation at the school, because a few weeks later, after the holidays, one of the other teachers decided just to resplit the group in two, rather than try and remember who was with who last time. She was feeling in a nice mood and so decided to give the class a degree of choice by asking “So, who wants to go with me?” It was quite awkward when no one spoke…

That being said, I was sort of put in my place when one of the other English teachers with whom I worked a few times saw me and promptly greeted me by saying “are you working with me today? No? Good.” Granted, she had 30 French kids behind her and was in a rush, but still.

Ok, so this wasn’t something that came out of my lessons with students, but I did also arrive at the collège one day to find a plant order catalogue in my pigeon hole. As you do…

I learnt that while some of the challenges I faced at the collège were different to those at the lycée, poor pronunciation was to be found everywhere. The most amusing example was when one student had written their own version of Cinderella in a lesson on modern fairy tales and was reading it out to the class. Unfortunately the English ‘r’ sound is quite difficult for native French speakers, so instead of ‘room’, what I heard was, “in her womb, she asked for a life”. Oh holding it together was hard in that moment…

The young group I sometimes saw were always fun to work with, partially because I had the opportunity to get sassy and sarcastic with them, using British humour in French, which usually threw them too. When one boy appeared to have an aversion to sitting still or frankly sitting at all, I did ask him, in French: “Don’t you like the chair? What has the chair done to you? Why are you dancing with your chair?” He soon realised that sitting still was the preferred option from the perspective of a teacher.

The class also got assigned pen pals at one point, and so I was working with them when they had to write a short card to send to their pen pal describing themselves. One pupil who struggled at applying himself wrote 3 short sentences and promptly declared that he had finished. I said I was very surprised that he was able to summarise his entire existence in three lines and got him to write more. About ten minutes later, he came and told me that he’d written another sentence, so I asked him what this fourth and final line that had taken him ten minutes to craft was, a line to bring about the end of literature as we knew it?

Despite, or perhaps because of the fact that I was the preferred teacher in the pupils’ eyes when compared to their main teacher, she asked me after a particularly trying but ultimately successful lesson whether I could go back tomorrow. Sadly (or rather thankfully), I only did one day a week there and was dependent on buses to get in and out of the small village, so I had to refuse. I did later learn that this teacher was also only contracted to teach for 11 hours a week, i.e. less than me! And I thought I had a sparse timetable…

As you’ll know if you’ve read my previous school anecdotes post, I tended to be rather relaxed when it came to using phones in lessons, so when the class who’d been on the trip to Liverpool and North Wales came back the following week, quite a few of the students ended up getting their phones out, albeit so that they could show me their photos. I’d asked them to tell me about what they did and saw, which they did with visual aids (I did give them permission to use their phones in the lesson), although I wasn’t quite expecting to be shown all their duckface selfies as well. That being said, I don’t know what I should have expected from the group of girls who got into the habit of singing James Blunt’s Goodbye My Lover every week at the end of my lesson as they left the room… One of them even proposed to me as a joke in our last lesson together.

My last lesson with that particular class was particularly special though. The cute little kid of the “what do you think you’re fucking doing” story came up to me at the end and thanked me, saying that he felt his English had greatly improved through our lessons together over the course of the year. Heck, one of the girls even asked me to autograph her pencil case.


So yes, teaching English for 7 months certainly has armed me with many anecdotes and fun little stories or quotations from my students. For the most part, I’d like to think I did a good job at dealing with them without being patronising or condescending. I can honestly say that I did try not to laugh at their mistakes, but sometimes it was rather hard not to.

Things my students say – Part 2

* Or technically said, given that I no longer work as a teacher.

Since my last Things My Students Say post back in December, I’ve acquired a whole new set of anecdotes from similar moments, partially thanks to having my timetable switched up and almost completely changed at the end of January, which was just after the halfway point of my time teaching. Of course that meant going through the initial introductions again (always a fun experience… No, small French teenager, my name is in fact not Mr Pregnant… I went with just Tom from that point on.), as well as a whole new range of mistakes and stories that come from working with a different group of people. This change has also meant that I’ll have worked with about 600 different students from the ages of 11 to 18, so if I thought learning all the names last time was rather difficult, I’ve since learnt that I’m better off trying to remember the information and stories the kids volunteer in lessons and building on those rather than constantly checking the register and still getting the pupils confused. I had one student tell me that he’d heard about me from his sister, whom I’d taught earlier in the year. He very excitedly told me that she was a final year student, but given that by that point I had taught 5 such classes and nearly 150 kids in that year, sadly I couldn’t say anything particularly specific. I did also have to explain to one of my students that yes, I still didn’t know everyone’s name by the end of the year, but I remembered all the funny things they’d said and done, and other bits about them, so I did still know who they were in that sense. Thankfully I managed to avoid trying to explain the names I give to them… Let it be known though, the joy that a teacher feels when they can at last figure out who is absence in a class without needing to go through the whole register. It is a glorious day indeed.

Warning: parts of this post contain repeated use of strong language, and unfortunately it’s almost entirely direct quotations from my students. I can only apologise.


Part of the reason I’d chosen to apply to Strasbourg was because it was so close to the border with Germany, and so I figured I’d get the opportunity to speak German fairly often as well as French. Of course, I’d expected that to be the result of regular trips across the border and also just speaking to the various German tourists and Germans that live in the city, such as the few that I met through my choir there. I also had the opportunity of using my German in school a few times, usually when speaking to the German students there or even just to point out when the students had accidentally used a German word, which, given the similarities between English and German, especially in comparison to French, was quite often (I swear, I must have used the phrase “Das ist Deutsch” over a hundred times). However, I didn’t quite expect the use of my German to extend to reprimanding students… Two students were arguing as they came into my lesson and continued to do so as they sat down and got their things out. As I turned to the class and went to begin the lesson, silence fell and I heard one of these students shout “Ich ficke deine Mutter!” (I’ll fuck your mother!). I looked at the student in surprise at the sudden shout into silence and then turned to the board to write something. Being the mischievous thing that I am, I glanced over my shoulder at the student and said, in German, “You do know that I speak German, right?”. The student went as white as a sheet and started stammering some excuse about having only learnt the phrase that day and not knowing what it meant.

In a lesson where we were working on different and creative ways of expressing likes and dislikes for something, one student came out with the very British “This is not my cup of tea”. Bonus points earned there. This was the aforementioned lesson on Room 101, so we also discussed fears as well as dislikes. With ways of saying I’m afraid of, we had creative alternatives such as “I’m freaking out about”and “I poop myself at”. In addition to the recurring use of “shit” in some of these phrases for emphasis, I then took the opportunity to explore synonyms that they could use in other contexts, the results of which included “poop” and “excrement”. Some of my other favourite ways to say I don’t like included “I’m pissed off with”, “I don’t give a damn/fuck about”, “I’m sick of”, “I’m done with your shit”, “it grinds my gears”, and “it’s a pain in the neck/butt/ass”. We also had “I’m pissed”, at which point I did have to stop and explain the difference in meaning depending on American and British English. When doing the follow up lesson on the positive side of things, we had a similar range of phrases, including “I fucking love” and “I could kill for”. Of course, with all these profanities, I did have to explain that they would do well to find clean versions of these phrases for their exams and also generally for use with their other teachers. While I didn’t mind too much if they swore in my lessons, provided they did so in English and correctly, I didn’t think I could say the same for my colleagues.

In the lesson I also mentioned and briefly explained pet peeves, which led to various amusing conversations, especially when trying to explain the word “peeves”. Often this involved reference to Harry Potter with varying degrees of success, depending on the students’ familiarity with the books. Another difficulty was when one student misheard me and thought that we were about to have a conversation about potatoes…

In addition to mishearing things, the class also faced difficulties when individual students’ vocabularies contained words that weren’t particularly common knowledge, as was the case when student said his pet peeve was “when cats start licking their genitals”. “Genitals” turned out to require some explaining to quite a few students, a conversation that needed considerable tact and circumlocution to make the point without being too vulgar about it.

Despite the French penchant for a good strike and general expressions of dissent, they proved to find the task of expressing their annoyance with certain things rather more difficult. This in part was due to the fact that annoyance proved a concept that, at least linguistically, didn’t translate particularly easily from English into French.

In the follow up lesson, I decided to replicate the structure and so instead of pet peeves, we stuck with the behavioural idea and did turn ons. Yes, I did decide to discuss the idea of turn ons with a group of 15 and 16 year olds. Thankfully they kept things very much respectable. That being said, when it came to asking for synonyms for attractive, one enthusiastic lad, quite innocently, suggested “busty”, which did make me laugh. I did then of course explain that while the two may certainly be closely linked in his view, they did not mean the exact same thing.

One of the lessons that I did with some of my more advanced classes was an introduction to feminism, which included watching extracts of Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche’s TED talk, the excerpt from that used in Beyoncé’s Flawless at her VMA performance last year, and Emma Watson’s HeForShe campaign speech at the UN. Part of what I really enjoyed about giving these lessons, other than seeing how the class dynamic sometimes shifted slightly afterwards, was the way that the students phrased ideas or expressed themselves. Yes, there were still some linguistic issues, like the student who pronounced the words “human” and “woman” as indistinguishable to my ears, but there were also some great and interesting moments like the student who corrected herself when she said “girl” and wanted to say “woman”. Equally, there was the moment where English being a foreign language to them meant that they hadn’t yet picked up on all of the usual orders or phrases, when various students spoke about “women and men” and “the equality of women and men”. In one lesson on the subject, I got into a really interesting discussion with some of my students where they’d used models of international development and relations between groups of countries as a model for the patriarchy. For a completely different reason, I also hugely enjoyed the time that I did the lesson with one of my lower ability groups that was made up of entirely teenage girls. They turned out to be the most engaged group in that lesson, despite the fact that their English was more limited than my other groups.

Annual events or traditions are rather useful in the life of an English assistant and language teacher, as you can spin a whole lesson out of them each time one comes around. So naturally, just after term started again after Christmas, I did a series of lessons on New Year’s celebrations and resolutions. The best story and resolution combination was one of the students who told me that he’d had a particularly eventful New Year’s Eve party, and so the line he came out with was: “On New Year’s Eve, I kissed a dog. Next year I will try a cat.” It took his classmates who’d also been at the party to piece together the rest of the story for communal enjoyment.

One day, when there was a trip going on and the main class teacher had kept some of the pupils back to catch up on missed work, I found myself with a class of less than half the usual size, so once I’d found out why the rest of the class weren’t coming, I made some comment about being a bit thin on the ground that day. Of course this was met with some confused glances, so I wrote the phrase on the board and asked if anyone new what the phrase meant. However, French schools being what they are, quite a few of the pupils instantly took up pen and paper and proudly wrote it as the title for that day’s lesson, at which point I made the decision to let it be and move the lesson in that direction instead.

By some stroke of luck, despite being only a few years older than the oldest students at the lycée (and certainly not looking it when stood next to a couple of them!), I managed to go until 20th January, well into my second term teaching before I was mistaken for a pupil. I was going into a classroom that I’d recently booked and so the cleaning staff had gone in just before me, thinking it was free for the hour. I told them that I had a lesson in the room and so they got their things and went to leave, but told me I needed to wait outside so they could lock the room. When I looked at them quizzically, they explained that there had to be a teacher present in the room if it was unlocked, at which point I managed to smile and explain that I was, in fact, said teacher. The poor woman did go rather red and then tried to smooth things over by saying how young I looked, so I did explain that I was the English language assistant and wasn’t a fully qualified French teacher in their mid-20s who’d done a degree and passed the national teaching exams, which made her feel a bit better about the mistake.

Yet despite being mistaken for one of them, there were quite a few times when I was more aware of the age gap and my students did manage to make me feel noticeably older than them. The most direct of these was when a student asked how old I was, before commenting “it’s really old, 21”. Thanks. Another one of my students came in one day wearing a baseball cap with ‘1991′ written across the front. I stopped him and asked what year he was born in (1997) and then pointed at his hat. His explanation was that it was vintage. I’d like to think that I at least managed to pass myself off as sophisticated in their eyes, although somehow I doubt that was the case.

My students did also sometimes try and get away with things that when you’re in school seem possible and like a good idea, but from the perspective of a teacher rarely are. On various occasions I saw students with their phones, some more open than others, like the lads who were Snapchatting each other to their friends in other classes one time, whereas some students did at least try to be discreet about it. One girl though she was being very clever and secretive, texting behind her back, but in a class of 4 people, it’s a lot harder to hide. However, I did opt to take the route of being ‘the cool teacher’ (or at least I tried…), so when they could actually make good use of it as a learning tool rather than a distraction, I was quite happy for the students to use their phones in lessons. I did explain that I was happy to answer any vocab questions they had, although when it came to the more international classes who only knew the word they wanted in Russian or Azerbaijani or Japanese, online dictionaries proved the more effective solution.

In a stunning turn of events, it was often raining in Alsace. So when the sun came out and the sky was a bright shade of blue, I made the observation to my students. The reply I got was “Well of course, it does get sunny in summer in Alsace. Maybe not for you in England…”. Touché.

On that note, the French verb “toucher” proved to be a rather difficult one over the year. It’s one of those wonderful French verbs that has many meaning depending on the context, and can be translated as to hit, to affect (positively and negatively), and to have an impact on. However, as students of foreign languages are often want to do, the easy option was often taken, despite being a false friend. And so, people were touched by, amongst other things, terrorism, bullets and Obama’s absence at the Charlie Hebdo solidarity walk in Paris. I did start to despair after the 20th iteration…

In the case of two of my weaker ability classes at the lycée, there was somewhat of a tradeoff, in that their English skills weren’t particularly good, but that was usually the result of them being almost all international students who were learning English as their 3rd, 4th, 5th, or even in one case 6th, language (there was English, French, German, Spanish and Russian being spoken over the course of a single hour’s lesson one week) . It was a group where there were no more than 3 or 4 kids from the same country, which made for some interesting discussions of countries and also their families. My favourite was one particularly cheeky young lad who when I asked what his parents did, he told me very straight-faced that his father was the President of Albania. Given the various ranks of international students whose parents worked in Strasbourg at the different European institutions, this was genuinely a possibility at the school. He managed to keep up the act for a good 15 minutes, before bursting into laughter and telling me that actually his parents worked at the bakery in the middle of town. The best part about this was that I think I actually showed more recognition and admiration at this, as it was quite probably my most frequented bakery in the city, and I later realised I’d actually spoken to both his parents just a few days before when I had gone to pick up a baguette.

Having said that I struggled with learning the students names, I do feel that three of my favourite students should get a mention, the three that I came to refer to as The Trinity, which comprise of: The Crawler, Panda Girl, and The Dark Horse. The Crawler earned her name by managing to fall off her chair or else end up on the floor at some point in my lesson every week without fail. Whether it was a dropped pen, someone moving her chair at the last minute or just wanting to sit underneath the table for a while, she always found her way down there every fortnight, to the point where I started keeping a track of how long into the lesson we could get before she left her chair vacant. I think I may have given away my little game when I did say to her in one lesson that 35 minutes was a new record when she fell over, at which point some of her classmates started giggling when they realised what I meant. Oops.

Panda Girl had an aesthetic that bordered on the emo/goth side of the spectrum, and was a particular fan of thick black eyeliner that gave her look of someone who’s painted on black eye sockets as part of a skeleton fancy dress outfit. That being said, she was a pretty good student despite not being overly confident in her English abilities and I also have massive respect for her for the time that she openly discussed her depression in a lesson on Room 101 and things that we disliked.
The Dark Horse, so named because I wasn’t too sure what to make of her at the start, was just as giggly and bouncy as the other two when the three of them were together. She was the kind of pupil who on her own was rather quiet and didn’t speak up very often, but when the three of them were together you could barely get her to stop talking. For all that they were difficult to handle at times and did disrupt the class at times, they were the life and soul of the party in those Monday afternoon lessons, and with the three of them there I always knew I had a few students to rely on to voice their opinions and come and write things on the board when I needed a volunteer. Frankly, they were just too funny together to split up.
In addition to the game of how long it would take The Crawler to fall off her chair, I did also start making notes of the funny things they’d say, mainly for the purposes of including in posts like this and for when I met up with fellow English assistants. At one point when they realised I was doing this, they asked if I told their main English teacher everything they did, to which I responded “I don’t tell him everything… But I didn’t say what I do tell him.” At which point, they then got rather worried and vowed not to speak unless directly called upon in a lesson again. They also said that they felt betrayed and that they’d wrongly trusted me, so I did then relent and explain that I didn’t tell their teacher anything of what they got up to in my lessons, which in addition to granting them a sense of relief, led to them telling me that they trusted and loved me as their teacher and that my lesson was their favourite lesson of the week, as proved by the fact that The Crawler had doodled a drawing of me earlier that day and Panda Girl had written “OMG TOM!” on her hand to show to the other two in the lesson before mine. There weren’t many moment teaching that brought a tear to my eye, but that was one of them.
After I’d explained that I wasn’t in fact reporting on their activities to their teacher, I did also then make the joke that I was writing a movie script about them, at which point they declared that they would soon become Hollywood superstars and gain international fame. While I can’t help but feel that they have somewhat overestimated my writing abilities, I can at least say that, thanks to having friends in various parts of the world, my readership here is at least international, although again I’m not sure “fame” is quite the right word for their notoriety.

At one point in the year, we entered the season of the conseils de classe, which are essentially, a sort of meeting of parents, students and class teachers, with representatives from the former two groups selected to express the views of the group, rather than trying to bring 50+ people together at a single time within the school day. Part of my contract was that when the class teacher wasn’t teaching I was forbidden from teaching on the grounds that if there were an accident in one of my lessons, the main teacher wouldn’t be around to help. As such, when these meetings were happening on an almost daily basis over the course of a few weeks, I had a lot of cancelled lessons, including my fortnightly one with the class containing the Trinity. The lesson the week before with the other half of that class had been cancelled for the same reason, so the class knew that they didn’t have a lesson with me, and so they’d almost all gone home. Communication not always being a forté in my working environment meant that I didn’t find out about this until I got into the school for that lesson, being as it was my only lesson of that afternoon. On my walk into the school, I saw The Crawler and The Dark Horse walking in just ahead of me, so I made a note to ask them why they hadn’t been in the first hour of their double lesson of English with their main teacher. As it turned out, The Crawler had had somewhat of an episode where she was in fits of tears and in no state to be quiet or receptive in a lesson, so she’d been released for the hour with The Dark Horse to look after her. Still, she’d been feeling better after the break from school and so the pair had come back into school and came to the classroom hoping for a lesson with me. I did then explain that the class was cancelled, to which The Dark Horse replied “it’s the first time I’m disappointed about not having class.” I did stop them to ask why they hadn’t been in school for the lesson before and was given a brief explanation, so I sat down and asked whether The Crawler was ok. Her reaction, instead of pretending it was fine or seeming wary that a teacher was asking, was instead mainly shock and surprise, that a teacher actually seemed to care about her wellbeing. That may sound harsh, but under the French system there is no obligation for any of the teachers to pay heed to that, whereas in British high school pupils usually have a teacher assigned to their class whose main responsibility towards them is to check that they’re ok and not having any particular problems with any of their classes. Having a teacher ask about their wellbeing, especially one who only saw them once a fortnight at most, seemed quite out of the ordinary for them.

On a similar note, I also had two girls come at the start of one of my lessons with another group from their class, just to say and hi and that they wanted to be in my class that day. Quite what they had to look forward to in their own lesson, I don’t know, so that may not have been quite the compliment I took it as…

Mock exams in France, or at least in my lycée, were a relatively relaxed affair. I got roped into invigilating some of them (or proctoring, if you’re using the rather-appropriate-in-this-context American English word), but the goings on kept me reasonably entertained. When I made a comment at the end of one exam to the other teacher in the room about how none of the students had needed to leave or go to the toilet at any point, she smiled and said that they’d all had the Philosophy exam that morning, which, judging by the rate of students coming and going, was a diuretic exam.

While there were of course exceptions, quite a few of the students didn’t seem too stressed by the mocks. All the afternoon exams began promptly at 2pm, yet the sight of one student strolling in at 13:59 barely seemed to raise an eyebrow, although whether that was just the student, who knows. Another student in the same room decided after about an hour and a half that he needed a change in posture and so took off his shoes and sat cross-legged for the remaining 2 hours. As you do.

The mocks were relaxed for the teachers as well though. I spent most of the time reading or lesson planning, and one of the teachers I was with came out smiling, saying that she’d managed to get all her marking for the week done during the 3 and a half hour exam we’d just sat in on.

One of the teachers with whom I sadly never got to work directly taught the bilingual students who were taking English exams rather than the French bac. She also did quite a lot of the entrance exam interviews for English for the students applying to the school. And oh, she didn’t hold back. I had the good fortune to be in the room next door with a class on one of the days of interviews, and so got to overhear bits of the discussion, including one prospective student who was somewhat reluctant to speak in English. After she got quite frustrated with this student, she took them outside for a forceful talking to: “Do you want this conversation? Do you want a place here? Then let’s get it over with.” Don’t get on the wrong side of her; she’s a force to be reckoned with.

Despite not working with her classes, I did occasionally get consulted on matters regarding UK universities and English exam technique. By far my favourite such conversation, though, was when I was asked my opinion on how best to quote swearing in an academic essay. As you’ll have noticed, I don’t particularly see it as an issue (although granted this is not an academic essay), especially given that bad language has been overshadowed by content in my essays in the past (the Marquis de Sade’s work is quite an eye-opener…). However, the look given to me when I was asked the best way of writing “you’re gonna see some shit” made it quite clear that the correct response in this situation was using asterisks to star out all but the first and last letters.

On the subject of profanity (well who hasn’t tried to learn how to curse in a foreign language they’re learning?!), I managed to go several months before inaccurate pronunciation led to accidental cursing in my classes. And yet, having never had to face the issue previously despite having heard many a tale from my fellow English assistants, I had to teach the difference in pronunciation between ‘beach’ and ‘bitch’ twice in one week (see also: ‘piece’ and ‘piss’, ‘sheet’ and ‘shit’). Ah, long vowels.

For all that the language has been rather colourful so far, this was all from the 15-18 year olds in the lycée. However, by far the best example of such language was one lesson when I asked a class that had recently been on a trip to the UK (Liverpool and North Wales, no less) if they heard or read anything in English that they didn’t understand and wanted me to explain. At this point, a rather angelic student who could have passed for 10 or 11 rather than the 14 he claimed to be, said that a woman had shouted at him in a shop for touching something and that he didn’t quite understand what she’d said. I asked him to repeat, if he could, what the lady had said, and as he started speaking I began transcribing it onto the board. As luck would have it, his reply was: “Well, I think she was a bit angry, and she shouted “What are you fucking doing?” What does this mean please?” What, dear reader, do you do in that situation? My course of action, having decided from the off that honesty was probably the best policy, was to explain the use of expletives for emphasis in English. The class then being of the lively sort meant that one asked if ‘motherfucker’ could be used in the same way. Of course, one might as well go the whole hog, so when they also had seen the word ‘condom’ written somewhere and hadn’t understand, I explained that to them as well. Thank God another teacher didn’t walk into my classroom on that day.

Sometimes all it takes it a slight slip to produce a sentence that is both amusing in itself and also comically true. When having a discussion about the advantages and disadvantages of the French school system with a group of students whose English wasn’t the best of all my classes, one of them accidentally said “at the end of the day, we are exhausting.” I will admit, I did laugh and say “well, yes”, before he then realised his mistake and corrected himself.

With the same group, one of the other students had forgotten how to say that she was the eldest child in her family, so instead she just told me quite confidently when I asked if she had any brothers or sisters, “yes, but I am the boss.” You tell ‘em, girl.

At other times, the true statements come as the result of not having quite the range of vocabulary to express an idea more tactfully. When talking about cultural differences between France and the United Kingdom, one pupil plainly told me that “in France, people aren’t always very nice.” Hey, I didn’t say it.

In that lesson we also discussed French and British stereotypes, a.k.a. the staple lesson idea for any foreign language assistant, comparing the stereotypes of their country and the one that they happen to be working in. I have two highlights from this lesson across my various classes; the first was when discussing the stereotypes of physical appearance and one student said “dandy moustaches”, and the second was when one of the girls who had a particularly clear accent called out “would you like a cup of tea?” in the Queen-like of accents, little finger pointing and all.

One observation my close friend and fellow English language assistant Liz made was that a consequence of having a language as a foreign language meant that you were more likely to come up with phrases that were quite poetical and yet were a combination of words that no native speaker would naturally come up with, even if there was nothing obviously wrong with the sentence. I had one of these moments whilst discussing the value of literature with a class when a student quite plainly said that “books are travel for the spirit.” I’ll drink to that.

There was also an amusing albeit initially startling moment when one of my pupils wrote something about being “choked”. I asked him who’d choked him and eventually it transpired that he’d meant shocked, and got confused by the French choqué looking more akin to choked rather than shocked. Thankfully I found this out before I called Social Services.

Some of my favourite questions to get asked by students were the ones when we use the French word in English or vice versa. Such examples include: “how do you say chalet in English?”, “what is fiancé in English?” and perhaps the greatest of all, “what’s the English for lol?”. I did stop to explain where the last one came from in English, which the class found quite strange.

Phrases and idioms, as any language student will know, are particularly resistant to translation. This proved to be the case when one student, in the context of some of his classes being rather unruly, said to me: “I don’t like Biology, because… c’est le bordel” (it’s chaos), before looking at me and saying “bordel is brothel, no?”. Needless to say, I was quick to correct him before he implied that his Biology teacher was a pimp.

Yet despite all the linguistic flaws, there were also some students whose command of English was very good, to the point that they even started to make jokes and puns THAT ACTUALLY WORKED. In a class with my Première students (16-17) one asked, “what’s is cimitère in English?”. Before I’d gone to answer her question another student had replied “cemetery, or graveyard in British English”, which I found impressive enough that she knew both words and the correct usage. The icing on the cake was when one of my favourite students then called out, “oh yes, people are dying to get in there”. I think it was genuinely one of my favourite moments of teaching.

While some of the more amusing moments from my time teaching were usually at the hands of the classes with a lower level of English (although don’t get me wrong, I still got very lucky in having such able and engaged classes in the schools I worked in), working with the more advanced students meant that we were able to have some really interesting and valuable discussions. Myths and heros was one of the topics for the high school bac exams, and so in one lesson we had a really interesting discussion about what constitutes a hero, including the idea that death is central to hero status. When discussing colours and their associations, one of the students pointed out in the inherent racism in the idea of white being a pure and clean colour, and that led onto a quite critical but equally important discussion of the psychology and social causes and effects of racism. There was also a moment when one of my students said that there were no major diseases prevalent in France, to which another student said “but what about mental illnesses?”, and that in turn lead to a valuable discussion about mental health and stigma.

They were also a rather varied and interesting bunch as a whole, from the young lad who did hip-hop dancing and whose Dad worked in Mayotte, a tiny island off the coast of Madagascar, to the Vietnamese girl who enjoyed cooking traditional Vietnamese cuisine and Mac & Cheese, and from the student who told me her favourite subject was Chemistry because she liked atoms, to the final year who could claim 4 languages as his first, thanks to being born in Vienna to a French father and a Chinese mother whose best common language is English.


I’ll stop there for now, given that this post is already quite lengthy. I’ve still got quite a few more stories I’d like to tell, so I’ll save those for a future post, coming soon to a screen near you!

Travelling the UK with Liz

Last week’s post recounted the various ups and downs of my journey from Strasbourg back to the UK. However, the fun and the journeying wasn’t quite over just yet, as Liz had come back to the UK with me. Being from the States, albeit one on the East Coast, she’d never been to the UK before, and so having a British friend to guide her, she came along with me to visit the green and pleasant land.


Given that we’d arrived in the UK at St Pancras with King’s Cross station next door an over an hour to fill before the next train, we decided to stop off at the Platform 9 3/4 area to take our very touristy but nevertheless fun photos of the pair of us in Ravenclaw scarves before carrying on.

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Once we’d eventually made it back to my hometown of Lichfield in the Midlands, we were greeted by my mother who promptly presented us with gin and tonics. Very British and very much needed by that point. At the end of a long day’s travelling with a few bumps along the way, we decided to turn in early for the night and get a decent amount of sleep. Just before we did though, we finished making plans for the rest of Liz’s time in the country, which sadly wasn’t too long.

The following morning we got up at a reasonable time and I took Liz for a brief tour of Lichfield, as an example of an old British town (technically city, but you wouldn’t know it from the size). This essentially involved walking along the scenic route from my house to the cathedral, along the small lake that is Stowe Pool, rather than walking along main roads, which, although functional, aren’t quite as aesthetically pleasing. Lichfield Cathedral, in addition to being one of my favourite buildings in the city, also has the advantage of being distinctly older than Liz’s entire country, so that one proved quite a hit.

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Liz didn’t seem so impressed about being in front of the lens this time…

On our walk back through town, we passed an old style sweet shop, which Liz was somewhat entranced by, so we went inside, whereupon I discover that not only had Liz never tried a rhubarb and custard, but she didn’t even know what one was. The necessary purchases were made, and Liz soon feel in love with the latest thing to appease her sweet tooth.

Having spent the morning in Lichfield, we decided that that was enough, and so we hopped on a series of trains that took us from Lichfield to Oxford, the next stop of our UK tour. The trains had brought up the memories of the previous day’s misfortunes, so we went for a coffee from Combibos, the generally preferred coffee shop of Worcester College, my Oxford college.

A happy coincidence (or let’s face it, careful planning on my part) meant that we were in Oxford on the right day for the rehearsals of the choir I’ve been part of for the past 3 years in Oxford, the Oxford Singers. I knew Liz was a keen and talented singer from having been part of a choir in Strasbourg with her, and she’d also already met Meg and Rowan from  the choir when the pair of them came to visit me in Strasbourg, so she quite happily fitted into the rehearsal. I of course had a wonderful time as well, getting to see so many friendly faces that I hadn’t seen in nearly a year in some cases, and I also got to meet various people who’d joined the choir since I’d been away, which was somewhat strange when I realised they already knew a fair bit about me from what the others had been saying…

Thursday morning arrived and sadly brought about the end of the bright sunny weather we’d been having with the arrival of clouds and rainy showers. However, in true British spirit, we carried on regardless. As if the day weren’t already British enough, we were joined by fellow Strasbourgeois teaching assistant and true Brit, Anna, who’d caught an early train to get across to Oxford to join us for the day. I took them on a brief tour of some of the sights of Oxford that were rainy-weather friendly, like the Bodleian Library and the Covered Market.

We got to the Bodleian Library to find out that the timings for guided tours weren’t going to work with our plans for the day, so we decided just to go inside the Divinity School to see the inside of part of the beautiful and very old building. As we were getting tickets, I asked if there was a student discount, to which I was asked which university. Thankfully being in the right town as opposed to somewhere like Cambridge (the horror), it turned out that being a student of the university not only meant that I got in for free, but that I could also take up to 3 guests in for free with me, so that was a lovely moment. I was also told that I could take my guests around the Duke Humphrey’s Library, a beautiful old reading room in the Bodleian, but I’d need a timed ticket first. This did cause some slight issue when she tried to tell me where to go and I realised that the relevant office was in the new library building that had opened since I’d been away. This of course then lead to getting some strange looks from staff as I tried and failed to get through a door I was supposed to be able to get through, only to find out that my university card hadn’t been updated on account of me not being in the country. After all the faffing around, it turned out that there were no more free entry slots that day and that we sadly would have left Oxford before the next free one.

We consoled ourselves with a trip to the Covered Market to get a Ben’s Cookie (so. good.), followed by a brief walk around the Radcliffe Camera and the city streets of central Oxford, before we started making our way north. First, we stopped off at the Taylor Institution, the Modern Languages faculty and library, just so that I could quickly show them the inside of an Oxford library, and the one of our common subject at that.

Afterwards, we continued walking north until we got to The Parsonage, a beautiful old hotel and restaurant, where we’d booked to have afternoon tea. By this point the rain had really started coming down, so we were rather glad of the refuge inside for an extended period of time, and they even had a roaring fire going inside to help us dry off and stay warm.

P1120712

Afternoon tea was a lovely affair and we carried on chatting away for most of it, whilst slowly making our way through the delicious fare provided. Sadly Anna had to leave just before we were quite finished to catch her train, but we managed to wrap up the last couple of mini-desserts in a napkin for her to take with her. Unfortunately there was a slight crisis in that the lemon curd ended up all over Far From the Madding Crowd and she managed to get her coat caught in a bike as she was walking, but thankfully she was alright.

Just as we were leaving after afternoon tea, Liz’s umbrella decided to give up the ghost, in quite a spectacular fashion, ejecting a spring with surprising force. Leaving the umbrella behind, we walked along to my college where I showed Liz around the grounds, which are generally considered to be some of the most beautiful college gardens in all of Oxford, and they even provided some inspiration for the garden settings of Alice in Wonderland (can you tell I’m a bit biased?). After huddling together under my umbrella as we shuffled round the grounds, we headed back towards the centre of town to get Liz a new umbrella and then to visit one of Oxford’s finest institutions: G&Ds. To the uninitiated, G&Ds is a chain of 3 ice cream cafés in Oxford that do a wonderful area of flavours, ranging from your standard Vanilla and Chocolate ice creams to things like Green Tea, Oreo, and Malibu. Liz and I went in and both decided to write a bit while we were there. About 2 and a half hours later, we realised that we’d quite lost track of time and so headed back to where we were staying, stopping off for a few chips from a kebab van as something small for dinner on the way.

Having decided to spend the last two days or so of Liz’s trip to the UK in London, we got up relatively early and took a train from Oxford to London, and then made our way over to the AirBnB I’d booked for us to stay at. We dropped off our bags before walking through the streets near St. Pancras and Euston stations towards Tottenham Court Road to meet Becca.

We climbed that...

We climbed that…

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At the top of the Monument

As a student in London and also a very good friend of mine from home in Lichfield, I figured Becca would be up for showing us around central London and spending the day with us. As luck would have it, the Friday we arrived was the day of her last exam, so we met her victorious afterwards and began walking through the city to various sights. We walked for several hours, tracing a path that took us down to the Thames and along to the Monument to the Great Fire of London, which we decided to climb to take advantage of the view. That being done, we found ourselves a Caffè Nero to recaffeinate ourselves before continuing onwards to St Paul’s Cathedral and the Tower of London. We crossed over Tower Bridge and started walking back towards Tottenham Court Road where we’d started and near where Becca lived, heading along the South Bank past The Globe, the Tate Modern, and the National Theatre, and stopping off for dinner at Pizza Express along the way. Afterwards, we walked back up through Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square, before we then said goodbye to Becca and headed back to where we were staying.

So many photos...

So many photos…

The Sneeze: The London skyline according to Liz

The Sneeze: The London skyline according to Liz

The following morning we’d planned to go to the interactive dance exhibition that was going on that weekend at the Tate Modern, so we set off at a reasonable time, stopping at a Caffè Nero in King’s Cross station to grab coffee and a muffin for breakfast. Upon arriving at the Tate Modern, we learnt that the exhibition didn’t actually start until early afternoon, so we reshuffled our plans to try and fit everything in, and instead heading back down to the Underground and off in the direction of Buckingham Palace.

We got off at Green Park and walked through to the palace, somewhat intrigued by the noise of a brass band and the large crowds of people heading in the same direction. Granted, it was a sunny Saturday in May, but I hadn’t expected there to be quite so many people, to the point where there was a noticeable police presence included mounted officers to help keep the crowds under control and in the right areas (I did try looking up why there was such a crowd, but never did manage to find a definite answer). We somehow managed to get close enough to the gates to see the guards that Liz was very keen to catch a glimpse of, before then getting a little caught in the huge crowds and forced to go out in the opposite direction to the one that we wanted to be heading in. Rather than try walking the long way round on a day when we were a little pressed for time, we decided instead to catch the Tube to Westminster to see the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey.

We stopped to take photos and selfies and have a look at the Houses of Parliament before heading over to Westminster Abbey, only to decide that we’d just admire the outside rather than face the long winding queue and the hefty entrance fee to get inside for a look around. We crossed over the Thames and walked back along the South bank (again) to the Tate Modern, where we managed to watch the dance exhibition for about half an hour. What it turned out to be, at that point at least, was a huge and vaguely interpretative dance that was being taught to the crowd via a group of volunteers and a main instructor with a microphone. It was actually quite entrancing watching it, given that we were watching from an upper floor looking out over a giant ex-turbine engine hall with a couple of hundred people on the floor before.

This was our view of Westminster Abbey.

This was our view of Westminster Abbey.

#ParliamentSelfie

#ParliamentSelfie

Sadly we couldn’t stay too long, as we had to head back to the apartment we’d been staying in to finish packing up our things and return the keys. I’d booked it based on the location, so we only had a short 10 minute walk to St Pancras Station, where Liz was going to catch the Eurostar back to Paris and I was getting a train up to Derby.

As one might expect at the parting of close friends, especially when said friends are no longer going to be in the same country, never mind the same city, nor do they have any immediate plans to be reunited in such a way, there were tears on both parts. All I shall say is that sunglasses are wondrous devices for concealing tears and thus avoiding concerned looks from strangers and fellow travellers in such places of public transit. I watched Liz go through the Eurostar security until she was safely through and the doors closed, and then I slowly headed off to catch my own train.

Part of the reason Liz had come to the UK with me then was not only because I was going to be moving back at that point and so would definitely be in the country, but also because she wanted to avoid having to say our goodbyes in Strasbourg. I left on 12th May, but she wasn’t leaving Strasbourg and France until 30th May, so I think she didn’t want to have that memory as part of the place she was still in. In quite a literary way, it reminded me of the end of The Lord of the Rings, in that I was accompanied by a friend to the departure point, rather than having to part earlier on in the journey. Of course, the result is that now that’s my most recent and powerful memory of being at the London Eurostar departure area, but by being a place of joining and linking, I’ve also found the Eurostar lounges at both ends to be places of parting over the past year, as I’ve had to say goodbye to people with whom I wasn’t travelling on there or who were travelling on without me. I suppose that’s the way of things though, that you can’t have a connection without a parting of some kind at some point, even if, as I hope is the case with Liz and I, it’s only a temporary one.

Rollercoaster on the railway

So it would appear that France wasn’t too keen on me leaving. Whether that’s because I was just such an asset to the country as a teacher of English (amongst other things), or because I hadn’t returned my Carte Vitale (health insurance card) as apparently I ought, who’s to say. But after several journeys to and from the UK, a journey I’d become quite familiar with and nonchalant about, the last one proved the most difficult of all.


Given that I’d had to move out of my apartment the day before, I spent the night at Liz’s, which w as a particularly elegant solution given she was coming back to the UK with me, having never visited the country before. While we didn’t want to leave everything to the last minute, a mid-morning train meant that we didn’t give ourselves hours and hours to get to the train station. Normally that would have been fine. However…

Liz’s apartment is on the far side of the city centre from the train station, so we decide to get the tram to the train station. Problem #1. We get tickets without a problem and hop on the tram. Just before the tram’s about to set off, we see that there’s still a tram sitting on the tracks up ahead, waiting for the next stop about 400m down the street. We umm and aah for a while as to whether it would be better to just walk to the train station, but we realise we’d have our work cut out for us to make it across town in time normally, nevermind with a large suitcase and rucksack in tow. The tram then sets off and proceeds to travel the grand total of about 250m before stopping to wait behind the tram in front. France being France, little explanation was given for the delay, other than the announcement that for the less observant passengers, there was in fact a delay and the wait in between two stops was not a customary one. Thankfully the trams start moving again after about 10 minutes, by which point Liz and I are exchanging rather worried looks and I’m looking up when the next trains to Paris are if we miss the one we’d planned on taking.

Over the course of our 15 minute journey to the train station, we’re visited by not one, but two tram conductors who were checking tickets. Bear in mind the fact that prior to this, I could count the number of times I’ve actually had my tickets checked on any of the trams in Strasbourg on one hand.

We make it to the train station about 10 minutes before our train was due to depart. Now that might not sound that bad, but in Strasbourg the trains usually tend to sit there for nearly 20 minutes on account of it being a major stop.

Neither of Liz nor I had regular access to working printers after we finished working at our respective schools, so we’d opted to print out our tickets from the machines in the station. We’d also taken advantage of the combined ticket deals offered by the Eurostar website when booking a train journey that involves going from Paris to London or vice versa. I’d already done this once before when I booked my tickets to come back to the UK for Christmas, so I was feeling confident that I knew what I was doing.

So we go over to the ticket machines and there we encounter Problem #2: the machines can’t find any tickets booked with either of our credit cards. We try again, cycling through the various options and even asking one of the workers at the station for help, to no avail. We run into the SNCF office to find someone to go through the system manually and print out our tickets, but the joy of French bureaucracy is that even things like impending train departures are not enough to disrupt the system of “take a ticket and wait in the line”. We quickly explain our problem to the guy fending off general queries, to which he helpfully tells us that there is no hope of us getting to see an SNCF worker before our train leaves in 6 minutes, and that our best bet is to just get on the train and explain our situation to the train’s conductor. Essentially a classic case of the French “I don’t want this problem so I will make it someone else’s responsibility”.

We get to our platform and find the train’s conductor, who is a particularly smiley French man. We are immediately suspicious. Thankfully the smile disappears and is replaced by a confused frown when we explain our situation. He tries looking us up on his list of reservations, but can’t find either of us. Given that Proctor and Frothingham are hardly common names in France, this is particularly strange. We show him our reservations from the Eurostar website and he believes that we at least have paid for the train in some capacity. Following his instructions, we get on the train and plan to sort things out once we’ve left the station, given that he didn’t want to make the train late and if we’d waited for the next train to Paris an hour later, we wouldn’t have made it to Paris Gare du Nord in time for our Eurostar to London. However, there’s a catch: we’ll have to buy new tickets from him and get reimbursed for the old ones. Liz’s face drops. Problem #3.

Now this wouldn’t have been so bad ordinarily, given that ticket prices in France don’t tend to vary hugely between booking them weeks and weeks in advance and just buying a ticket on the day. However, part of our joy in booking tickets through the Eurostar website, other than the supposed convenience, was that the train journey from Strasbourg to Paris was costing us the grand total of €8, rather than the €130 we were then told it would cost us each.

After seeing the train off, the conductor returns. By this point, Liz and I are looking drained and exhausted, and Liz’s face has only continued towards approaching the point of tears. Thankfully Cécil the conductor (actual name, great guy) decides to take pity on us. We’d like to think that this is because of how crestfallen we were at the thought of having to pay, somewhat unnecessarily, such a large sum of money that neither of us had budgeted for, but the reality is probably closer to his explanation, which was that it would be too difficult, with regard to the administration side of things, to get reimbursed for the other tickets when we were no longer living in France with a permanent address. We’re shocked, not only because a French person has shown kindness and gone against the system, but also because they’ve openly admitted that the process would be too long and laborious!

We later reach Paris Gare du Nord, and go to the machines there to print out our Eurostar passes, and the machine then decides to print out our earlier train tickets too. Oh well.

The ordeal wasn’t quite over by this point though, as we still had another two train journeys to go. Being the bearer of a UK passport and therefore being a member of the European Union returning to my home country, I waltz through Passport Control with no problem. Liz, on the other hand, with her American passport, gets quite the grilling, including being questioned on not only her occupation and where she was going, but also what on Earth there was in Lichfield and how she knew me.

By the time we actually manage to get on the Eurostar and sit down, we feel quite ready for a rest and a nap. I’m pleased to report though, that once we made it back to British soil, the only further issue we faced was a rather busy train from London to Lichfield where we had to stand up for most of the journey. Being young and spritely sorts, not that we felt it at all by that point, we managed ok, and finally made it back to Lichfield all of about 10 hours after we’d set off from Strasbourg that morning.

The farewell album

Today, 11th May 2015, is my last full day in Strasbourg before I begin the journey back home to the UK tomorrow. Having always been one to find parallels to my life in music and song, I realised that the tracks I’ve had on repeat towards the end of my time here have been helping me in some way to get through the process of ending my time here. Leaving Strasbourg in some ways feels like a break up, in that I am leaving something, albeit a place, that I’ve grown and changed with over the past 8 months, and I have felt a sense of grief for leaving it in some ways. That being said, I’d much rather feel as though I’m going out on a high, which I do feel is the case. I’m also leaving multiple things, organisations or people, rather than just the geographical cluster of buildings that makes up the city of Strasbourg, and my feelings towards leaving each one vary accordingly.

So, here is a list of the things I am breaking up with in Strasbourg, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, and the songs I’m focalising those experiences through.


The time I had in Strasbourg that I could have used better

The Man That Got Away by Judy Garland

“No more his eager call / The writing’s on the wall / The dreams you dreamed have all / Gone astray.”

There were plenty of times in Strasbourg that I ended up sitting in my apartment by myself, not enjoying myself and not doing anything that I felt was productive or helpful or doing anything to better or further myself and my life. And it sucked. But what I think I found even harder to deal with than those times themselves was the sense of guilt I felt about having wasted the time I had. You often hear about how time is the most precious resource, but when you’re young it feels as though it’s a never-ending oasis that goes on for as far as the eye can see, and you just can’t get your head around the thought of it one day coming to an end. Even after the experiences of the past year, I still feel that way quite often, especially when it comes to things like getting all my reading for university done.

There are two similar quotations that come to mind when I think of the way that I’ve since managed to frame guilt in my own mind:

“Maybe there’s more we all could have done, but we just have to let the guilt remind us to do better next time.”

– Divergent, p315 (Veronica Roth)

“Let the guilt teach you how to behave next time.”

– Insurgent, p157 (Veronica Roth)

Both are from the Divergent series by Veronica Roth (while I recommend, especially the first one), and through the idea they convey I’ve managed to at least put a productive if not positive spin on guilt for me. While it’s not yielded perfect results so far, it’s certainly been very helpful in helping me put things behind me and accept the blame for things that I didn’t do and could have / should have / would have done with my time. But we live and learn.

My time in Strasbourg in general and what I did do

I Just Might from 9 to 5

“What to do and where to start? / Things are falling all apart. / Trying hard to move ahead / But keep losing ground instead. / Still I have to take a chance / Putting fear and doubt aside / Had no warning in advance / Nothing left to do but try. / And I just might make it work. / I just might make it after all. / I just might rise above the hurt / Though I’ve suffered quite a fall. / But I have to get a grip / Hold on to it like a vice / Have to face the falling chips / I just might make it / I just might.”

However, I did manage to get myself out of a rut enough to do plenty of things on my Year Abroad, like the couple of little trips I took to Germany at various points, the choir I joined, and the times I spent exploring the city or doing some of the things that I’d wanted to do for a while but never seemed have enough time to commit to doing properly, like writing (see this blog for examples). There were plenty of moments where I felt like I was starting to build up good routines and habits, like doing yoga and mindfulness meditations, only for something to throw me and to lose the pattern again. So one of the things I learnt to do this year, much more so than I ever had before, was how to pick myself and these things up, dust myself down and start again, rather than waiting for a golden opportunity to turn up. As with so many things, I’ve learnt that the sooner you start doing something, the sooner you’ll get better, even if the circumstances weren’t the best at the time.

The good days in Strasbourg

Beautiful by Carole King

“You’ve got to get up every morning / With a smile on your face / And show the world / The love in your heart / Then people gonna treat you better / You’re gonna find, yes you will / You’re beautiful / As you feel. / I have often asked myself / The reason for the sadness / In the world / Where tears are just a lullaby / If there’s any answer / Maybe love can end the madness / Maybe not but we can only try.”

For all that I’ve talked about the difficulties and challenges I faced over the year so far, there were also quite a few genuinely wonderful days I had in Strasbourg, especially towards the end when it was late spring already moving into early summer at the end of April, when the sun was shining and it was warm with a gentle breeze outside and I’d managed to plan my lessons and teaching far enough in advance that even though I still had a few weeks of teaching left to go, I didn’t have to do any more prep work for teaching. It was those days that I remember most fondly, when I woke up with more energy than on the days when I had things I needed to do, when my heart felt open and bright, when I felt like skipping or dancing around the streets and exploring the city in a much more comfortable way than I could when wrapped up in several layers to protect against the damp winter cold of the city.

The city of Strasbourg

River by Emeli Sandé

“If you’re looking for the big adventure / And gold is all that’s on your mind / If all you want’s someone to take your picture / Then I won’t waste your time. / See maybe I’m too quiet for you / You probably never noticed me / But if you’re too big to follow rivers / How you ever gonna find the sea?”

While I did take a considerable number of photos during my time in Strasbourg, less than a quarter of which made it onto any public forum such as Facebook or this blog, I often felt as though there was a sense of expectation that I was going to take and share hundreds upon thousands of photos and other quick and easy snapshots that would somehow document and preserve every aspect of my Year Abroad and time spent in Strasbourg. But part of what I learnt and taught myself to do over my time there was to discover and in many ways create the path through things that worked best for me, rather than trying out the various options presented to me and just going with the one that seemed to be the best fit. The result at times was often similar to what I might have done on the suggestion of others, but having found my own course to follow meant that doing so felt more rewarding in that I enjoyed the benefits of it more, but it also felt much more personal, as though I’d found my own way through the city that had hitherto been otherwise ignored. While I know that’s not really true in a geographical sense, the lifestyle I found for myself in Strasbourg was one that I created. It wasn’t big or flashy, it didn’t involve jetting off on trains and planes to other parts of Europe every other weekend to spread myself as much over the continent as possible, but it was mine.

My apartment

Autumn Leaves by Eva Cassidy

“Since you went away / The days grow long / And soon I’ll hear old winter song / But I miss you most of all my darling / When autumn leaves start to fall.”

Having arrived in Strasbourg in on 22nd September at a point when the city was still in the grip of late summer, with clear blue skies most days and temperatures in the mid 20s, I first got to know the city in summer. By the time I’d been there two weeks, October had arrived and autumn had started to set in, and it was then that I explored the city and began to understand the ways around the city and its culture and people. The time I spent in Strasbourg, despite starting and ending with summery weather was distinctly the wintry half of the year, and with that and the Christmas markets, it’s certainly the time of year that I saw most of during my time in Strasbourg. But having said that, I think the time that I associate most with Strasbourg, even if I don’t remember it particularly well, is autumn, when all the trees that lined the river around the centre of town were starting to change their colours and lose their leaves, when walks through the Parc de l’Orangerie were a feast for the eyes with all the shades of red and gold and the leaves that would gently drift downwards as they fell from the trees. And it’ll be around the end of September again this year that I leave Lichfield where I’m living at the moment to move back to university, just over a year after I arrived in Strasbourg to start that chapter of my life.

The lycée

Quiet by Natalie Weiss

“What’s the perfect balance / Between yelling too much / Or not yelling enough / So that people don’t walk over you? / Is it a crime / Just to wanna be nice / To avoid confrontation / And show everyone a little respect?”

There were a lot of times that I really enjoyed working at the lycée, when I got to spend several hours a day chatting to motivated and enthusiastic students about a whole range of topics and they came out with great one-liners, mistakes or stark truths (see here, here, and here). But one of the things that I didn’t enjoy so much about working there was, unsurprisingly, the admin and the skirmishes regarding mock exams or how they were going to organise my timetable and which classes I was going to be working with and in what respect. Having said that, after I did finally speak up in a more forceful way, we did manage to strike a new balance that seemed to work better. From that experience I’ve certainly learnt that while it might not be the most pleasant thing, especially if you’re like me and try to avoid confrontation, the result is often worth it, particularly because in such situations you are never someone else’s top priority, so if you don’t bear yourself in mind and take care of yourself, there is no guarantee that someone else is going to do that for you.

This is a photo I took of the school on my last day there and the poem that I wrote a couple of days later about coming to the end of my time working there.

The image of a place I knew,
Lies distorted in the stream,
And though I recognise the view,
How different does it seem.
A façade seen straight through,
The illusions faded and fleeting.
But people seen, and clearly too,
In this place and cause for meeting.
The names I’ve learnt, the stories told,
The faces I’ll remember.
But few with whom I shall grow old
As April comes to September.
The towering spires, the angular rooves,
The stairs I used to climb.
The water flows, the image moves,
Such is the passage of time.
Time now spent, though well I know not,
The days have come and gone.
From winters cold to summers hot;
It’s time to journey on.

The collège

Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson

“Since u been gone / I can breathe for the first time / I’m so moving on / Yeah, yeah! / Thanks to you / Now I get / What I want / Since u been gone.”

Much like the lycée, the issues I faced with the collège were of an administrative nature, the chief of which being when there were some miscommunications regarding when I’d agreed to rearrange my lessons for after I’d asked about moving things so I could have the day off after Easter to grant me another day in Frankfurt. In true French bureaucratic style, the root of the problem seemed to be that, in addition to clearing and organising my timetable with the head of English and the English teachers I was going to work with to make up the hours, I also needed to have it cleared by the Deputy Headteacher and the Headteacher of the school, all of whom were unaware of the clause in my contract about being forbidden from teaching if the main class teacher was absent. This was a point that I had to explain more times than I care to mention to pretty much every single other teacher I worked with in both schools. It was also one of the many things that was stressed to us at both training days by the rectorat, but the message never quite seemed to get from them to the schools. Speaking of which…

The rectorat

Wherever He Ain’t from Mack & Mabel

“Enough of being bullied and bossed / Ta-ta! Auf Wiedersehn and get lost!”

Ah, the Rectorat, or the Local Education Authority as such organisations are known in the UK. Essentially, the organisation that for me came to present and represent all the difficulties you face when dealing with French administration: the long and seemingly endless procedures to be followed for what seems to be the simplest of tasks, the complete and utter rejection of the individual’s ability to use and follow common sense, and the piles of paperwork that you are promised will one day result in a health insurance card… that arrives a month before your contract ends and it’s no longer valid. For more information on this delightful institution, see here and here.

L’Arrach-Chœur

Ghost Town by First Aid Kit

“I swear I can be better / I could be more to you / But there are things that lie in my path / That I just have to do. / If you’ve got visions of the past / Let them follow you down / For they’ll come back to you / Some day.” 

L’Arrach-Chœur was the choir I joined with Liz back in January, and it soon became one of the highlights of my week. Every Thursday I’d go along to the university for a 2 hour rehearsal with a choir made up of not only native French speakers, but also people from other parts of Europe, including Germany, Hungary, and Poland, all of whom were very warm and welcoming to foreigners who were only in the city for a relatively brief period of time. When I told them that my teaching contract had finished and so I would soon be leaving the choir and Strasbourg to move back to the UK, the director of the choir took it upon himself to enquire about the possibility of extending my contract so I could stay longer, or at least long enough to take part in the concert series they were doing at the end of June. Sadly the combination of various things meant that it just wasn’t feasible for me and the situation I was in, but I did at least get the opportunity of performing with them in an Easter concert in the largest Protestant church in Strasbourg. It was definitely one of the highlights of my year, getting to sing some gorgeous music in French and German as well as Latin in such a beautiful building and then getting to go out for celebratory drinks with most of the choir afterwards.

Anna

And I Am Telling You from Dreamgirls

“We’re part of the same place / We’re part of the same time / We both share the same love / We both have the same mind / And time and time / We’ve had so much to share”

The Eddy to my Patsy, Anna was the British friend I wanted and needed during my time in Alsace. Sadly removed as she was from Strasbourg by a good couple of hours, I still got to see her on many an occasion and much hilarity was had on each and every one of them. I still remember the first training day when we met and I was determined to befriend her on account of her wonderfully sarcastic British humour and her take on the utterly thrilling talks that comprised that first training day… Without her for company, I would have laughed a great deal less during my time in Strasbourg (even if some of those laughs were at her expense…).

Liz

The Parting Glass by Celtic Woman (I have specified the Celtic Woman version in this case, because of a moment when we bonded over the group, and also because they were most definitely the featured artist on my St Patrick’s Day playlist when we celebrated together in typical American fashion.)

“Of all the comrades that e’er I had / They’re sorry for my going away. / And all the sweethearts that e’er I had / They’d wish me one more day to stay. / But since it fell into my lot / That I should rise and you should not. / I’ll gently rise and softly call / Good night and joy be to you all.”

Liz is, was and forever shall be the best person I had the good fortune of meeting and the best thing to have happened to me during my time in Strasbourg. It is to her that I owe the improvements to my French, both by virtue of having a very impressive command of the language herself and also for all of our conversations in French and the opportunities I had through and with her to speak French. Without her I would not have found and joined the choir that I did and without her I wouldn’t have found such a close and wonderful friend with whom to share so much of my time and experiences in Strasbourg. I owe her more than I can ever truly say and I will forever be thankful to her for it. She is a friend I do not intend to part with for a good many years to come.

The person I was last September, before I arrived in Strasbourg

Moments in the Woods from Into the Woods

“Let the moment go / Don’t forget it for a moment though. / Just remembering you’ve had an ‘and’ when you’re back to ‘or’ / Makes the ‘or’ mean more than it did before. / Now I understand / And it’s time to leave the woods!”

I’ve had quite the series of ups and downs over the course of my time in Strasbourg, though I’m glad to say that the overall trajectory has definitely been an upwards one, and for all that there are many things I shall glad to be free of, there are also many things I will miss. Of course in an ideal world I would be able to keep all the things that I’ve enjoyed and that have benefited me in this city in my life, but sadly a lot of them are somewhat tied to this place, and so I have to leave them behind. Still, the lessons I’ve learnt here I won’t be leaving behind when I get on a series of trains that will take me back to the UK very shortly. So, to the person who came to Strasbourg on 20th September, thank you for everything you’ve given me and that I’ve learnt from you, and goodbye.

A Brit abroad

While I wouldn’t say that I’ve been having an identity crisis per se, I would at least say that my identity has taken a bit of a beating over the past year. Prior to the Year Abroad, I wouldn’t have chosen British as one of the first words used to describe me, but a year of living away from your homeland does things to you. I’ve felt more aligned with the country I hail from over the past year not only because of its opposition to the nationalities of those around me, but also because I’ve been called upon to try and decode the concept of Britishness to my students in France.

(Much like Shirley Devore in Liza Minelli’s Ring Them Bells, I feel like I’ve had to go farther than necessary to become aware of the things I had back at home in the UK.)

So, having taken a step back to look at my own national identity, I can’t say I’m really much the wiser as to what constitues being a Brit, but I can at least say that I feel it in its complexity more now for it. The various tests have come from different angles, and I’ve also embraced other national identities in ways that I hadn’t before.

Part of the joy of being best friends in Strasbourg with an American was that I celebrated St. Patrick’s Day for the first time in my life. When it comes to people from the UK, the only ones I know of who celebrate the day are those with some connection to Ireland, usually familial, and even then they tend to be rather calmer affairs than the celebrations traditionally associated with St. Patrick’s Day. However, this year I found myself in the company of two Americans, and so naturally a celebration was expected.

It was still far from any of the wild drunken nights that an American reader might expect, but there was still Guiness and celtic music playing, as well as an all-green dress code. While I’m not exactly unfamiliar with any of these things, having them combined in an evening of celebrating a culture that none of us belonged to did feel a little strange, but hey, such is life at times.

On the same evening, Liz’s friend Ellen, the second American and who was visiting from the States, was asking me various questions about British history and cultural ideas, which was a discussion I greatly enjoyed. By sheer luck, I’d happened to have spent my break between lessons earlier that day looking at a timeline of British monarchs in one of my classrooms, so I could actually remember British history in greater detail than I would be able to normally. Of course that meant giving the somewhat false illusion of being more clued up on these things than I normally am, but it certainly helped facilitate the discussion at least!

In that conversation and many other conversations with Liz throughout the year, I came to realise some of the ideas, information and even phrases that we as Brits often assume are fairly universal. Sometimes these were just turns of phrase that were particularly unusual or even regional within the UK, but other times they involved a knowledge of recent British and European history and even the sort of general knowledge that constitutes part of a British school education.

There were also moments living in France and socialising with French people that made me appreciate little cultural differences that take a bit longer to notice when living in a different country. Some of these, such as always cheers-ing after your drinks arrive, became so regular and commonplace that I’ve carried them on since returning to the UK, and part of me still finds it rude when that doesn’t happen. Other things, like kissing everyone on the cheek when you meet them, are things that I came to appreciate, but I can’t say I particularly miss, given that arriving or leaving any form of social gathering would often take an extra few minutes, which when you’re rushing to catch a tram, you don’t always have to spare!

In general, there are various customs and habits that I’ve picked up over the past year that I imagine I shall continue, even if just by force of habit and a now subconscious need. In that way at least, I suppose that I’m less British than when I left. But from the hours and hours of explaining British customs, especially at times like Christmas and New Year, as well as just everyday ticks and habits we have in the UK, I feel a stronger sense of Britishness of the things I still retain.

To record or not to record

Something that’s been more on my mind as I come towards the end of my time in Strasbourg has been the dichotomy of doing things vs. recording them. Of course, just saying ‘doing things’ is vastly reductive, but what I mean by that is the act of doing something and making sure that you’re fully experiencing it and enjoying it, if indeed it is something to be enjoyed.


I was talking to a friend recently when they made a comment about a photo I’d posted on Facebook a while ago. Not being entirely sure which one they were referring to, I went to check, and at that point I realised that I haven’t uploaded that many photos to Facebook in the past few months. While there isn’t always a direct correlation between the two, in this situation it was because I haven’t taken that many photos recently, and a lot of the ones I have taken haven’t been great in any particular sense. That’s not just me being overly critical of my own photographic ability, but more that the subjects of those photos have often been little things to serve as reminders to myself when I later go through the photos on my phone or they’ve been small glimpses into my life that I’ve sent to friends when those things have been pertinent to our conversations. I have taken out my larger camera on occasions, but usually that’s when I’ve been travelling or at least been acting as a tourist in some capacity, and while that’s certainly happened more often during this year than it has before, I still haven’t taken that many photos.

Now part of me knows that there are many different reasons why I might not take photos, and they vary so greatly that I can’t even say for definite why I may not have chosen to keep a photographic record of a period of time in my life without having some other form of record from that time to back me up.

I’ve also not been in many photos. While the friends that I do have here in Strasbourg are great friends that I’ve come to know and get on really very well with, none of them are particularly prolific in their photographic output either. Coupled with the fact that I don’t tend to take selfies particularly often, and even less frequently with ones I feel the urge to share with more than just the single intended recipient, and you have the main reasons as to why there are very few photos with me tagged in them on Facebook. (Side note: as I said before, I know that photos on Facebook and all photos in existence are merely two circles with some overlap in that Venn diagram, but to keep things simple and because the two are fairly representative of one another, I’m going to treat them as one and the same.)

I think it’s also important to consider the reasons why we record things, why we feel this urge to capture moments of our lives and set them down in some way, so that they may last longer than they otherwise would. In an age of increasingly fast rates of change and a world of an incomprehensible amount of information being thrown at us, it’s a lot easier to forget things. Even when that’s not necessarily a result of the modern day, that’s still the case in some ways. For example, I’ve met a lot of people over the past few years, both at university and also here in France, and most of those meetings have been brief and our acquaintances short-lived, but as a result of the sheer volume of names and faces that I’ve had to process and remember, at least for a time, I’ve started to forget some of the older names and faces that I’ve not needed in recent years, people like teachers from primary and even secondary school, and other people I’ve met along the way.

There’s the idea of learning names and faces becoming a skill and that the more we do it, the better at it we become, but I’m not knowledgable enough when it comes to neuroscience and psychology to pass any accurate judgement on that. What I can say is that, for me, I’ve found that I can only retain names and faces up until a given point, beyond which I start to forget the names and faces of the people that I’ve met for very brief periods of time or of the people that I’ve not seen in a very long time.

I suppose then that one of the reasons, at least, why we feel the need to record all this information, is so that we don’t need to worry about forgetting so much, that we needn’t feel guilty or upset when we can’t recall someone’s name. Part of my methods of organisation is to record important information so that I can forget it, I can let it go from my active conscious thoughts, content knowing that that knowledge is easily accessible for me when I need it. In that way, I’ve become very good at knowing how to find information, and not necessarily what that information is, or indeed especially when it comes to my own systems of organisation, just knowing myself well enough to know how I would have organised it and therefore where I can find the information I need. I don’t need to remember the series of files and folders where the information I want is located if I understand my own workings well enough to get there without the map. I think that fear of losing those memories if they’re not recorded in some way is a strong driving force in our need to record, and I think that’s partially because if we are so focused on enjoying a moment then in the time afterwards when we still have those clear immediate memories of it, we become aware of how quickly and easily the feeling of that moment can be lost. If we’re recording things as they’re happening and not fully embracing the experience before us, then we never feel that same sense of loss, because you can’t feel loss in the same way for something that you never had. Of course, there’s still a sense of loss to be felt there, and I think there is a great sorrow in lost opportunities, but the what ifs are rarely as powerful as the emotions caused by what was.

I think also part of the reason that we are so obsessed with creating these records is our fascination with nostalgia and the past, the things that have happened in a concrete and fixed way and that may have in some way shaped who we are now. The common habit of many university students, especially freshers, of taking photos of family and friends with them to university, would appear to be one done for the purposes of reminding you of those positive and enjoyable experiences and relationships when you don’t feel the same happiness and support. I’ve done that in some way for most of my time at university so far, and even this year I’ve kept the vast majority of the cards I’ve been sent up on my wall as a reminder of the people who have taken the time to write to me and the relationships I have with those people. But one of the (slight) differences I think exists with that is the fact that those relationships are current and ongoing in the way that photos of high school friendship groups may not be at university.

Back to the past: I think I’m right in saying that looking back at photos or other records of times when we were happy (or happier) is of some comfort when we aren’t feeling so positive. I know I’ve definitely enjoyed evenings when I’ve ended up reminiscing about events and escapades from last year at university through Facebook conversations and photos, but I think it’s also interesting that those sorts of situations are very rarely the places I end up in when I am feeling down and wanting to feel better about things. Instead, I usually take time to express the current moment, and in that sense I go through the difficulty rather than around it. In the words of Miss Blossom from Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle: “That’s right – go through it, not round it, duckie. It’s the best way for most of us in the end.” Once I’ve vented a bit and got some of my feelings out, then I usually turn to activities of the present moment, like music or reading, to create some distance from the negativity. If anything, it’s usually when I’m feeling happier and most appreciative that I tend to go back and look over things from the past, and share in the enjoyment of the past as well as the present.

Part of my way of recording this year instead of through photos and images has been through writing. I originally set up this blog with the aim that it would be a tool for friends and family to keep up to date with my travels and adventures on my Year Abroad, and to save myself from repeating those stories over and over to the point where I start to lose enthusiasm or energy in their retelling because of their frequency. However, following the period where I stopped writing here for a while and stopped sharing my posts in a more public way, I’ve seen the number of regular readers diminish, and that’s been oddly freeing. Freeing in the sense that I’ve not felt that I need to moderate or even censor my writing so as to cater to a specific audience or a particular idea of me and who I am. Instead, I’ve become more willing to write freely about what I’ve been doing, feeling, or thinking, knowing that the blog and its purpose has a recording tool has switched to having me as its primary user. (To those of you who have been reading all my posts throughout this time though, thank you for sticking with me, and for having engaged in such a way as to remain more closely in touch with me.)

My writing on here has been varied in at least a couple of ways, namely that I’ve had posts that consist mainly of pictures and accounts of what I’ve been doing in a fairly factual, storytelling way, such as my posts about trips to Paris and Germany, and I’ve also had posts that have been slightly more abstract, talking about thoughts or recurring themes with things that I’m doing, such as my thoughts on organisation and working hours. Although the content that I’m recording in those posts is different by its very nature, I see them both as records of my time here and of my existence and who I am and have been as a person. If anything, I would say that the second style of posts are more accurate depictions of that, in that my psyche and thought processes of a moment are a stronger driving force in my life than individual events tend to be.

I think part of the reason that I’ve found writing about my experiences, whatever they may be, useful over the past 9 months or so has been that it’s reminded me of my favourite kinds of photos in a way. When I look back over my favourite photos from my time at university so far, the ones I feel a stronger emotional connection to aren’t the ones that are objectively good photos, with good lighting, framing, and so on, but instead they’re the ones that tell a story or remind me of a particular event. The photos from nights out where people haven’t felt the sober need to contain their energy or their joy, the photos of people in particular places just before or after a memorable moment. And while those photos themselves don’t often tell the story, they contain enough of it to remind me of the rest and to spur me into telling it again if the audience requests it. They say that a picture paints a thousand words; this year I’ve decided to write those thousand words instead.

The other thing I’ve found interesting and useful about writing rather than taking photos and so on, is that it doesn’t have the same immediacy. Especially in a world of smartphones, photos can be taken and moments recorded in that way in a few seconds, and you can then put the phone away and carry on with the experience. Writing tends to be rather different.

Granted, I do occasionally stop in the middle of experiences to write a line or two or make some notes on what I want to write about later, but for the most part, I tend to save the writing process until after the event has happened, and in so doing, I face different challenges and situations. Just as if I were to record an experience in its entirety through photos or video, there’s an editing process that goes on afterwards to simplify and condense the moment into a small, accessible piece. The failings of human memory does some of that for me, in so far as I don’t remember every single thing that happened perfectly, but I still have to make a decision about what to keep in my story and my retelling of the event, and in so doing, I get to choose the narrative that I trace in the story of my life, and as with most things, that’s a blessing and a curse. It’s good in the sense that I can make choices regarding what was important in some way based on the experience as a whole and what proved to be of interest later on, but it’s also problematic in that I can effectively alter my own memories. If I choose to put a positive spin on a negative experience and then allow myself to forget it once I’ve recorded it, then the memory that I come back to is not going to be the same as the original. I’m sure I’ve read somewhere that every time we revisit a memory, something is altered, and so our memory can never give us a perfect recollection of an event. So part of my role as editor in this regard is trying not to be problematic in the decisions I make, and to represent things as accurately and truthfully as I can, without skewing my perceptions of what happened. I suppose in an ideal world, we would record everything completely for posterity, and while we are certainly getting closer to that point, I think that if and when we do, it would become useless if we didn’t also have the time to reflect on those records.

I ended a recent post (link here) with an excerpt of the lyrics from Slipping Through My Fingers by ABBA, and it’s a song that I’ve found helpful when channelling some of these thoughts. For that reason, I’d like to quote from it again:

Slipping through my fingers all the time,
I try to capture every minute,
The feeling in it.
Slipping through my fingers all the time.
What happened to those wonderful adventures?
The places I had planned for us to go.
Well, some of that we did, but most we didn’t,
And why, I just don’t know.
Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture,

And save it from the funny tricks of time.


I don’t know if this is a perfect explanation of or solution to this issue, but it’s been useful for me to get some of these thoughts aired and explored in a written form, and I hope that the ideas here may helpful to some of you too. This also isn’t intended as a rant or as me trying to take some sort of moral high ground over those who do record things in the ways that I’ve mentioned here, but more as an expression of where I am on that spectrum at the moment, and how I’ve come to find myself there.

Singers in Strasbourg

Last week, I had the pleasure of being joined in Strasbourg by two of my friends from Oxford, Meg and Rowan. I know Meg and Rowan from the choir that we’re all part of in Oxford, the Oxford Singers, and so despite the fact that they’re both a year above me at Oxford, we’ve got to know one another reasonably well despite having been together in the same city for the grand total of just under a year over the course of the past 3 years. As a result of their being in 4th year, their Finals are rapidly approaching, and so in a bid to speak a bit more French before their oral exams, they came to Strasbourg for a brief break from the bubble.

EDIT: Both of these lovely people have since poured their creative energies into depictions of their time in Strasbourg visiting me, which can be seen here and here.


Being the warm and welcoming host I try to be, I went to meet my guests at the airport on the Sunday when they arrived, name sign in hand that I had carefully crafted on the train to the airport with the winning combination of a piece of paper and a whiteboard marker pen. Once we’d found each other, we proceeded to wait at the small airport train station for over half an hour for the next train back to the city centre, although the time was far from wasted as we chatted away, and even managed to help a fellow Brit figure out how to validate his train ticket.

Once we got back to the city centre, we went to my apartment to drop stuff off before heading out to Au Brasseur, a restaurant that has become a firm favourite of mine for it’s reasonably priced yet surprisingly filling dishes as well as being a great example of Alsatian culture, in that the standard fare there is a beer and a flammekueche of some kind.

For fear that I haven’t mentioned them before or that I’ve merely failed to do them justice, I will take a moment to share my enthusiasm of this, the mightiest and yet humblest of Alsatian dishes. To most people I have described them as the thin base of a pizza, covered with a creamy cheesy sauce, and then traditionally topped with onions and diced bacon. Being a vegetarian, flammekueche have proven problematic on occasion, but most places will offer alternatives with other toppings along the similar lines of pizza toppings.

Whether out of genuine enjoyment or for fear of the consequences if they did not agree, my guests seemed to enjoy their flammekueche. Afterwards we took a gentle walk around the city centre back towards my apartment, pausing on the way to show them my lycée, a building too good-looking not to show off to everyone who’s visited me here, before heading back to my apartment so that the weary travellers could get a good night’s rest.

Being with two fellow Brits, we ended up having porridge for breakfast during their stay, although we made sure to incorporate a French (well, sort of) element by adding Nutella and Speculoos (the spread, although to my mind the biscuits are but a pale imitation of the true glorious viscous form).

Once we’d mustered our forces, we headed into the city centre, stopping for hot chocolate from a rather fancy place that does hot chocolate to go with an impressive choice. Detox, hot chocolate anyone? (That makes it healthy, right?) Following that, we walked down to the Petite France area, generally considered to be the prettiest and most picturesque part of the city. Having previously told Rowan, a fellow tea fanatic, that Strasbourg offers quite the choice when it comes to tea shops, we ended up making our first stop shortly after finishing our hot chocolates. Rowan ended up buying some Thé des Sages (Tea of the Wise People), possibly in the hope that imbibing it would imbue her with newfound knowledge ahead of Finals. The results remain to be seen on that front, but only time will tell…

We also found this in the shop...

We also found this in the shop…

Afterwards, we walked up to the top of the Barrage Vauban that marks the split in the river around the city centre and offers an excellent panoramic view towards the city centre and the cathedral.

We headed back into the city centre, stopping off to buy things for a picnic lunch (which turned out to be essentially brezels, cheese and strawberries), before hopping on a tram to take us out to the eastern edge of the city. Despite some difficulties in finding the most direct and easiest route, we navigated our way to the Jardin des Deux Rives (Park of the Two Riverbanks), also known as the park with the footbridge that connects France and Germany in Strasbourg. We found a bench overlooking the river and Germany, where we decided to stop and eat our picnic lunch.

In the park, there’s also a scale model of the planets of the solar system. Because why not?!

In the park, there’s also a scale model of the planets of the solar system. Because why not?!

Being three French students, two of whom had come with the main aim of speaking French, it seemed only logical that we should escape to Germany for a brief moment on their first full day here, so we headed onto the bridge to admire the view, before popping over to the other side. Admittedly we didn’t stay very long at all (read: about 5 minutes), and we spent most of that time laughing at Rowan’s unfortunate hiccoughs, but we did at least stay on the bridge long enough to find the impressive plaque that marked the border line between the two countries. Ah, the Schengen Area.

The plaque, that measured about 15cm across. Blink and you’d miss it.

The plaque, that measured about 15cm across. Blink and you’d miss it.

Like so many bridges in Europe, there were plenty of lovelocks, although there were some more unusual inscriptions…

Like so many bridges in Europe, there were plenty of lovelocks, although there were some more unusual inscriptions…

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Once we were done with Germany, we headed back to the city centre, stopping off for a brief look around the cathedral, before getting ice cream (my first of the year, much to Meg and Rowan’s disappointment. To be fair, they both did their Years Abroad in the south of France, so my Alsatian (apparently northern) lifestyle and Year Abroad seemed somewhat of a foreign concept to them).

Last summer, just after she’d finished spending most of a year in France improving her French for her French degree, Rowan decided she quite liked German as a language and so spent some time in Berlin on a language course, where she met a guy who’s a student in Strasbourg. We’d already met up a couple of times since I got to Strasbourg thanks to Rowan’s help, but now that she was in the city, we made contact again and we arranged to go for dinner at another of my preferred restaurants in the city, if only for their Nutella tiramisu dessert.

Monday night is also Trivia Night at one of the Irish pubs in Strasbourg, so the four of us went along and met up with Liz and a friend of her’s in Strasbourg, Jérôme. Given that normally, it’s just Liz and I, sometimes with Jérôme at the quiz, it made a nice change to have so many people to help! Being at an Irish pub, the quiz is done in French and then English, but it still provided the opportunity for much Francophone interaction. That was especially the case when it came to the 21 question music round, as the quiz also offers bonus points for dancing along to the songs, so Liz and I usually spend most of that particular round on our feet in any free space we can find.

Unfortunately, it was getting pretty late by the time they’d finished the questions, and as we didn’t think we’d done well enough to win, even with our bonus points for dancing, we decided to leave before they announced the results. Of course, that way we can still try and persuade people that we did win, and there’s just no proof to say whether we did or not…

The following morning, we headed out to one of my favourite places in the city and somewhere that Rowan had been quite excited about visiting ever since I first mentioned it: Thé des Muses. In this teashop-cum-café, you can spend your time with a pot of tea relaxing in their elegant upholstery or you can just buy any number of the teas or related paraphernalia that lines the walls in one particular corner. We originally started in the café part, where we were greeted with the 15 page menu of teas to choose from. Both Meg and Rowan seemed rather overwhelmed at this, although I think while Rowan might have been having a minor existential crisis over which tea to go for, Meg was starting to wonder what all the fuss was about, given it was “only tea”… Rowan turned out to be rather happy with her choice of tea though, as she ended up buying some before leaving.

Unfortunately at about this juncture, I had to abandon my guests in favour of paid employment. While I had succeeded in rearranging my classes at the lycée during their stay, I wasn’t able to do so with the collège, so I had to go and teach there as normal on the Tuesday afternoon.

When I returned to the city centre around 3 hours later, I found Meg and Rowan by the cathedral, enjoying the marvellous weather we’d been having, and relaxing after having spent the afternoon indulging in a lunch of European kebabs and waffles before climbing up the cathedral tower to admire the aerial view of the city.

Just before the February holidays, Liz and I were chatting when she expressed a wish to eat more baguettes and French bread in general while she was still here and had the opportunity, a sentiment I heartily agreed with. At around the same time, I’d fallen into a habit of buying a baguette on Tuesdays on my way back from working at the collège, so I invited her to join me one evening for a wine and cheese style affair. Thus #BaguetteTuesdays was born, an event which has since become a weekly one, as the name might suggest. And so, while Rowan, Meg and I were in the city centre, we got brezels and two types of baguette from a bakery in preparation for our plans for the evening. Not wanting to leave the good weather behind too soon, we went to the Place de la République near my apartment and proceeded to sit and chat on the grass for a while before the sun started going down.

In a similar vain to many a #BaguetteTuesday, we spent the evening chatting away in a mix of English and French, with the soundtrack of the evening being a great selection of songs from musical theatre, which were, on occasion, combined with dancing and singing around my room. And as usual, we ate excellent French bread and equally excellent French cheeses, accompanied by wine (apparently you need wine to help digest the cheese. Who am I to argue?!). The particular vintage we enjoyed that evening was a bottle of €2 Cava which was surprisingly good. Add that to the list of things I’m going to miss when I have to leave this place.

The Wednesday was Meg and Rowan’s last day in Strasbourg, so, not wanting to miss out on the glorious sunshine and warm weather we were having, we walked up to the Parc de l’Orangerie for a chance to brush up on our animal vocabulary at the small zoo there (their bird selection is particularly impressive, and I don’t just mean the many wild storks). Whilst also in the park, we did things like play Ninja and have stick fencing fights on the small bridges over equally small streams. I also managed to pick up a copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix in German from the book exchange hut there.

Not wanting to miss out on a quintessential French experience whilst in the country, we decided to have galettes for lunch, followed by waffles. As Meg found out, explaining the guy who runs the waffle shop that it’s your last day in Strasbourg earns you extra helpings of toppings.

Much to Meg’s delight, as seen here.

Much to Meg’s delight, as seen here.

As if the tea she was taking back wasn’t quite enough, Rowan also decided to spend the few remaining Euros she had brought on as many brezels as she could, so that she’d be stocked up for the journey back to the UK. Just to be clear, I can in no way blame her for such a decision; if I could get them cheaply imported to the UK for when I’m approaching Finals next year, I definitely would.

By this point their flight time was rapidly approaching, so we headed back to my apartment so that they could finish packing their things, and then we headed off to the train station. I saw them safely onto the train back to the airport, although unfortunately I couldn’t go with them as I had a private tutoring session to go to.


It was lovely as always having friends come to visit me in Strasbourg, but I think this was a visit I particularly enjoyed for a few reasons, beyond the fact that I get on rather well with Meg and Rowan. When I had my first few visitors come to Strasbourg, it was still very early on my journey of getting to know the city, so I didn’t have the same knowledge of where to go and what to do that I’ve since cultivated. It was also nice knowing that both of my guests had previously been to Strasbourg for a brief stay before whilst interrailing, so it meant that I had to try and be a little more creative with ideas for what to do, rather than just suggesting the standard tourist things.

It was also both reassuring and helpful for me getting to spend time with two people who are a year further along their academic journeys than I currently am. Not only in terms of the practical pieces of advice and suggestions they had for what is helping them at the moment with Finals just around the corner, but also getting to talk to them and discover their attitudes and experiences of the Year Abroad and Finals. Given that the obvious end goal of Finals is the same for them as it is for me, it was really interesting and thought-provoking getting to have some of those discussions with them that I’ve been having with myself at various intervals over the past year or so. On that note, I must give a shout out to Lara, another 4th year French student friend from the Oxford Singers, with whom I’ve also had similar conversations more recently.

Especially now as my Facebook feed seems to be becoming evermore filled with status and posts about Finals and life after graduation, I’m rather glad in a lot of ways that I’ve had this year of getting to face some of those challenges with the knowledge that I have another year of academia to go before I have to start facing those same challenges and more where their impact is more long-term and consequential.