I’m sitting on the futon in my living room, where the sun from the late afternoon sky shines in directly through the windows and warms the room. It keeps my toes warm because I only brought a handful of pairs and I need them to walk in during the day, not lounge around in. I should probably go shopping for more at Monoprix, but I haven’t really thought to yet.
I’ve got a glass of chilled rosé in front of me, a very pale rosé, almost white. The color reminds me of ballet. Light from the window makes the glass glow. It’s good; not too sweet and yet not too dry. Finding a decent rosé is a lot harder in the States than it is in France, especially here where the wine is so cheap. I just go to the grocery store and look at what’s been picked clean—if there are only a few bottles left, I figure it’s a good one. Of course I have my preferences, but it helps when there are still so many choices.
I have an apartment in downtown La Rochelle. It’s just a short walk up the street from the old port, the two towers, the city clock. Walking along the harbor—about 30 minutes—takes me to the high school where I’ll be working for the most part. There is another school out on the Il de Ré (the nearby island) where I’ll be spending some time, but I haven’t been out there yet. That school is in St. Martin de Ré, an old medieval fortified town. I’m sure you can hear my squeal from here. There are buildings here dating to the 15th century, and I’m jealous that my apartment isn’t in one. It’s too new for me—built in the 19th century! Not that it isn’t a lovely little one bedroom apartment, but I like old(er) stuff. Alas, I’ll have to settle for eating dinner in one of the medieval buildings, and passing them on the street.
I’ve been here just under a week. Monday I arrived in Paris at 6 am, waited around 45 minutes for my baggage, waited an hour in line at the train station, and took a train (with one connection) to La Rochelle; I was exhausted. I found the apartment, walked briefly through the city, and spent the rest of the evening freaking the fuck out. Jet lag, exhaustion, moving to a foreign country, foreign city you’ve never been to before, all alone, not knowing anyone or anything, not having internet to look anything up or communicate with anyone—I pretty much wanted to curl in a ball and wait for my parents to come get me and bring me home. I was always the one to go home early from slumber parties and sleep overs. But this was kind of a long way to go for a failed sleep over.
Sleep helps. It is not, however, a cure-all. I bawled the next morning when I woke up and registered where I was. I was still exhausted and I had to find a school that could’ve been anywhere in the city, walk into it (which I had a hard enough time doing when I was an actual student), and introduce myself as the foreign person they sent for to help teach English. They were all very kind of course, but most didn’t speak a word of English other than ‘hello’ which they seem to like saying in an exaggerated accent. The English professors were very helpful, and one invited me over to her house for dinner with her family on Friday. I only stayed there for about an hour because it was the middle of the school day and I felt like I was in the way. How odd to go into the staff room when I feel like the students aren’t much younger than me (yet they all smoke outside on breaks or between classes—this is the smokiest country in the world, everyone smokes, even mothers with baby strollers and 10 year olds walking home from school). I’d taken a taxi to get to the school, but I decided to walk my way back. If I got lost, I’d keep walking until I found something familiar. The best way to see a city, to get a feel for it, is to get lost in it, which I’m very good at. I’ve gotten good and lost three times already.
The biggest obstacle to my settling in soon became clear, however. Until I could get a bank account open, I wouldn’t be able to have internet. Amazing how dependent we are on it now; trying to figure things out without it results in a lot of headache—every magazine and brochure and signpost references a website for more information. Very helpful without access to any websites. Finally I got desperate enough to trudge all the way over to the other side of the harbor (Les Minimes, the area is called) where the one and only MacDonalds is located in the heart of the university area. Thank god for the golden arches; they have free wifi. Not to mention I’ve been walking so much, it doesn’t really matter what I eat at this point, I’m still going to be swimming in my clothes by Christmas. On average, I’ve walked four hours every day all week. Walking on cobblestone streets and sidwalks? Not good for the feet.
I did open a bank account, my very first one that I did on my own and it was in a foreign language! The only other bank account I have was opened by my parents at 15. So this was an accomplishment. I still don’t have internet however, because I have to wait for my bank card to be mailed to me this week. On my list of things to do includes delivering paperwork to the real estate agent, mailing my immigration forms, getting internet (FINALLY), and watch this week’s season premier of Glee!
Because I decided to get to France three weeks before I started work, I have found myself a bit adrift. So to keep me company, my dad is flying in for the few days and I have to go to Paris to fetch him tomorrow. I get to show him around town and go out to eat at all the lovely little places nearby. I’ll be glad to have some company, but I’m not letting him near my fridge—he’d eat all my cheese. I have some leftover from my dinner last night of cheese-and-cucumber sandwich on fresh baguette.
Even though it’s early, I’m getting ready for bed. I have to be up tomorrow morning at 4:30 to walk over to the train station and catch a train to Paris at 5:45. I’d take the bus, but I’m not sure they run that early (doubtful). Everything I have says to consult the website—you can see my problem. So I’ll either call a taxi if they answer in the morning (because it’s Sunday and they’re closed or at least not answering phones) or just walk.
Sometimes I sit here, looking out the window, and feel like a complete fraud: I’m not really twenty-two; I must still be twelve or so, and I can’t believe people have left me on my own like this. Surely I’m not capable of living on my own and figuring things out for myself yet. I’ve deceived the world into thinking that I’m an adult. Shows how gullible the world is, huh? I walk into a bank and people take me seriously. They don’t look at me like “What’s the kid doing here?” It’s disconcerting.
I had dinner over at one of the English professor’s house, with her husband and two daughters. It was an evening of beef fondue and French speaking; for some reason, everyone is surprised I came here alone. I don’t even have contact with the other assistances who should be arriving Oct. 1 (again, no internet).
Surprising thing I missed about France? Paprika pringles. Delicious. I searched high and low in the States but they don’t have them there.
Everything is closed on Sundays. Cereal for dinner, anyone?
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