So, I had almost given up hope and was on the verge of accepting that this year abroad just would not provide me with 'the best experience of my life'. I returned to Narbonne on Friday in the pouring rain and went for a couple of beers with Lucile, the English teacher at the school. I trudged home in the miserable weather, wanting nothing more than a hot shower and my bed. However, the combination of beer and a shower triggered my memories of pre-prelash, freshening up with a can of Stella on the window sill.
Inspired, after twenty minutes preparing French in my head, I asked my housemate if he wanted to go to the pub. After a polite rejection, I did not lose hope! I instead sent a text to the Spanish assistant I met in my school and asked him if he would be free to meet up for a beer sometime. I received an immediate reply inviting me to go out that very evening.
Predrinking in a small, French studio flat with four Spanish and one German assistant was fun. The wine was flowing and the French language was spilling from my mouth. The language barrier somehow seems less intimidating when you are with other assistants, because you don't feel as pressured to get every little syllable right. In fact, the main focus is simply to convey some kind of meaning and I achieved that for the most part. Screw perfect grammar, pronunciation, and that mysterious but oh-so-important 'flair', I speak French the Dan Cash way.
Let me tell you this: when you party with Spanish people, you party. They were busting their Spanish dance moves with a bit of Samba and some Flamenco (I'm making this up, I have absolutely no idea what dances they were doing but they were very good)! When we got to the club, Botofogo, for the first time (yeah, right) in my life I wished I could dance properly and not like the awkward little white boy I am. French nightclubs are a different experience to those of a British origin. For one thing, there were not patches of vomit on the walk there. Also, the club did not smell of a mix between the Gent's, sweaty teenagers, and regurgitated beer.
Believe me, I do not write this with even a subtle hint of irony, but God do I miss British nightclubs.
The next evening I met some of the same group of people to go to a pub. There, we met with a Spanish teacher from one of the assistants' school, and her daughter who is learning Spanish and English. With conversations in both Spanish and French, and English music on the TV, my head was going crazy trying to figure out what was going on. I sat there sipping a pint, enjoying the company and what conversation I understood enough of to join in.
After chilling at the guy's flat, I left for home at about eleven, completely shattered and ready for bed. Instead, I ended up going to Declan's Pub with my housemate and his friend. It was nice to go up to a bar and order a proper pint. It was also nice to drink lots of ale and then go to Botofogo for the second night. This time, it was ten euros to get in with a drink included in that price. It was wicked, people were notably more drunk than the night before, and more people were dancing the classic robotic English boxstep. It was a good night out where I spoke even more French, this time with native speakers, and experienced more differences between our cultures. At one point there was a fully naked man having an absolute rave, loving life.
So all in all, this weekend proved that things can seem to be absolutely awful and hopeless and then, without warning, everything changes. Your rollercoaster speeds upwards again you throw your hands in the air and enjoy the ride.
Then it was back to Sigean and teaching. I was looking forward to returning to work and to a routine, but Sod's law governed that I would get a cold on Sunday evening. Monday, then, was a complete write-off and I returned to school on Tuesday, which is today. It was the most tiring day I've had in the last five weeks I think. The pupils are on some kind of sick, twisted post-holiday high and the teachers are drained after spending two days of shouting, persevering and attempting to insert just a grain of knowledge into these young and uninspired minds. It does not help that the day begins at 8:30am, when it is dark outside, and finishes at 5pm, when it is dark outside. While it is easy to see why people would be interested in pursuing a career in teaching, it is also easy to see why these people may, at some point in their lives, go completely and utterly cray-cray. However, none of this has remotely affected my good mood and high spirits.
Now, I am preparing for tomorrow's morning of teaching (all hail half-day Wednesdays) and my journey back to Narbonne for my luxurious four-and-a-half-day-weekend.
I'll see you lot on the other side,
DC
(The new background image for this blog is courtesy of me, and my amazing photography skills. It depicts the gloriously brown canal of Narbonne and two random people.)
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