Tom West, a foreign exchange student from the University of Portsmouth, tells us all about his adventures in Toulouse, France

Hello there! Well, the first thing I should do is tell you a bit about myself: I’m Tom, I’m twenty-two, and I’m a native of Portsmouth.

During the two years I’ve been at university I haven’t met many other natives and I still haven’t quite figured out how special that makes me feel.

I’m studying BA Applied Languages, and while it may not carry the same street cred as other degrees, studying it has allowed
my naughty side to flourish – I use my linguistic powers to eavesdrop on foreign people in the jam aisle in the supermarket, which usually ends up with me hearing things I really wish I hadn’t!

Image Credit: Emo Saloy

I’ve just started my third year, for which I’ve been exiled off to the countries whose languages I’m studying; so I’m here in Toulouse, France for Semester One and I’ll be in Granada, Spain, for Semester Two.

I hope to use this column to communicate back to you lovely people some of the surrealism that I’ve already started to experience! Why should I be the only one to suffer!

My first month here has seen me battle to turn the pig’s ear of my halls room into a silk purse Sarah Jessica Parker would be proud to flash around NYC.

I’ve earned my first battle scars as an exchange student, which have mainly consisted of liver scarring through drinking copious amounts of alcohol (which isn’t as cheap as they’d have you believe) and bruises from taking the busy early-morning metro into uni (the French just love to shove at half-past seven in the morning!)

I’ll admit I got really homesick during my first week, but, luckily, this was remedied by the fascinating people of Toulouse – there’s this one man who just walks around the town centre all day singing, at the top of his voice, “I like to move it move it!” And nothing else!

I like people like him, they turn a frown upside down, if you know what I mean.

I’ve also put on about three pounds thanks to the ludicrously delicious bakeries dotted around the place; croissants, crepes and baguettes may taste lovely but I’m now convinced they were sent here by the Fat Thigh Fairy to annoy me and, well, make me fat.

Image Credit: Ronald Schuster

Also, bizarrely, the neon sign on my forehead that says ‘Tourist Information’ must have translated itself into French as I keep getting asked for directions everywhere I go! I’ve never understood why fate chose me to be the teller of all things to all people, but hey, it’s nice to have a purpose.

The thing is, because I still don’t completely know my way around I just look at whatever street’s behind me, point down it and say, “That way!” Well it makes their day more interesting!

And I won’t talk about us knocking them out of the rugby (sniggers)... I had to pretend I was Spanish for three days afterwards; the shame of our victory was so much!

ISSUE 4

As I’d spent all my money on shoes, I couldn’t afford to rent a cosmopolitan penthouse and instead had to apply for a place in French halls! Whoopee!

Living in the same city as my university (Portsmouth) while I was in England, it made sense to continue living at home and many people believed this would hinder me being able to live on my own abroad.

True, I’m used to the comforts of home-cooking and clean laundry, but I knew that I’d be OK by myself, as I’m domestically equal to Bree from Desperate Housewives and I enjoy my own company; I rarely argue with myself, and when I do, I always win!
I’ve said that my room here was a pig’s ear.

Image Credit: Koos Schwaneberg

The rest of the place makes up the other components of the pig and certain neighbours of mine make up the mud in which it wallows.

I’d read on the internet that our halls’ rooms have no kitchens and that the showers and toilets are communal... After imagining every worst possible scenario, most of them involving the Psycho shower scene, I believed I’d anticipated everything that this place could dole out. I was wrong.

Upon arriving, I filled out a form detailing the ‘‘damage and stains’’ in my room. Despite wanting to scrawl ‘‘lots’’ and ‘‘loads’’ across it, I instead spent an hour detailing the God-awful state of the place with the aid of a mini-dictionary and the patience of several saints.

After handing the form back to reception, where they were more surprised to learn that I had no light bulbs than the fact that there wasn’t any part of my room or its contents that wasn’t damaged or stained, I asked if there were communal kitchens, only to be thrown a stare that made my dangly bits shrivel up.

No there aren’t, but there’s a canteen that serves flavourless mulch only on weekdays!

Also, the halls’ website said there was no Internet access! I feared that every day I went without checking my emails a kitten would die, so imagine my relief to find a wireless network here. The only trouble is it’s on and off more times than an indecisive fly on rotten meat.

I’m often found shaking my fist at the router and cursing its electronic mother.

I wanted to get to know my neighbours. Alas, few opportunities have presented themselves and, without an oven, I can’t bake anyone any greeting muffins. Instead, I’ve been very twee and said “bonjour” to everyone I’ve met on the stairs.

They’re polite and they say it back but meaningful conversation hasn’t developed. However, if they’re the charmers leaving gigantic ‘Tracey Island’ poos in the toilets then no, I don’t want to get to know them...

Having said that, since I’ve been here I’ve settled down comfortably, making a nice little boudoir for myself and, although I hate to admit it, I’m starting to like the place!

ISSUE 5

“French university is the closest I’ve ever come to being culture shocked, or being sectioned, I haven’t decided yet.

Upon arriving, I discovered an administration system operating on prayer and paper airplanes, (rather than the coordinated exchange of information and email that I would have expected) and a considerable number of lecturers who knew nothing about their own classes - I nearly hit the Prozac!

I eventually managed to get registered, and with the help of various French students I beat down in the corridor (who helped me decipher the timetables pinned to the walls), I managed to put together a list of classes to sample before making my final choices.
I asked one poor girl to give me some advice about studying here. She simply shrugged her shoulders and said, “Cette université... C’est horrible.”

Now, not only is that not even advice but it happens to be a fact that would be proved true again and again over the next few weeks (graffiti everywhere, ‘squat ‘n’ plop’ toilets and 8:30 am starts, to name but a few). It doesn’t even need translating.

Anyway, I thought I’d continue some of the classes I’d been having at Portsmouth. On my very first day, with a heart full of hope, I skipped along to my first lesson: Japanese.

Ten minutes into the lesson, I discovered their second-year level is seventy-three times higher than ours and I couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying.

Then I was made to write something on the board that, for reasons I won’t explain, wasn’t a great success and had the French sniggering at me behind my back.

Next: Spanish. I decided I’d try a third-year class as I thought that it would be taught in Spanish (as being taught anything else in French was inducing wine cravings). Yes, you’ve guessed it, my curse struck again. Not only was the class taught in French, it wasn’t even ‘Spanish’. 

It was, get this, the phonology of medieval Spanish!

I sat there for two hours dribbling with boredom. It felt more like medieval torture than medieval phonology, and, at the end, the girl who I’d sat next to asked me if I’d like her to photocopy the sheet we’d been sharing so I wouldn’t have to worry about not having it next lesson.

The look I gave her answered her question better than words ever could have.

I eventually reconciled myself with the fact that French is the
only thing I should, could and would ever be taught in French, which is how I’ve come to do only the French as a Foreign Language class (read ‘French For Dummies’), and I can just about cope with that!

But then, just as I’m getting into a nice routine, the students went on strike and blocked up the uni gates with every chair ever made by the hand of man, so none of us can get in! I mean, I don’t mind, honestly.

You have your little socio-political protest; I’ll enjoy two weeks of unexpected holiday time. Weekend break in Montpellier anyone?”

ISSUE 6

Arriving at Ellis Island in New York, early European immigrants had two options: to immerse themselves in the culture of the country where they had chosen to live, becoming one with their new home, or to isolate themselves from cultural influences, thereby living in ignorance and wasting opportunities to integrate.

Coming here wasn’t exactly on that scale, but it shared the same principle. Should I seek to become as culturally integrated as possible during my stay, or should I lock myself away in my room, sitting there watching any opportunities pass me by through the window?

I opted for the former, thinking “if you can’t beat them, join them”.

France has developed many parallels with England (they have chavs too), so it’s hard to find something really French to get involved with. I hoped to find my answer around my age group; what do young French people do?

According to the few I’ve actually managed to converse with, they hang out with friends, go shopping, go clubbing, go to the cinema... Does that sound familiar, anyone?

I could go and do what I do in England but with French people, absorbing how they do it, but the opportunities to make French friends are few.

I’ve met countless French people when I’ve gone out with non-French friends I’ve made here, and, as we announce our various nationalities they ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ until I tell them I’m English, then they boo! Loads of French people don’t want to know us, and the few who do aren’t around when you need them.

It gets me down sometimes, but hey, chin up, boobs out and on with the show!

Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, we foreigners are constantly herded together, like exotic cattle that need to be seen together simultaneously so that people believe we exist.

Sixty-two trees’ worth of paper gets shoved up my nose every week advertising some bar’s “foreign student night” (I’ve been once, out of curiosity - I’d sooner cut my bum off and sit in vinegar than go again) at which the only French people are the staff and a few students who’ve come to practice their English.

They absolutely refuse to speak French with you, something that results in either very odd bilingual conversations or them shouting at you for speaking French. Well, excuse me for coming to your country and wanting to speak your language!

I think I’m gradually becoming more French, though. I sometimes go for long afternoons in quaint cafés. Indeed, I’ve found very few foreign students where I go, so I think I’m doing something right.

Image Credit: James Maclennan

I’ve also become the first male customer in a local yarn shop since 1682, where, thanks to the lovely ladies there who don’t speak English, I always speak French. I bought some lovely yarn and I’ve crocheted myself a beret. That’s right, I proudly own and wear a beret! Come on, could I get more French than that?

ISSUE 7

Christmas! For some, a time of religious significance, family and deep introspective reflection. For me, a time of fat thighs, naff cracker jokes and, once again, not receiving everything from my Christmas list. It wasn’t even that long this year.

I shouldn’t moan – at least I was able to come home for it, despite a certain ‘budget airline’ not making everything as easy as they claimed they could, I know some who weren’t able to escape their exile and spent Christmas in Toulouse. That was gearing up to be a bizarre experience, let me tell you.

I thought Christmas in France would be a conservative, religious affair, but was surprised (and somewhat delighted, if I’m shamefully honest) to find that although the religious significance is more pronounced, the rampant commercialism we caught from America seems to have also infected France.

I mean, how else could a country with such a proud gastronomic heritage offer a gift bag of “Five Bottled Waters from around the Globe” (or from five toilets from around Toulouse, depending on your level of cynicism) as the number one present in a major supermarket?

If that didn’t weird you out enough, then try and make sense of this: the Mayor’s Office decided to decorate a tree that was going brown and losing its leaves. Come December, it looked more like one of Phoebe’s Christmas ‘twigs’ from that Friends episode.

So, I decided to investigate the French Christmas spirit a little. Do they have one? What is it? I cornered two old ladies to get the answers just for you. The first one told me that France does indeed have a Christmas spirit. She said that it involves the baby Jesus and love and sharing with your family and friends.

The second one corrected her, saying instead it involves bad presents, too much food and fighting with your family. At least they agreed that family is part of the French Christmas spirit. That’s something, I guess.

Sounds pretty familiar now, doesn’t it? And we think they’re so different...

Well, there is one area where their approach to Christmas is different to our own. They don’t begin their preparations as well in advance as we do. Some shops in England stock gifts and food for Christmas in August these days, but the majority of French shops didn’t start anything until mid to late November.

And considering they didn’t leave themselves that long to get everything sorted, no one was rushing around like Speedy Gonzales on crack like you see here in department stores and supermarkets, spending money they don’t have on stuff they neither need nor want!

I may learn many lessons whilst on my year abroad but I’ll be damned if I’m going to learn the one about tackling Christmas like the French. I’m one of those people who actually enjoy rushing around like a chemically-enhanced animated Mexican mouse, so there!

Anyway, I hope you had a nice Christmas and got everything you wanted! If you didn’t, there are always the sales!

ISSUE 8

Sale n: a period when naff shops in England knock 10% off their leftover tat that nobody wants and flog it to punters who don’t need it, but buy it with money they don’t have and never really wear any of it.

Solde n, french: a period when delightful boutiques in France reduce their most desired merchandise by 50% or more and offer it to discerning clientele who require fabulous apparel, then buy it with money they don’t have and wear all the time.

Image Credit: Sarah Gilbert

Feeling extremely depressed about having to once again leave England and my cat behind (I had to drag myself away from him), I took myself off for a walk in the city centre one Tuesday, hoping for a little retail therapy.

I was surprised to find that most of the shops were closed, with signs in their windows advertising an “exceptional closure” in order to prepare for the sales.

The following day, I walked along the same streets as I’d done the day before, and it was like walking through what I think Heaven would be like! Windows filled with sumptuous displays and glittery posters were too much of a temptation - I fell off the wagon straight away.

Being a recovering shopaholic, I should have known the temptation would be great.

So now I find myself with a bizarre hybrid of English shopping mentality surrounded by French boutiques. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of money I don’t have on beautiful, fabulous things I don’t need but wanted oh so much and that I’ll probably never wear outside of France.

I’d also become so engrossed in the sales I’d forgotten about more important things, such as looking for somewhere to live in Granada, Spain (gargantuan mistake leaving it this late) and revising for my end of semester exams! I can’t quite believe how fast everything is happening.

I remember looking out of my window in halls on my first day and thinking that the months ahead seemed like an eternity, and now I look out of the same window and wonder where it’s all gone, if I’ve used my time wisely and whether or not I’d do anything differently given my time here again.

Then I think of the friends I’ve made, of the improvements I feel I’ve made with my French, of the outrageous once-in-a-lifetime things I’ve seen and done and I think that this hasn’t been the horrid experience I once thought it would be.

I remember once panicking so much about coming here, I said to my Mum, “This is going to end me”. Actually, I think it’s helped to make me. It hasn’t made me entirely, but it’s certainly contributed a few pieces to the puzzle.

Unfortunately due to technical problems we are currently unable to bring you the final part of Tom's column which appeared in Issue 9 of Pugwash News. It will be added as soon as the problem is resolved. Also a massive thanks to Web Editor Luke Simmonds and Sub Editor Jon Goddard who put this online.