my very talented friends

There has been something about the past week which has led me to rage incoherently, quite often drunk, to everybody in my immediate vicinity about the ignorance and chauvinism in the world. I must stop before I burst a blood vessel. Unfortunately I'm just a girl, and if I were to expostulate in this manner upon everything that offends me, I'd end up with ridiculously augmented blood pressure and no friends to hold my hand as the doctor tells me to calm the fuck down. So there will be no more apoplexies of rage - at least, until the next time somebody, somewhere, comes out with something preposterously out of line and I can't stop myself from laying the verbal smackdown.

As I'm going home to Ireland for les vacances de la Toussaint next week (I must commend France for one thing, and this is doing the Catholic thing properly. Less guilt, more days off), I've been thinking of how much I can't wait to see my friends again. This led to frequent stalking of their Facebook pages and bemoaning, drunkenly, all that I've missed while I've been living the life over here. That in turn led to wondering how it is that I ended up fortunate enough to have made the acquaintance of so many talented people. I count musicians, writers, artists, photographers, DJs, actors and film-makers among some of my closest friends. Graveyard of ambition it may be, Galway is still a dab enough hand when it comes to the flowing of creative juices. Our cup doth overflow, in fact. God, I can't wait to come home and bask in the reflected glow of their respective gifts, secure in the knowledge that I have none myself but that hey, it's okay, because we're all mates here.

The Indelicates said it best, absolutely anyone can play the fucking guitar. Sadly, not everybody does so well. I've been lucky, and have been exposed quite often (although not as much as I'd like these days) to the sound of people Doing It Right:

Lost Chord:
www.myspace.com/lostchordband

Elaine Mai:
www.myspace.com/elainemai

This Mellow Party:
www.myspace.com/thismellowparty

The Ralphs:
www.myspace.com/theralphs

Go Panda Go:
www.myspace.com/gopandagomusic
...for a sample, please see below (as well as a guest appearance from yours truly and the lovely Naomi Ní Chatháin, whose art would be featured here if it existed online)





My good friend Byron DJs weekly, spinning 50s-60s tunes upstairs in the Róisín Dubh on Friday nights, looking exactly the part himself. He's also in the early stages of a weekly punk/new-wave night downstairs with Fuz, which takes place on Tuesdays, I believe, and which I'm dying to attend. Byron's blog exists here:
www.byronsnonsense.blogspot.com

Josh isn't a bad lad when it comes to the tunes either, having been one half of the sadly-missed Substance in 2009, as well as DJing in Kelly's and presenting iTest on i102-104. He's currently going about the business of making a name for himself in London, where he'll do very well if they know what's good for them. His blog is here:
www.popgoestheradio.blogspot.com


My friend Yvonne's photography continues to surprise me, as she seems increasingly unafraid of new directions and is improving exponentially with each shoot in terms of skill and inspiration (not that she was in any way uninspired to begin with!) Her photoblog on Tumblr (who came up with this spelling? and for Christ's sake, why?) is here, along with a few shots of Ciara and I, who have been, and remain, only delighted to dress up and get foxy for the sake of fashion:
http://yvonneryanphotography.tumblr.com/

aesthetically pleasing orphans in a shed in tuam

still orphaned, but looking well

In short, Galway me manque tellement. It isn't, or at least I hope it isn't, that I'm whiling away my time in France wishing I was back home, in the rain, and the indescribable autumnal gloom, and the smoking area of the Róisín, with everybody I miss. It's more that I can't wait to see them all again, and since I will in five days, I'm allowing myself the luxury of missing people properly. While this country is beautiful and I appreciate every day how lucky I am to be here doing nothing (mostly) but enjoying myself, it would improve immeasurably if I could have everybody here with me. Unfortunately, the government would never allow it. The next best thing is to have a wonderful week at home, revelling in indecipherable Hiberno-English and forgoing sleep in pursuit of ALL the craic. One can only hope...

aww, here it goes...

The following, I'm afraid, has nothing to do with my adventures in France, unless you count my abject frustration at not being at home to do something constructive about it. Suffice to say, the depths to which the SIN newspaper has fallen disgust me. As the only student-run paper published by my university, the articles and "think-pieces" published therein serve to represent and also to influence the opinions of the student body. The fact that somebody has genuinely been commissioned to write an article entitled "Getting The Shift" more or less indicates that we're all fucked. 

After having read extracts from this disgusting, poorly-written piece of rubbish, I feel more and more appalled that NUIG would actually allow something like this to be published in an otherwise fairly reputable student newspaper. The article itself is laughably bad - the writer's grasp of grammar and syntax is ridiculous, as is their heavy reliance on idiotic, poorly drawn similes to create humour. Yes, scoring a girl is exactly like scoring a goal, you even put a ball in a hole! Oh, you! Your subversion and wit astound me. I can hold myself in check no longer - please, take me now. 

Oh, but Emma. You're not being entirely fair. After all, it's not the writer's fault that they're hardly worthy of the moniker, unable as they seem to string a sentence together in any cohesive manner. A person can be forgiven for having no discernible literary talent. What I absolutely cannot, and will not, forgive are the horrific attitudes towards women demonstrated repeatedly in this snivelling excuse for journalism - not least the fact that these are commended by the student population to the extent that they're published weekly. Evidently, it isn't just the budding journalist in question who feels this way; the article is followed, no doubt, by hordes of like-minded young bucks. According to the writer in question, if we do, in fact, want sex, we must get the girl in question intoxicated, separate her from her friends and lie consistently to her, talking as much bullshit as is necessary to convince her into leaving the club with us. Watch and learn, boys. This right here is a foolproof path to Getting The Ride - or Sociopathy for Dummies, depending on your stance. Honesty, personal charm and respect? Clearly, these all went out the window when the young men in question finally grasped the far-reaching consequences of karma-engendered erectile dysfunction. Or, you know, crippling personality disorders. I suppose I oughtn't to be surprised, lads. Of course you have to prey upon her like the repulsive, Jager-chugging vulture you are - isolate her from her friends, lie to her and get her good and drunk. You're a hideous cretin, after all. She'd hardly go near you under any other circumstances. No... no. Trust me. She wouldn't. 

I am impotent with rage that SIN allow this sexist swill to be published each week, and I place the blame as much on the shoulders of the editorial staff as I do on those of the writer and others of his ilk. Because this is not ironic, or tongue-in-cheek, or a witty little examination of contemporary male-female relations. It is nothing more than a poorly-written crash course in how to get a girl drunk enough that she doesn't realise what she's doing. Classy, SIN, wonderful. Keep it up. This is just what we all need to read on a weekly basis. Personally, I don't think I'm objectified enough as a female. I want more! Next week, could you provide an instruction manual for outright sexual intimidation? Or date rape? I mean, it's all tongue-in-cheek anyway, isn't it?

It is in no way impossible or unheard of for a man to abide by the premises  of common decency and consideration - I wouldn't enjoy healthy familial, romantic and platonic relationships with them if they didn't. For the minority of you who don't? Keep reading Getting The Shift, and articles like it. Because it's funny, right? It's irony. It's not meant to be offensive. Those stupid feminists will complain about anything. Then kick back and relax for the evening - go on, you deserve it after all those big words - with your Kleenex, your Vaseline and your Redtube, secure in the knowledge that you remain intellectually inferior and a worthless piece of shit.

apology the third

Most profuse apologies (again) for my lack of updates over the past few weeks. I'm no better at sticking to this resolution than I've been with any other in my life, and can only offer the excuse that the past while has been manic; grappling with the intricacies of French bureaucracy at least once a day, attempting to craft an appropriate timetable from more or less nowhere, and far too many nights out. The latter feels like something of a contradiction in terms, as they've all been fun without exception, but I fear my insides have begun to plot against me. The combination of vin mousseux for €1.09 and my paltry eleven acadamic hours a week may well have me out of commission soon. 


As such, I've been planning a few things to keep myself occupied over the next month or so (sure the drink is a curse). These include a journey to Poitiers next weekend to see my best friend, a visit home for Halloween (search for costume remains unfruitful, but I'm clinging to hope), and Arcade Fire in Lyon at the end of November, which ought to be wonderful, not least because they've sold out at home. French hipsters don't ever allow anything sell out. Insouciance is the order of the day, goddamn it.

tomorrow i'll be glad, 'cause i've got friday on my mind...

Today, for the first time since I arrived here two and a half weeks ago, I passed the day quite alone. (Willingly, I might add. I haven't alienated all of France quite yet. Hopefully.) Tripping into town on your lonesome is a feat quite easily accomplished in familiar surroundings, but as an unaccompanied, blatantly foreign female of relatively tender years, I'm quite proud to announce that I navigated the city without hiccups, accomplished my day's errands and got home safely, all without causing an international incident. All in a day's work for anybody but me, I know. But Rome wasn't built in a day; and neither, I suspect, was my ability to socialise here without mishap. 


No venture into the city would be complete without a tiny, tiny wander up the high street, and I'm proud/ashamed (delete where applicable) to report that I lost the epic sartorial battle that's been raging in my head all week - namely, To Get or Not To Get the gorgeous grey leather jacket that's been teasing me in Zara for some time now. I'm comforting myself with the fact that it gets cold here at winter. Very cold. Maybe even with snow. And while I couldn't ever forgive myself for getting such a beautiful thing wet, it'll at least keep me warm on dry, crisp autumn mornings (if they have those here). I also bought a lovely red scarf with little white rabbits printed on it, just because it was the goddamn cutest thing I saw all day. There would be accompanying pictures of the aforementioned items if Zara's website was working correctly, but it isn't, so please take my word for it that they were both lovely and I'm going to wear them to death. I promise I'll stop after this. No more, until maybe Tuesday or something. Let that be the end of it now. 


Being by myself for the first extended period of time since I've arrived in France (apart from when I'm asleep, but that doesn't really count as I dream of you ALL! Every night!) has really put me in mind of how much I miss everybody back home. I just wish I could enjoy this beautiful, beautiful city with everybody I love; tonight of all nights, as my good friend Elaine is celebrating her birthday, in fine style I hope. (Just because I'm not there doesn't mean class has to go out the window, guys. You're losing the run of yourselves completely, and don't think I haven't noticed.) All messing aside, I hope anyone reading this and attending the festivities has a wonderful night. Heck, have a great night anyway. Even if I don't know you. It's Friday, you deserve it as much as anyone else.


Although I miss everybody hugely, it's a nice thought that I'll be back at Halloween, which reminds me that I must go in search of a costume in the next week or so. The €2 shop on  Rue Chaperonnière has been giving me the glad-eye for a few days, but I downright refuse to go the bin-bag and itchy, contorted plastic mask route. The French are probably too hip for Halloween, but they might surprise me. Part of me clings to a naive hope that they must acknowledge it in some little way, somewhere, at least for the children... although, upon further reflection, French bébés are ordinarily as well-dressed, composed and insouciant as their parents. So perhaps not. I may just have to leave it until I come back next month, they probably wouldn't know what it was if I asked them. Wouldn't want to go making a fool out of myself here willingly, after all, considering I manage it quite without effort at least fifty times a day. 

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.

have to start somewhere. i think.

Wishing fervently that I could commence my first entry with some wonderful, verbose welcome, but it isn't quite coming to me. I imagine that most of you know me anyway, and those that don't - well, I can only commend your curiosity. While you should never put yourself down without giving yourself a chance (...that's how it goes, right?), this really isn't the kind of blog that will one day be snapped up and be transformed into an all-singing, all-dancing cinematic treat following One Girl's Epic Journey. Although if it did, I want Meryl Streep to play my mother.

In case anybody was wondering if I'm holed up in my bedroom still, I have arrived in France. I intended to document this yesterday evening when the fact occurred, but was frankly too exhausted after being on the go for twelve hours to write anything remotely cohesive. I did, in fact, compose a proper goodbye while waiting for my flight in Shannon Airport, but it disappeared into cyberspace once my sandwiches arrived and I forgot to finish it. Anyway, it was probably bad luck to go writing about France without actually being there.

So, yes. Took a train from Nantes to Angers yesterday evening, experimenting for the first time with the TER, and actually managed to buy a few tickets without breaking the machine or attracting any disdainful looks whatsoever from the French. And God knows they're good at that. (Also at layering floaty items of clothing, drinking at lunch without it going to their pretty heads at all, and cycling around looking nonchalant.)

Was up with the birds this morning, if only because it's far too warm to sleep, and have spent the day exploring the city on the bus. The crumbling chateau du Roi René is really something else; as the main picture on Angers' Wikipedia page I confess to being just a little sick of the sight of it, but damn, I never expected it to be as gorgeous and imposing as it is. It probably deserves to be the city's main attraction, if only for never falling down or feeling fat surrounded by newer, smaller architecture.

REAL BUILDINGS HAVE CURVES

On the subject of architecture, I would like to express how very much my new home resembles a box. It is a five-story dormitory, bringing a new meaning to the words staid and uninspirational. In fact, the whole of Belle Beille resembles a cheap condo complex in 1980s Miami, but I didn't want to sound ungrateful while I was there, so I didn't say anything. Even the fact that my bedroom is green doesn't cheer me up. It's hard to get excited about a bathroom so minute that the edge of your toilet hovers menacingly over your shower floor. I'm going to have to take my shoes off before I go in there. Wearing shoes in the bathroom was a luxury I never appreciated in Ireland. Similarly, an actual kitchen. The less said about the "cooking facilities" here, the goddamn better. All I will say is that one microwave and four cooking rings to be shared between twenty-five people is sick. Sick and wrong. I'd like to say I won't stand for it, but I'll have to, won't I. Maybe people only say that their Erasmus is the best year ever because they're scared they'll be sent back if they don't.

I refuse to end this on a sour note, though, as Angers itself is a wonderful, winding little city from what I've seen thus far, and I can't wait to properly explore it on foot. The view from my hotel window is as French as French could be, I'm getting a little misty-eyed looking at it. As well as this, the weather is beyond gorgeous, I saw a tiny little red shop today that only sells kimonos, and I bought washing up liquid for my joke of an apartment that smells like Imperial cherry blossom. I'm not entirely that they didn't make that name up, but it was pink, and you wouldn't get that at home.