My Arrival in France: The Voyage

August 21st, 2012. It was a Tuesday. A gloomy morning in Birmingham, England, but there wasn't a cloud dark enough to dampen my spirits. I was on my way across the Channel to meet the girl of my dreams and hopefully commence the biggest adventure of my young life. 

I'll start, in fact, with the night before. It was a rare, sleepless night. The exciting thrills and concerning stresses associated with taking the plane (never an experience I enjoy in a group, let alone solo), travelling some distance across a country I hadn't visited since the age of four, and meeting a girl I'd grown ludicrously attached to over the previous few months were all more than enough to keep me from drifting off to the land of nod that particular evening.

I "awoke", by which I mean the alarm clock I'd set just in case I did somehow tumble unconscious sounded, at around 6am. To the best of my recollection, my flight didn't leave until around 11, but I was especially prudent in my preparation for this journey right up until take-off. 

A shower, a nervously-gobbled down bowl of corn flakes, and a quadruple-check of my baggage later and I was into the taxi on my way to the airport. Arriving a good three hours before a flight is, of course, the traditional move of the discerning traveller, but it's certainly not particularly inspiring to stare at those flight boards watching the minutes go by.

Regardless, that's what I did for a few hours until finally the gate was announced. Onto the shockingly - and to my mind, dangerously - tiny aircraft we clambered, and off we took. So far, so good. Everything had gone surprisingly well, in fact. Almost too well, the pessimists amongst us would say. Well, this time they were right. The English leg of my journey had gone without a hitch but the French had a few surprises in store.

Arriving at Brest airport just on schedule, I enjoyed the ever-empowering experience of seeing my bag arrive first along the carousel. Beginning to hear and see my first bits of French around the airport, I felt worlds apart from the home I'd left only a few hours before. 

My French study experience prior to my arrival consisted of a year in high school, which taught me little more than "French isn't for me!" and a hasty few weeks spent scurrying about online completing basic worksheets and watching tutorial videos. I wasn't exactly fluent, you might say. In fact, I wasn't exactly anything, intermediate, advanced, novice, my French was below basic. Thus, the experience of suddenly being surrounded with it was actually quite intimidating, and not the sort of thing I'd like to relive. One lesson I learnt that day was to always prepare linguistically when travelling abroad.

Bags in hand, I made my way towards the exit. Brest is a very small airport, you climb off the plane, through the passport booth, collect your bags in the little next room and you're out before you know it. I recall seeing something like two gift shops just before the exit, it's quaint, and my sort of airport. The labyrinths and shopping centres of places like Heathrow only make the whole "flight experience" that much more daunting, I always think. 

A taxi had been booked for me, and the driver had agreed to hold up a sign bearing my surname in order to make the process as easy as possible. Couldn't be any easier, you might say. Well, you'd be wrong. He was nowhere to be seen. The reason I just mentioned how small the airport is is to highlight the surprise I felt in this situation. Short of disguising himself as a tree or "Caution: Wet Floor" sign, there were not many places this taxi driver could hide. There's one set of exit doors, and about two dozen people were waiting to greet the passengers of my flight. He was not one of them.

I circled the incredibly small greeting/exit area three to four times, eyeing up the face of every individual before realising what I believe to be the solution to this mystery; he simply wasn't there. Perhaps there had been a problem with the booking, or I'd arrived a few minutes late and he'd taken off, but I swear to this day that I did not overlook or fail to spot the phantom taxi driver; he never existed.

Panic began to set in, I'm a creature of routine and habit, and all of the day's schedule had been crafted meticulously and centred around the presence of this taxi. The taxi was supposed to take me to the station, where I was to catch the train for which I had already been delivered the corresponding ticket, which was to transport me directly to my soon-to-be-girlfriend's town, where her mother who had adjusted her work schedule would be able to pick me up.

The absence of the taxi has disrupted the plan. Of course, I had backups, but they weren't as reliable. A bus service left the airport to the local metro station, and naturally there were other taxis on standby for just such an occasion. The former, however, involved finding the bus and then dealing with the metro, the latter required me to convey my destination in a pathetic amalgam of languages and gestures. I didn't have much time to waste, and my split-second decision favoured the taxi.

That was a mistake.

I went outside and had those traditionally awkward taxi moments of not knowing if the guy is free or waiting, whether to sit in the front or the back, is he going to take my case or shall I approach the boot, etc. We then moved on to more specific awkward taxi moments that only occur when you're in a foreign country and try to make yourself understood, poorly.

"Le.. la.. le.. - oh bugger, my mind's gone blank, what's the word for station? - La station? La train?" I garbled at the man, before resorting to every Brit-on-tour's favourite French phrase, "Parlez-vous anglais?" "No." He belted back quite definitively. A few moments of gibberish later, during which I basically said the words "train" and "station" with a variety of accents, he appeared to understand and off we went. 

A very brief ride later, I was dropped off at a station. I wasn't 100% sure, but the few minutes it had taken to arrive didn't seem like the approximate twenty minute journey that Google Maps had suggested, the fields surrounding us didn't look quite like the town centre of Brest I expected, and this station's single platform out in the open wasn't quite true to the images of the large brick train station with its multiple platforms, ticket machines, and convenience shops I'd seen online in the days before. My Holmes-like suspicions were accurate; it was the metro station.

I'd already had such problems with this taxi driver that I feel my frustration with repeating the word "train" had gotten too much for me. I attempted briefly to make myself understood that this was not at all the destination I had requested, but he frankly wasn't having any of it, freeing his vehicle of myself and my baggage with almost superhuman speed before jetting off to his next misadventure. I pray that all of the customers he has since received speak French, otherwise a few have probably found themselves in some unwanted locations.

Anyway, I found myself at the metro station with approximately twenty minutes to get to my train. It wasn't impossible but things were looking grim. Luckily, I'd planned for this eventuality as well, and had prepared the requisite €1.80 ahead of time in my pocket. A queue for the ticket machine had formed, and I made my way to join it, tilting my head from one side to the other in an attempt to catch a view of how the thing worked and what I needed to press for a simple ticket. 

The woman in front turned to face me, "fjksf hkjgn al ajdlkjg djxkf tj wori t?" she inquired. Well, not exactly in those words, but I'm trying to convey the level of comprehension I had at the time. It sounded like everyone was speaking a language I'd never even heard of, all of the simple little sentences from my online videos were replaced with this almost elven-sounding tongue. My face must have worn a startlingly confused expression because no sooner had she finished her question than she gave a sigh, a flap of the hand, and turned back around.

"Hope that doesn't happen again." I thought to myself, becoming increasingly concerned about my communicative prospects in this country. A metro car arrived behind us, greeted with the sighs and groans of those in the queue that suggested most of us (myself certainly) wouldn't have time to buy our tickets and climb aboard. Those at the front of the queue were evidently feeling the pressure and attempted to hasten their transaction, but no sooner had the car arrived than it sped-off again. 

I eventually reached the front of the queue, and luckily French is easier to understand when it's written down. I saw the word "Acheter" and pressed the screen, feeling a sudden sense of patriotism as I saw the Union Flag appear amongst a selection of languages. Here, I must just take a moment to commend the French on this feature. Whether you're buying train tickets, paying for petrol, or using a cash machine, there's nearly always a selection of languages available to ease the process. It's a function that's saved my bacon on more than one occasion, and this was the first.

After muddling my way through some translations that weren't entirely comprehensible, I collected my ticket and awaited the metro. It arrived quickly enough and I climbed aboard, promptly being treated to my first glimpse of what I now call the "French Stare". Maybe it's just me, but I've noticed the French people seem to have a certain predisposition for staring at almost every human being they come across. My partner tells me they're quite a judgemental nation, and all enjoy observing one another. I also feel that my look betrays my foreign identity, rendering me more prone to glances as a result.

Regardless, it's a disconcerting experience when it happens, and in this case, it was very disconcerting. I felt like a penguin who'd wandered into a monkey's-only bar. Genuinely, it's very easy to feel completely out of place when you have a dozen people staring at you like that. After catching one too many sets of eyes, I decided to spend the remainder of the journey looking out of the window, and began trying to remember the order of metro stops.

Unfortunately, I hadn't quite prepared thoroughly enough for this turn of events. I knew I had to get off the metro a few stops into the town, but wasn't sure on the name. Meanwhile, my partner was frantically and fearfully texting me as she and her parents began to worry for my arrival. In short, it was all going badly.

The metro sped into the town and I began to recognise some of the stop names from the list I'd read the night before. I had some basic idea of the layout of the town, and decided to get off a few moments later with a large group of people. Looking at a town from a bird's eye view online and attempting to reconcile that image with the view from down below is pretty difficult, however.

I found myself with about six possible streets to take, and luck must have smiled on me that day as I semi-randomly made my decision. A short walk later and I spotted a signpost "Gare SNCF". The station! A sigh of relief left my lips, muted by the grind of the rolling wheels of my suitcase. The French Stare continued to follow me as I made my way through the town, following the signs and breaking into a brisk jog as I realised my train was scheduled to leave in a little less than two minutes. I knew it was already too late, but I was eager to put my partner and her family's minds at rest by at least making it to the station.

A little while later I did just that. I entered the station doorway, looking up at the grand clock that dominated the lobby; the train had long since gone. Now it was time to find the next one. Following SMS instructions, I had a look on the ticket machines (again, in English) and found trains leaving every hour or so in the direction I wanted. That's not so bad, I thought, but it interfered with the plans of my girlfriend's mother and suddenly we weren't sure what to do.

Luckily, after an afternoon wrought with misfortune, a little miracle arrived. My girlfriend got in contact with a friend whose mother offered to collect me. I only had to wait about ninety minutes or so for the right train to come. Honestly, the time flew. Despite repeated and creepy moments of the French Stare in full effect, I sat quite comfortably in the waiting area, listening to the people around me talk with words I had no chance of understanding. 

Despite the scary side of it all, there's something immensely calming about being in a situation like that. When you can't understand what people are saying, you feel quite at peace. You don't attach to their conversations, you don't wonder whose baby those two women are chatting about or why that guy is so angry on his phone; you just hear the lovely sounds without the often less-lovely meanings.

Thus, the time flew, soon I was on the train and finally on the last stretch of the journey. The ride itself went without a hitch and I was off before I knew it, straightening my shirt and fixing my hair as I began the long walk to the car park where she was waiting. Thus, that's where I end today's post, the remainder of the day will be discussed another time. Despite the hiccups, it's a journey I would relive again and again, and the lessons I learnt remain valuable to every traveller; always be prepared, learn a bit of the local lingo, and for every plan B, make a plan C.

French Customer Service: Impolite or Misconceived?

"Good day!" Calls out the seller cheerfully as my feet cross the threshold. "May I help you with anything?" She offers shortly afterwards, taking the time to judge my size in jeans by eye as she notices my interest and directs me to the right section. "How do they fit him?" She asks my partner who searches for the next size up whilst I grimace at my increasing waistline in the mirror. "Tell him not to worry, these are a slim pair of jeans and it's normal to need a larger size than usual." She advises thoughtfully. My mind settled on two pairs, we head to the counter where she smiles and asks once more if I'm happy with the fit. The transaction is completed, and she bids us a lovely remainder of our day. This is my most recent experience of French customer service, and I'm pleased to say it is anything but an isolated case. 

Where does it come from, that classic cliché of the rude French seller? Plenty of us have heard words along the lines; "The French don't even bother trying to speak English!", "It's a nightmare to buy things from such rude people." or "If you don't speak French to them, they treat you badly." I arrived in France with such warnings ringing fresh in my ears, but have encountered nothing but service ranging from fine to fantastic, with plenty more of the latter at that. From what I've been able to discern, the criticism has stemmed from nothing more than national pride and common courtesy. At least this is the impression I have received from those I have spoken to. Put simply, the French have a right to be proud of their history and the importance of their language and naturally don't appreciate when others ignore this, and they also tend to, quite rightly, believe it is only common manners when visiting another country to take a stab at the local lingo or at least not wander around speaking rapid, complex English and expecting universal comprehension.

Fiction : Reality ?

France is one of the great historical nations, they had an Empire, they conquered unknown lands, their language was spoken far and wide (particularly in England for a very long time), and they remain a dominant global force still today as one of the richest countries worldwide. They're important, and so is their language, and what I've gathered is that they simply wouldn't mind some of us "Anglo-Saxons" (as they call anyone from Britain or the US) acknowledging that by saying a simple "Bonjour" when we enter a shop, rather than kicking off each conversation with "Do you speak English?". It's not the tallest of orders, especially since we do use thousands of French words on a regular basis and the basics of Bonjour/Au Revoir/Merci are reasonably common knowledge. Simply put, if you make an effort, they'll make an effort. The philosophy I've seen here is not so much "The customer is king", rather "The customer is welcome, but not entitled to be rude", more "Customer Service" than "Customer Servants". 

The little story in my introduction naturally occurred in French, but in the very first week I arrived here, I was similarly shopping for jeans when a young worker approached me. Upon realising I was English, he went on to conduct an entire sale in my native tongue with flawless execution. I think any native English speaker, be he British, American, or otherwise, would admit the nigh on impossible odds of a seller in one of our countries suddenly breaking out into French or German or indeed any other language to cater for a foreign customer. Of course I'm not denying it could and does happen, but visitors to our lands are, more often than not, expected to speak our way. English is indeed a global language and with that have come many great things, but also a hideous arrogance and sense of entitlement on the part of its native speakers. It appears that some of us turn up abroad and expect the locals to understand us, and if not we chide them, no better than our imperialistic ancestors.

My civil union partner worked as a cashier a couple of summers ago and encountered a wide range of English-speaking tourists. Very few actually attempted to speak French with her, but since she has an excellent level of English, she replied to them and helped them out. However, she still found it rude when, for instance, a man opened a conversation with "Do you speak English?" to which she would reply in the affirmative, and he went on to talk as though he were at home, without making a slight effort to articulate or speak more slowly, and promptly having the gall to loudly sigh at her when she couldn't understand something he said, as if he were saying "Why did you tell me you could speak English, silly foreigner?". Surely such a scenario should involve far more humility on the English-speaker's part, but apparently he believed the opposite. Personally, I'd feel incredibly rude visiting a foreign country armed linguistically with nothing but my mother tongue, and I'm sure there are plenty of English, Americans, Australians, etc. who agree with me and do take the time to study before arrival. However, from what I've heard and seen, the above scenario is not all that uncommon with English-speaking tourists, and I'm sure in the position of the shop worker, anyone would feel a sense of frustration in a case like that.

I came here with no knowledge of French but have picked it up as I've gone along, and even in the early days I attempted the basics, thus I've encountered no problems. Perhaps if I did walk around speaking English and expecting everyone to understand me, I might encounter some of the famed rudeness but frankly I'd expect nothing less. You'll have noticed earlier I mentioned saying "Bonjour" when entering a shop, and this is very common practice from what I've seen. I could count on one hand the number of times I've crossed a store's doorway and not been greeted within a few moments of my arrival. This is a country where saying hello, goodbye, and wishing everyone a pleasant day is a fundamental role of a customer service worker, something sincerely lacking from those in my English hometown. Genuinely, whether they be old or young workers, timid or bold, whether they be in big brand supermarkets or the bakery on the corner, I've always been greeted warmly and help has been provided when needed.

From my brief time and experiences in France, I've found the horror stories of customer service to be nothing but fairy tales. I've seen a people who simply, from time to time, get a little fed-up of having to bow down to Anglo-Saxons in every walk of life. Of course if you walk up to a foreigner and have the arrogance to be surprised when they don't speak your language, they might get a little rude. But the only legitimate complaint to be made in that instance is against you, not them. The English language already dominates an inordinate amount of the world, forcing countries like France to learn our language from primary school age all the way through to university (where it is often a compulsory subject in addition to the main body of study). Thus, we live in a world where an impressive majority of the people I've met in France speak very good English, while back home barely 10,000 students took French as an A-Level option last year out of the approximate 800,000. The horror stories need a new subject, and I think we only have to look in a mirror to see the ideal candidates.

Bonjour!

Hello there! As an Englishman having lived in France for nearly 18 months now, I've naturally garnered an amusing collection of stories. I've learnt a lot about a country and a people that we all (especially the English) have our own little image of. I thought that now was a fine time to share some of my experiences of this wonderful country, to see if I couldn't lend a hand to refining that image just a bit. If anyone out there is fascinated by la France, would like to learn a little bit more about locations outside of Paris and the Riviera, fancies having some of their clichés about the French busted, is interested in reading some entertaining anecdotes about life abroad, or even aspires to take the same plunge I did and move to the other side of la Manche, I hope there'll be something to interest you here.

Firstly, and most importantly of all, I would like to point out that I have absolutely no belief that I know the French better than anyone else. Living here 18 months is not nearly enough for that, and even if I spend the rest of my life in France I'll never have any claim to offer some kind of definitive guide to the country. I see a lot of travellers, expatriates, and even popular authors who seem more of the opinion that, because they live in a country or have visited it a great deal, they can speak for it. I'm English and lived in England for twenty years before coming here, but I would never say I know how all English people think and hardly regard myself as some kind of Anglo-expert, and it's the same deal here. I am one person, and one person, even with a lifetime of study, travel, and experiences, can never lay claim to having a conclusive knowledge of even a region, let alone a country. 

No, what I do believe instead is that, just like in any country, everyone's experience will differ because every citizen of every country is an individual who will react in different ways. Of course, there are certain mannerisms that are more common, reactions that you grow to expect, certain social rules by which the majority abide, and shared mindsets amongst communities; these are all things I have witnessed amongst the French and feel content to comment upon. However, there's no need to expect statements like "All French people prefer X!" or "Never say Y in front of a French woman!" here on this blog. As I said, I'm one man interacting with an infinitesimally small amount of people in the grand scheme of things. I'm happy to share what I've learnt personally about this country and its inhabitants, but please do never take it as gospel. There could be another expat who lives just down the road from me who has encountered a completely different group of people to myself and has developed a completely different understanding of the French. That's one of the wonderful things about travelling, your experiences will always vary.

With that out of the way, I'll briefly introduce myself now (although I'm sure you'll get to know me better through my posts) and give you a little background on why I'm here in the first place. My name is Michael, I'm an English Language and Literature graduate (I know, not the ideal study choice for someone living outside of England) and right now my aspiration is to become a tutor or teacher of my mother tongue here in Brittany. Why did I come here? Well, like so many classic stories, it was all about love. I made contact with a French girl via a pen pals website; we exchanged ideas, discussed the differences between our countries, shared many a joke about our respective cultures, and quickly fell for one another. With that, nothing was going to stop me getting myself over the Channel to meet this mademoiselle in reality. I did just that and now find myself living with her as a civilly unionised couple (that's a story for another post).

So there you have it, welcome to the blog and I hope you enjoy the little moments of my life in France that I plan to share with you. There'll be some funny stories, a few useful tips for those in a similar position to myself, some stereotypes shall be dissected, others you might not have heard of will be introduced, and hopefully anyone finding themselves on this blog will leave with a slightly different view of our French amis than they had to begin with.