According to convention, the third year of my university degree was spent abroad. Whilst fellow foreign language students packed their bags for warmer climes, I boarded the Calais-Dunkirk ferry and in next to no time was in Lille. I confess, I had been aiming for Paris but missed the mark and ended up a couple of hundred kilometres north. I knew nobody, didn’t eat cheese, and was promptly assigned classes of 30 teenagers by teachers only too glad of the allied support to bear the burden of a tedious English curriculum. So much for ‘teaching assistant’.

It was a year of beetroots and chicory, little wine but strong beer. I kicked myself for not choosing Martinique or Madagascar, fell in with a friendly bunch, and ended up with a bit of a Northern (French) accent. UCL paid me to write articles chronicling my ‘cultural experiences and linguistic development’. I’ve given them their own page, and will chuck in anything else from this period that might amuse…

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Arrival

“Two words, nine letters.” As if to highlight Lille’s heterogeneous heritage my favourite expression has been smuggled into France by Dutch cyclists I’ve befriended. To them it is a droll remark of impatience directed at a tardy companion only too aware of the riddle’s response: “Takes long” (Duurt lang in Dutch). Yet when transfused into the daily jargon of an Erasmus student, it serves to remind me that fitting into a new culture is a process that can’t be rushed. Now before you point to the obvious – that I am supposed to be spending the better part of a year improving my French; it seems entirely appropriate that in a long-established cultural melting-pot just 20km from the Belgian border, my linguistic immersion be influenced by the foreign tongues that have defined this city through the ages.

Consider Wasquehal. The word couldn’t have looked more foreign when an email from the collège where I now teach told me I would be staying there until the apartment for language assistants was ready. And when I returned to that dreary Wasquehal bedsit beside the Brussels-bound motorway after my first day’s work, I was struck by my own strangeness: I was now a displaced foreigner in a not-so-distant land. I had put so much effort into finding this work placement, and had been so relieved when it was confirmed hours within UCL deadlines, that I hadn’t spared a thought for how I would have to readjust to living in a totally different environment. When confronted with unknown situations I tend to rely on intuition and improvisation (no doubt acquired during extensive solo hitch-hiking expeditions across the continent). But the year abroad is not an extended holiday. Having a job and a place to stay is enough to subsist but are hardly satisfying by themselves. In this sudden moment of solitude I became acutely conscious of the friendships and quotidian comforts I had left behind in London.

This sense of isolation is undoubtedly familiar to all year abroad students who find themselves removed from the reassuring network that has gradually grown around them whilst living in England. And although I had not anticipated the impact that moving a few hundred kilometres away would have on me, I don’t think that any amount of preparation could prevent the sense of loneliness that marked my first weeks in Lille. As with anything worthwhile, when it comes to learning languages, finding friends, and feeling comfortable in a foreign place: Duurt lang. But whilst there’s no quick fix for integrating yourself into another society, you’ve got to start somewhere. Exactly where that is will vary from person to person but will surely always involve a search for some sort of community. My initial investigations of the vegan scene in Lille have been fruitful (the people are nice even if the food has been unexceptional), and the local library is fantastic although not the ideal location to strike up conversation… I should also point out that I am not studying in a French university and so don’t have that immediate connection to other students. That said, after a few blond beers (watch out, they really pack a punch) in one of the many estaminets (a northern bar) frequented by the students, conversation starts to flow and alma maters cease to matter.

But where do the Dutch cyclists fit into all this? It probably goes without saying that whether studying or on a work placement; these prearranged elements of the year abroad more or less take care of themselves. They have been organised before arrival and simply happen. Unfortunately the same is not true for making friends. This requires a far greater effort that often seems one-sided – of course it is more difficult for an outsider to integrate into a social scene where everyone else already knows each other. However, shared interests are unfailing sparks to kindle closer relationships. This might mean hanging out in the local record store, volunteering with a charity, or in my case, competing in cycling races.

I was worried that when I moved abroad I would no longer have time for this activity. On the contrary, it has been through cycling that I have made my closest friends abroad. Whether from Holland, Spain, Italy, or France, this pursuit has introduced me to a group of people eager to share one another’s company. And although many of my new mates don’t live in the same city as me, it has been a pleasure to venture beyond Lille and in turn welcome them to a town that is slowly becoming my own. Besides, the year abroad is a chance to cross the boundaries and borderlines that govern everyday life in order to realise the multicultural possibilities that learning a foreign language entails.

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Think like a local

A couple of months have now passed since I sat down to write of my arrival in Lille. That first blog detailed the acute sense of separation that took me by surprise, and some of the tentative efforts I made to remedy it and find a community away from home. But although my account of the inevitable isolation that accompanies a move abroad was entirely genuine, I didn’t mention that I was writing in the exact location from which I had felt so remote: England. Yet again, chance would have it that my more recent experiences are recounted from the objective perspective of several hundred kilometres. Being a teaching assistant I benefit from frequent holidays unavailable to other professions, time that I later hope to fill with more exotic expeditions but has lately afforded me an extended festive break with friends and family. So once more, I will focus on my foreign endeavours from a homely distance.

The first weeks I spent in France were marked by much movement, within Lille and beyond. Of course there were plenty of practicalities to keep me occupied, be it familiarising myself with a new travel network or coming to terms with the notoriously convoluted bureaucracy that plagues even the most basic procedures – such as buying a SIM card or signing up to a library. Put simply, I was caught up in the same quotidian complexities we all share, but had to solve them by new and alien methods. I have yet to describe the details of my job but needless to say, directing a class of up to 30 adolescents was an unfamiliar task that demanded my undivided attention. There were hundreds of moments in the classroom or everyday encounters that amused me or threw me and together reminded me that I had a long way to go before I really settled in France. In addition (and as documented in my first blog), I was spending many of my weekends away from Lille to compete in bicycle races; an enthusiasm that introduced me to a host of new friends and unexplored cities but distracted me from the vital (if less thrilling) process of adjusting to life in Lille.

Following my half-term break in England, I was welcomed back to the northern city by shorter days and worse weather. Hardly an escape to the Tropics, I knew I wasn’t decamping to a suntrap when I decided to work in northern France. All the same, I felt the seasonal changes more acutely than when I had lived in London. Owing to the flatness of the region, la capitale du nord seems shrouded in a monotone grey throughout the winter months. And whilst a perennial blanket of clouds is by no means unique to Lille, I believe I was more sensitive to it than previously because of the level landscape that stretches unbroken to the horizon.

For those who have never visited what we succinctly refer to as the ‘Low Countries’, it can be difficult to conjure to mind a vision of un-undulating terrain. For many, ‘England’ evokes scenes of rolling pastures interspersed with wooded thickets and other such features to divert our wandering gaze. I tried to explain this to a Lillois friend one overcast afternoon. He became increasingly bemused as I waxed lyrical about the green and pleasant valleys of my childhood until, exasperated perhaps, he cut my monologue short. He argued that I was completely missing the beauty of the north and should be looking up rather than down.  The sky, he reasoned, should attract the eye, not the ground. And when 50% of any view is sky, he affirmed that there is no place better to appreciate the spectacle of atmospheric alterations than the North.

This glimpse of the resident mentality was quite a revelation. ‘Foreign’ is a state of mind and it occurred to me that in order to truly assimilate into Lille, I would have to think like a local. My French teachers had for years been encouraging me to think in French rather than in English, but I had only ever understood this advice in a linguistic context (ie. it’s more natural to think and speak in French rather than thinking in English and trying to translate this into French). I realised that the barriers between nationalities are not only external and superficial, overcome by mastering another language; there is a deeper cultural divide that prevents us from integrating into new societies that can only be spanned by empathising with people who live in that area.

If I am to make Lille my home, not only should I try to improve my French (albeit with a ch’ti – France’s answer to ‘scouse’ – inflexion) but I should also try to suppress my English impulses and behave like the good folk I meet every day. Whilst I don’t pretend that such imitation will fool anybody that I’m a bona fide frog, being attentive to regional habits, turns of phrase, and peculiarities has brought me closer to the people around me when I was most alone. So as I prepare to once more cross the Channel after the Christmas holiday, I look forward to further reducing the space between myself and the strangers who are becoming friends.

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Dunkirk Carnival

During my second year at UCL I had a chance introduction to Structuralism, an intriguing but complex fusion of linguistics and philosophy whose intricacies are now beyond me but whose rudiments I can still recall. Many of the metaphysical conundrums these academic pioneers pondered were rooted in the rapport between a ‘signifier’ and a ‘signified’ – the alternate aspects of the same word that lead to it being interpreted differently according to the user. Take the word ‘carnival’, for instance. For some these dactylic syllables might resonate with the throb of distant steel drums pounding a samba rhythm on warm Ipanema sands. Others might associate it with Venetian masquerades and water-borne incarnations. Still others might have hazy memories of packed-out streets in north-west London, stumbling over the empty bottles and cans strew about by over a million revellers determined to see summer out on a high, come rain or shine.

Yet of all the connotations that this one word might conjure up, very few would find their mind wandering to a dull February afternoon in Dunkirk. Indeed, the average Brit has this coastal town marked on their mental map as the scene of WW2 heroism and rout, or the now unremarkable ferry port from where a summer holiday might begin. The intrepid minority that has strayed into the town itself was no doubt underwhelmed by the brick and concrete structures that have risen from the rubble of enemy bombardments. But despite the uninspiring architecture, sea fog, and flurries of hail battering salt-stained windowpanes, Dunkirk was the unlikely theatre for the most zany festivities I’d never heard of. As if to liven up the long winter months, the carnival season stretches from late January until mid March during which time a cluster of seaside communities are transformed into technicolour extravaganzas, an explosion of face-paint and fuzzy wigs.  

Following subsequent enquiries into the reasons for such a spectacle I was surprised to discover that the carnival has been a regional tradition for centuries and greatly pre-dates other world-famous celebrations. Its origins are not religious but pertain to the fishing industry, when in times passed the fishermen would set off for months-long expeditions to the North Sea in perilous pursuit of cod. Their departure was preceded by feasts and dancing, cross-dressing and drinking, a final fling that many knew would be their last moment of terrestrial cheer. And although these annual campaigns to deeper waters have become a thing of the past, the fête has endured and for one wild weekend each year, over   50 000 participants in fancy dress descend on the unassuming town.

So it was that I found myself among that frenzied crowd, rather rough at the edges after carousing until 4am with a group of veteran Dunkerqois carnivaleers. Copious helpings of onion soup had been my only sustenance, washed down with inescapable rounds of Chartreuse (a dangerous green potion distilled from innumerable herbs by devious monks) to which my host was rather partial and insisted that we partake in each toast. It had taken a Herculean effort to stir myself from the plush sofa that had fortunately caught me when I stumbled back to a friend-of-a-friend’s apartment, and having politely passed up on the breakfast of cold soup and warm beer I joined the curb-side mêlée in a slightly out-of-body state.

Our ambitious intentions for intricately painted faces had been thwarted by lack of brushes (and artistic flare) so our jolly gang were recognisable by the fluorescent Rorschach masks we all appeared to be wearing. A friend had sorted me out with a pair of Mario-esque overalls and an overpriced sailors hat from the joke shop (the price was the punch-line) topped off the ensemble. Dressing in drag is very much the done thing so thick beards smeared with rouge and lace fringed petticoats seemed a natural combination. I’d managed to source an outrageous fur coat from a flat-mate who proudly told me that in 10 years of carnival service it had never once been washed… By all accounts I looked the part as we were engulfed by hundreds of other ridiculously attired merry-makers.

Our first stop was the home of my friend’s brother’s ex-wife’s parents. Our troupe was greeted with open arms and me embraced like a lost son. I was taken aback. Even having lived in Lille for five months, this reception took Northern good will to another level. And yet the chapelle (essentially an open-house) is a mainstay of the carnival, a knees-up with the neighbours and anyone else who might turn up. The welcome was entirely genuine and I settled down at the dining table beside somebody’s elderly relatives who thought it was brilliant to have a young Londoner for company. Yet again, onion soup was on the menu – my investigations didn’t reveal the origins of this custom but I was grateful for the hearty sustenance on a chilly day. We all watched from the balcony as brass bands heralded a costumed stampede touting umbrellas, brooms, and other miscellaneous implements festooned with tinsel. Ebullient battle cries and songs with fantastically lewd lyrics were chanted with gusto by young and old.

Bidding the old folks a warm farewell that belied our fleeting acquaintance, we struck out for the main square where the throngs were congregating. All eyes were on the town hall and specifically the belfry whose bells would soon strike 3pm. This was the climax of the weekend. The mayor, in medieval pomp and a tricorne hat, stepped out onto the balcony bearing a polystyrene crate of herrings. To my utter disbelief he proceeded to fling the (fortunately packaged) fish to the rapt mass below. The crowd went wild and surged forward, clambering over each other in frantic efforts to catch a lucky packet. My attention was focussed on remaining upright and wishing that I had steel toecaps and unfortunately any effort to capture the merry punch-up on camera was hampered by the incessant shower of vacuum-packed perishables and other projectiles pelted at the multitudes from the dignitaries above.

I finally extracted myself from the scrum, battered and bedraggled, and made for the agreed rendez-vous: a heaving bar where we managed to squeeze ourselves in cheek and jowl. Everyone was wearing sopping fur coats and was spilling drinks over each other. I wasn’t sure whether people were dancing or just hopping from foot to foot lest they stick to the floor. I struck up conversation with the bloke beside me who invited us to his cousin’s house for another chapelle to which we willingly went. From here on my version of events becomes blurred, an onion soup-er-charged whirlwind of blasting bagpipes and clashing cymbals, strangers’ houses and slaps on the back. My ears were ringing and my t-shirt stained when I arrived back in Lille on Monday morning. Stunned and surprised, I reflected on a weekend like no other.

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Looking back, looking ahead

I was recently invited to a school reunion celebrating 10 years since leaving the shady suburban haven that first taught me Greek, Latin, and French. Thanks to a fitting twist of fate I was unable to attend the get-together because I was busy teaching English to French pupils 10 years my junior. And although I wasn’t too bothered to miss a rendezvous with people I hadn’t seen since we were fresh-fledged teens, it was impossible not to smile at the cyclical process of learning a language. 10 years isn’t so long. Might I be teaching undergrads 10 years from now? Naturally any milestone is surrounded by a bit of retrospection and speculation. My contract in the collège has run its course and my pupils departed for seaside holiday destinations, most likely never to see me again. After all my PowerPoint presentations, the discussions and debates, will they, too, be enthused to continue the pursuit of English? I hope so.

I was lucky that my specific assignment within the English department was to give oral lessons. This meant I could do away with tedious written exercises and lectures on irregular conjugations. I was allowed complete freedom to choose whichever topics of conversation I thought appropriate and I tried to pick subjects that were beyond the school curriculum and linked to Anglophone culture, idiosyncrasies, and current affairs. Of course, I made sure that the content of each class aligned with the pupils’ grammatical capabilities; and the discussion would often be a practical application of grammar learned (but not often mastered) in their other classes. My ultimate aim, however, was to ensure that the pupils enjoyed speaking a foreign language, as I know from experience that this is the key to success.

But unfortunately, enjoyment seems an afterthought during the early stages of learning a language. Having got to know my pupils better I was struck by how arduous English lessons had become for some of them. I accept that being a compulsory subject there would inevitably be some who had long since decided that Anglo Saxon wasn’t their cup of tea. But there were also many who, had I asked them what the point of learning English was, wouldn’t be too certain of the answer. With a curriculum where grammar is put on a pedestal above other elements of the language, it was hardly surprising that some pupils had become demotivated. In some cases, pupils showed me test papers for which they had received discouraging marks. This was generally because they had made minor errors within sentences that were otherwise fine and in any case, fully comprehensible. But they were penalised by a harsh mark scheme so that their ability was not reflected by their grade.

Now I understand that grammar is the foundation of language and the tool to mastering it. But it is only a tool and the end-goal of learning it is to be able to communicate with different people and to appreciate a different culture. By itself grammar is useless. In fact, if we had to privilege a single linguistic ingredient, communication would be better served by learning vocabulary rather than grammar. The thousands of mistakes I made speaking French this year were evidence of this. However, linguistic imperfection didn’t prevent me from expressing myself or from being understood. I should admit that my results for the Erasmus language test taken after the year abroad were, overall, the same as those from 10 months ago. In listening comprehension, vocabulary, and key communicative phrases I have advanced. But my grammar will need some brushing-up in September to get me back to university level. Yet after a year of predominantly spoken French, this was to be expected. Furthermore, I am happy to know that I have improved in the areas that for me were most important. My enjoyment of the year abroad depended far more on communicative skills and a broad vocabulary than a faultless grammar.

I don’t want to unfairly criticise the French system; so long as languages are learned in a class environment, a cultural immersion that favours the spoken form remains impractical. But I’m certain that, where possible, an emphasis on speaking will focus the learning process on real situations rather than the theoretical and, in doing so, make the whole experience far more enjoyable: which is to say, more effective. With this in mind, I hope that my pupils will continue their studies with a spirit of curiosity, unafraid of making mistakes that beyond the classroom are inconsequential. I, too, will bear this in mind as I tackle the worst that French grammar has to throw at me in my final university year.

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The school talent show

Friday was going swimmingly. After a cosy drink with my new housemates and cat on Thursday night, I was up with the morning sun beaming on me for the first time in weeks. My pupils were listening too, and apparently enjoying this week’s rather complex lesson. When midday arrived, I slipped into a window seat of the staff canteen, on a table occupied by one unknown teacher from the upper school who was happy to exchange only the briefest of pleasantries and continue her meal unmolested. I was quick to take advantage of my good fortune and swiftly piled the salad on my plate, tucking in before anyone might arrive and comment on my generous portion, leading me to (once again) reveal my vegan sensibilities and assure them that I was not planning on the main meat course as well.

The canteen might just be the most beautiful room in the school. Where the exposed plaster of the classrooms has been chipped away in the 50 years’ abuse since De Gaulle’s minister for agriculture was apparently drafted in to advise on upholstery (plumping for a sophisticated shade of curtains that Farrow & Ball might label ‘Hangover in Delhi’), the peeling paint of the canteen has miraculously produced an atmosphere of timeless elegance for which the French are so often imitated. This room once served as a chapel and the south-facing windows were, for the first time for several weeks, fully illuminated, projecting pastel scenes of pastoral paradise. For a few blissful minutes I was spellbound, a sated atheist marvelling at the Catholic splendour that no longer seemed gaudy.

I fancy I was smiling at the crucifix nailed above when the usual crowd turned up. For a second I thought I’d got away with it but then the Chinese teacher – a stout, round-faced little lady with a penchant for berets – crept up behind me and lightly tapped my shoulder. “Would you mind if I sat here?” She sweetly asked as she draped her coat on the back of the chair next to mine. (Her English isn’t really that good but she’s rehearsed this line enough times to conceal her shaky grammar). I shuffled slightly aside, nodding vigorously and unsure what language to reply in (one day I’ll answer: “but of course, be my guest!” in impeccable Cantonese just to rile her). The rest of the gang soon filled the empty seats and started up the same bland banter as always. I laughed a little louder than necessary and they in turn chuckled at a couple of wry observations I’d made before about the weather.

Presently I took my leave, making an excuse about lessons to plan. The young German assistant who always looked scared flashed a furtive smile through a half-swallowed mouthful of bolognaise. The effusive head of German who mothered her leaned over to touch my arm. “You’re coming to the talent show tonight?” Her happy face looked up at me and showed no sign of a question. Oh wretched destiny, you got me today. I had known this was coming but at some point in the week had convinced myself that the distant date was not until the following Friday (to which I had agreed in a semi-earnest display of enthusiasm). As if aware of my turmoil she kept her hand awkwardly resting on the cuff of my long (thank god) sleeve and entreatingly reminded me “You promised”. Checkmate. “Oh that!” nodding vigorously, “Certainly! I’ll find you in the entrance at 7.” Satisfied, she let me go and I hurried away whilst they went on with their merry meal.

I should state that, however it may seem to the contrary, I am not of a naturally frosty temperament and try to maintain an open disposition when dealing with colleagues only too happy to usher a young Englishman into their flexible schedule. But, I have recently taken a room in a slightly dilapidated but perfectly comfortable house in town where I have unrestrained access to the bars and boulangeries that line the cobbled streets. My pleasure is twofold as I enjoy one institution in the evenings and the other the following morning; a combination that has transformed my continental experience from frigid isolation at the suburban college to hearty companionship in the city. It follows that despite the palpable camaraderie among the school employees I’m loathe to leave Lille. But a promise is a promise (I’m sure I didn’t promise) and the sun was shining still so I resolved to head out on my bike as soon as my final lesson was over.

It’s uncanny how life’s complexities seem so localised when dry tarmac spins my wheels at nearly 30mph. As if motion minimises my troubles this palliative has yet to loose its effect; which I suppose goes to show that my pleasure is rooted in escapism. Is this unusual? At any rate the sun had sunk low before I even contemplated heading back, and night had fallen long before I rolled down the avenue where the college was brightly lit at the end and a flag bearing the school crest hung twitching in the cool breeze. The shrill electric bells in every corridor cried out 18:30 and I hurried into my apartment for supper and a shower. Still steaming I emerged 12 minutes later from the bathroom and fired up the hob. Alas, rice will not be rushed and I had to content myself with crisp bread and peanut butter, praying that I would be back soon for the dinner I so deserved. I put on a clean shirt and treated myself to a couple of squirts of my best eau de cologne. Popping a mint chewing gum I strode towards the events hall as the church bell (far less jarring) chimed the hour – not at all fatalistic or giving any indication of the horror to come.

On the glass doors the star-spangled image of Uncle Sam had now had his blazer tailored from the Tricolore and was pointing aggressively at me, insisting I attend the optimistically-billed ‘Soirée des talents’. No turning back now. Swathes of lycéens were being herded into the vast atrium, milling around trestle tables selling confectionery and fizzy drinks. I couldn’t see the German head and was momentarily swept up in a throng of 17-year-old girls who, chance would have it, had all picked almost identical outfits. I kept my cool and breathed deeply as they pressed close and giggled hysterically. Were they doing it on purpose? Fumbling to take a phantom phone call I shouldered my way to safety, my finger stuck in my spare ear and muttering animated nonsense. A hand tapped primly on my shoulder and, still babbling to a non-existent caller, I turned to see Frau Magnus’ merry face inches from mine so that her wide eyes filled my entire field of vision and I had to jump back as she loudly told me what fantastic seats she had found for us.

Being in the second row served the double inconvenience of making a subtle escape impossible and exposed me to the amplified agony of no fewer than 5 untuned electric guitars screeching at once. With syncopated stabs all over the shop they butchered ‘Roxanne’ then delivered an ear-splintering rendition of what might have been ‘Smoke on the Water’ (sheezus, I thought that was the easiest trick in the book?). By the time ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ came around I was praying to every god I’d never believed in to bless me with an epileptic fit. Meanwhile gushing mothers filmed the whole damn thing on their iPhones.

As any seasoned hostage will tell you, there is a limit to the pain that we can suffer. I positively revel in the fiery pleasure of a veggie madras; Yoko Ono’s performances in public galleries have aroused in me a strange enthralment where most recoil in shock; I’ve even braved the John Lewis Boxing Day sales with my grandmother buying next year’s Christmas presents. But tonight that distant red line was broken, resoundingly shattered, as 400 fanatic French teens armed with electrical instruments they couldn’t play swept past my pain threshold. The rest of the evening passed in a blur as I must have slipped in and out of consciousness. Snippets here and there of that infernal stage show slip across my mind and my ears ring still after the atonal onslaught I was powerless to save them from.

As I chewed on long-cold rice it struck me an awful bore to be such a sophisticated, sour teacher. What a shame I couldn’t dispose of my educated inhibitions and yell at my peers in collective hysterics. Doubtless, much fun had been had this evening and as I ran for the last tram into town, I knew very well at whose expense.