bienvenue, again

Having being bereft of internet access until this very morning, my blog has been shamefully neglected. Dead before it began, God love it. Don't be fooled, dear readers (...am I being a little ambitious?); it's onwards and upwards from here, I promise.

All in all, gaining access to the outside world while living in a box such as this requires Trojan effort that I'm really not able for. I am most definitely situated in the projects (fair enough, the worst that the young fellas seem to get up to are heated games of poker on their doorsteps, but you can't know) and while buses run every ten minutes, such efficiency grinds to a most definite, obstinate halt once evening rears its head. As such, I have spent the past eight nights attempting to decorate the little space I call home, steadily working through demi-baguettes, and poring obsessively over Wuthering Heights, because I read it the last time I was in France. Granted, this is no Montmartre, but I'm still leaning towards Heathcliff's point of view. Added to my list of woes was the sudden, shocking loss of hot water in my building on Tuesday; it disappeared in a typically French manner, without a word of explanation or any promises as to when, if ever, it would return. I had the coldest shower known to man last night, and vow never to repeat the experience. All seems to be in working order this evening, but as the closest thing I have (or want) to a mercurial, enigmatic French lover, I don't trust it. I have unexpectedly come around to the idea of a shower/toilet, though. It's almost - dare I say it? - rather cute.

Having not quite made it to most of the orientation week, I've spent my days wandering around Angers, and have as such learned a little about the place. Aside from a chance encounter with a small, spirited group of farmers from Galway last Sunday, who were over looking at heifers in Brittany ("fierce heat in it so there is,  how do they stick it at all" "...sure they're a different breed altogether PJ"), most people I encounter from day-to-day are bonafide, blasé, Gauloise-smoking French. It is fair, I think, to describe the past ten days as the steepest learning curve I've ever had to surmount in all of my twenty years. Living among the French is an experience wholly different to anything I've done before. If I can't look exactly like them, I am going to have to set about blending in, and fairly swiftly too. I've taken the following to heart:

1. Do not expect anything whatsoever to be open on a Sunday. It won't. It's not even anything to do with them going to Mass, as far as I can make out. More likely, it is to do with the peculiar, sadistic French sense of humour, the same that deprived me of internet, hot water, and an internet cable long enough to stretch over to my bed. Tabacs, in particular, are firmly shuttered, and when you're tearing my hair out with frustration as an absurdly good-looking couple strolls by, smugly puffing away, it is worth remembering that perhaps it's a good idea to get a good haul of cigarettes in on Saturday evenings to come. Regardless of the depths to which your nicotine-deprived system will sink, it is definitely unwise to mutter 'HAWHAWHAW' in their wake. You'll probably feel better, but they might swing for ya.

2. French girls are the most beautiful race that ever walked the earth. No amount of time poring over jersey dresses, gilets and beautifully-fitted jeans in Zara will make you look like them. It's a bit of the old je ne sais quoi and nothing else. Being pale is not interesting any more, just downright weird. I definitely heard 'albino' thrown after me in the street one day - I wish to God I was inventing this for comedic effect - and like the freezing shower, it isn't something that I care for going through twice. I did strive in earnest to achieve something resembling a tan, but remain stubbornly, faintly pink. It remains to wait until it gets colder, so I can layer to my hearts' content, and hide my abnormal pallor for a few months.

3. Kiss young people on the cheek when saying hello, and try to get the cheek right first, because it's rude in most places to get them mixed up. The old Lefty-Righty game will probably not catch on amongst people who have been doing this for years.
                 (3.1: a simple 'howya' is only going to confuse matters)

4. Don't, for the love of God, go trying to kiss anybody older than you/in a position of seniority/who looks as they don't want to kiss back.

In other news, have accumulated a considerable amount of new clothes since I've got here (this is not news so much as a daily occurrence, France or no France. But still.) Have fallen head over hells in love with Zara's TRF section in particular, and have already mentally set aside an absurd proportion of my grant for a sailor jacket, corduroy skirts in deep, rich colours and some lovely printed sweaters. I'm told it gets pretty cold here, and well, it's nice to wrap up and look nice doing it.

The cold snap is seemingly a while off yet - I've just discovered my shoulders are actively peeling, and the back of my neck is headed for the same sad fate. Fingers crossed this is just the conclusion of the chrysalid stage, and I will emerge a delectable French butterfly. Oho, who'll be laughing then.