Beginnings

My arrival in France was not the stuff of a Richard Curtis film.  There was no mood music; no charmingly awkward exchange with the Passport Control Officer; no voice-over.  Bill Nighy was nowhere to be seen.  It was more the stuff of an Airport: Liverpool episode; a hurried dash to the baggage carousel, a near miss of one’s baggage on said carousel, and then, of course, the obligatory ‘Man versus Bulk’ wrestle.  This less-than-holy ritual was however interrupted by the approach of two strangers, both of whom were smiling widely.  At me.  Now, I was in no mood for humouring nutters (Bulk had most definitely taken the upper hand by this point), and so I decided to unleash some mildly discouraging glances in their direction.  They persisted.  As I prepared to initiate more vigorous evasion tactics, the strangers revealed a beautiful sign, which read: “Bienvenue Dominic” and bore the images of a baguette, a bottle of red, the Tricolour, and what would seem to be one of those hallucinogenic frogs.  These were no nutters; they were my housemates.

Two weeks have now passed since that fateful meeting, and I certainly feel to have landed on my feet.  I’ll be spending the year living in a student house run by the Bordeaux University Catholic Chaplaincy alongside eight French students of a similar age and outlook.  Without getting too ‘European’ about it, I was very touched indeed by the lengths to which they went to make me feel welcome, and I very much look forward to getting to know each of them better over the course of the year.

Regardless of how much help and support is available, the start of a year abroad inevitably has the taste of starting life from scratch.  The little jobs that completed themselves effortlessly over several years in the Old Life must be executed simultaneously and without delay in the New: bank accounts opened, libraries joined, phone contracts bought, and jobs found.  This tabula rasa brings with it much stress, and yet it also bears a breath of fresh air.  A new, albeit temporary, life can be built using the blueprint of past experience, the bricks of new opportunity, and the mortar of gritty determination (I’m really sorry for that metaphor; I assure you that I am trying to cut down). 

One of the largest New Life hurdles that I’ve faced over the past two weeks, second only to the atrocity that is French ‘tea’¹, is language.  La langue Française is, of course, unutterably beautiful, with an emphasis on the ‘unutterable’ part in my case.  It would however seem that every Frenchman in existence has an awful lot to say and very little time in which to say it.  Indeed, being given directions can feel a bit like coming under a hail of machine-gun fire which does not stop until you admit defeat.  Or die. Still, by using a melange of spoken and gestured French, it is quite possible to get by. 

The importance of this second linguistic mode, that is, gesturing, must not be underestimated: it’s common knowledge that non-verbal messages make up a substantial chunk of inter-personal communication, particularly when the spoken word is restricted.  It is for this very reason that I have come to sincerely fear my telephone.  I really, really hate it.  This phobia has undoubtedly been worsened by my first experience of French phone etiquette.  I was deep within the heart of the library, feeling pretty pleased with myself as I had just managed to enrol without serious accident or injury.  As I filled my hands with Teilhard de Chardin and L’Évangile de Saint Jean, my pocket began to vibrate.  Oh God, please, no.  Having managed to liberate phone from pocket it was with horror that I recognised the French landline ID on the screen.  Please, please, no.  I had sent my CV to various companies earlier that week in search of work, and I really couldn’t afford to miss this call.  Simultaneously, I was acutely aware of two-dozen pairs of eyes already boring into my back, already hating me for my Laura Marling ringtone (yes, yes, I know, not cool).  Well, thought I, he who dares wins, and I lifted the phone to my ear. Below is a rough translation of what was said:

Me: Hello?

Caller: Hello, is that Mr Dominic Ballard?

Me: Hello?

Caller: Hello Mr Ballard, I’m calling from La Boulangerie (not the real name).  We received your CV a couple of days ago and would like to speak to you a little bit more about the possibility of you working with us.

Me: (slow, strained whisper) I am at the library.

Caller: I’m sorry?

Me: (slow, strained whisper) I am at the library.

Caller: Right…

(Slightly awkward pause)

Me: I cannot hear you very good.

Caller: (louder) It’s Le Boulangerie, the delivery business.  We’d like to invite you for an interview.

Me: My hands are filled with books.  Lots of books.  I cannot write it any more.  Could you send me a address for the meeting, please sir?

Caller:  Yes, of course. 

Me:  Thank you, sir.  That would be well appreciated.  I am sorry.

Caller: Right; so I’ll see you Friday morning for the interview, and I’ll send you more details by email.

Me: Very good.  Thank you, sir.  I am sorry.

Caller: Goodbye.

Me: I am sorry.

And so ended one of the most painful experiences of my life.  I looked around, and behold: the librarian, having heard my end of the conversation, was staring at me with disbelief.  I lowered my head, I took my books, and I left.        

These two weeks have been those of new beginnings, and new beginnings tend to be bitter-sweet.  I do not yet know what fruit these days will bear, but what I do know is that the adventure is begun. 

And that I got the job.

                                                                       

1. Anonymous desiccated leaf in a bag does not, and never will, constitute tea.  Furthermore, there is absolutely no rational explanation for the ‘tassels’ that appear on European teabags; they snap when used for ‘wringing out’, and, more often than not, panic at the climatic point of tea making, thus following the boiling water into the cup’s basin.  Their only fruit is a mix of soggy cardboard, sodden string, tainted tea, and scalding of both a physical and vocal nature.  Get your act together, France.