Merde. I'm being humped by a bear. No, really.

Us English always pride ourselves on our eccentric traditions. Pantomimes, bonfire night, morris dancing, the list goes on. Who else in the world would ever even consider standing in the cold November drizzle to watch some poor dummy get plonked on a bonfire, or dance gormlessly around with bells and sticks, or have men dress up in make up, over the top dresses and silly wigs? What a ridiculous idea. Except, and prepare yourselves, the French can absolutely kick our oh so eccentric and patriotic pale-fleshed arses in this department, as I found out last night at the Bernais carnival of Pau.

I didn't really listen properly when my teacher told us the legend that this utterly bizaare tradition stems from, but I'll refer back when I find out properly. I gained that it was something to do with bears chasing men dressed up as women, then women dressed up as hunter men chasing the bears thus saving the men/women.... You can probably understand why I gave up listening. I wasn't even very bothered about going to this part of the carnival, I would have preferred to be totally uncultured and go to the Valentines pub quiz at 'le garage'. But my flatmates persuaded me that it was a necessary part of the Bearn culture to nourish myself with (translated literally- and by the way, Bearn is the region of France that Pau is in. Not technically, but culturally. Or something). We also met up with some English friends, Lara and Sinead, and off we trundled to the chateau, where this ridiculous affair was to take place. The atmosphere was vivacious and wonderful when we arrived, a brass band were in full swing and the tiny square was crammed with people. A group of men in funny flowery suits danced along. Overfed old men leaned out of their French windows in the buildings above, happily awaiting the event to commence. I was suddenely content and filled with the infectious excitement that surrounded me. However, the first peice of unease was already present: All around me there were hairy men dressed in pink wigs, mini skirts and blouses with balloons stuffed down them to constitue as breasts. They ran around shrieking in high pitched voices and giggling wildly. My feminist head said this was the epitomy of the mysogynistic, chauvanistic view of women. My tolerant head told me this was an age old tradition, just laugh about it. So I did. Besides, on the stage there was tens of young women dressed as hunters with beards drawn on. The atmosphere was building, the audience was getting more and more hysterical. All of a sudden, there was a gun shot. The music got yet more hysterical, along with the crowd. The bears were released. When I say bears, they were overexcitable men dressed up in black hairy bear suits. They ran into the crowds, and after the hysterically screeching transvetites. Now came the part I was most astonished by, they starting pretending to rape the transvestites. Yes. They ran after these screeching pantomime-dame-style horrors, grabbed them, jumped on them and proceeded to hump them. I also noticed at this point, just to rub salt into the wound, that they were wearing GIANT STRAP-ON PENISES. My stiff upper lip, conservative, ingrained English-ness which I didn't even know existed got the better of me at this point. I was utterly confused, and slightly terrified as we were standing right at the front of the crowd, of whom these great penissed beasts were starting to rape as well as the transvestites. Lara, Sinead and I huddled together like giggling 4 year olds being chased by a scary adult in stuck-in-the-mud. We did not want to be humped by a bear. Some people were even being double humped. Absolutely horrifying stuff. However, soon all was to end. Luckily, the women dressed as hunters came to our rescue, hunted down the bears, and, er, castrated them. Phew. Thank God for that. They triumphantly held up the giant strap-ons to the tune of the brass band and the weird flower-suited dancers. The crowd cheered. Everyone was ecstatic. We ran. To the nearest, most English thing we could find. The pub.

A beginners guide to how not to ski.

This is a story for all those people who ‘just can’t get enough of skiing. It’s just sooooo good. Such adrenaline.’ Etc etc etc. Well, I always wondered what the attraction was to sliding around on some ridiculous platform appliances, sticks waving in the air and those horrific plastic boots that make you walk like some kind of retarded robot. And the freezing cold that creeps into your bones and stays there until you get safely back to the nice, normal, rainy temperatures of home. The only fun thing I could envisage was the hot chocolate and raclette in the evenings. What’s more, and I don’t mean to generalise as a lot of skiers I know are lovely, kind, normal people, but I’ve always associated the skiing society with those macho, competitive, ex-public school types who spend their winters in Chamonix and their summers in the villa in Greece/sailing in Antigua/in the holiday cottage in Padstow. Their ‘rah’ tones fill up the surrounding three miles and in the evenings they chortle heavily at whoever fell over the most. They fill me with bubbling rage.

Anyway, seeing as I’ve heard SUCH good things about it from so many people, I thought I would give skiing a go. After all, I’m only going to be within an hour of the Pyrenees once (probably) and I might as well take up the opportunity of a 20 euro trip, including a lesson and equipment. So off I went at some horrifically early hour on a coach of a hundred or so enthusiastic and naturally sporty French students who’d all be been practically born on skis. There were a small minority of débutants and an even smaller minority of us completement débutants. I was filled with a mixed feeling of dread and apprehension, questioning myself why I didn’t stick with my instinct to spend my Saturday at the market, making soup and recovering from my hangover from the night before.

However, my dread was replaced my excitement and nerves as we approached the peak of the mountain. It was beautiful. The snow laced the views of the Pyrenees like a delicious icing and I couldn’t wait to launch in. I was sure I would love skiing; this is what all those people were talking about. I envisaged future, working holidays with my young professional contemporaries in the Alps, whooshing around during the day and talking about black runs over beers in the evening. Later, I could bring my offspring skiing. They would become like the enthusiastic French students born on skis, fearless and full of excitement at the thought of those glistening mountains.

But the dread returned when the skis were actually attached to my poor, confused feet. I stood there frozen, slipping around at the tiniest movement. The instructors ordered us to walk like ducks half way up the slope. This was an absolutely impossible task, at least for me. Every movement constituted sliding backwards into some poor, unsuspecting young child. I could not fathom how to climb this snow and people covered hill on these obtrusive, ridiculous new substructures that had replaced my feet. Every time I moved a little bit forward I slid back four times as much. The instructors eventually dragged me into place and I joined the long queue, waiting for my turn to have a go at sliding down the slope. It looked fairly easy, and it was. Surprisingly, I didn’t fall over, just slid and screamed and got caught by an instructor that erased any of his potential rugged good looks by wearing a stupid comedy, hairy, orange hat. That was fine. But then I had to recommence the climb. This time the instructors were too busy running around trying to catch yelping, out of control Spaniards or Americans who had built up confidence and were sliding all over the place, like in some monotonous Nintendo game, so I was toute seule on my long, hard voyage. Sliding backwards reoccurred as a problem, and all I had to depend on was unsuspecting other learners to grab onto. I eventually made my way back into the queue with the help of those slightly more able then me, who kindly took my hand and showed me how to master the totally unnatural duck movement of walking sideways and digging your skis into the snow. The queue of débutants gradually depleted as people got better and were granted permission to go and try an actual, whole slope. There were six or seven of us who stayed, those who still couldn’t turn, stop or change speed. In short, ski. But by the very end of the lesson I had sort of got it. I was still awful, but I could go very slowly and turn a little bit, and even stop. I was ready for a proper slope and I was even rather excited.

We approached the top on a silly conveyer belt which you stand on and it goes very slowly, similar to those in airports. It looked completely out of place in the middle of a mountain. At the top I looked down with bubbling nerves at the bottom, so far away, but I was raring to go. The instructors were all around so I felt relatively safe as well. I started sliding, even directing where I was going a bit, until David, a fellow beginner who was kitted out in purple, 80’s style salopettes, fell over right in my path. Consequently, I crashed into him and we lay in a tangled mess until an instructor came to relieve us. With the help of this kind man, the second part of the slope was rather fun, and I even managed to get to the bottom and stop without falling over or crashing into anyone! I was on a high and went to lunch telling all my fellow skiers that I could now ski. We high-fived. I was one of them.

I ate my pasta and watched the slopes, happy in my environment. Even in my plastic boots, that I’d actually become a bit fond of. Then the thought dawned on me that there were no more lessons after lunch, we would be left to untangle and pick ourselves up when we crashed. No matter, I went up the slope with David and prepared to descend, alone. As soon as I started, I picked up speed scarily quickly, heading straight for some orange fencing, into which I crashed and had to be helped up by a friendly, chuckling French man decked out in orange salopettes and thick sun block. I survived the rest of the slope, just about, but was scared about going again, alone. Happily, I found some French friends at the bottom, my flat mate Cécile and Guillaume. Although, like all French people, they are naturally very sporty, (Guillaume doesn’t go hiking with the university because the ‘difficile’ hikes are too easy, he likes to run up mountains.) they were willing to help this poor, displaced immigrant. But not on the run I’d just done, no, that had too many people in the queue and on the conveyer belt. The slope they wanted to take me to was up a button lift, one of those lifts that has a little, well, button like thing that you balance under your bum, grab onto the pole and it hauls you up a mountain. Now, when I say I’m a complete beginner at skiing, I do lie a little. When I was around ten, my Norway-based relatives took me for the day, which involved going up one of these stupid appliances. Not having a clue what to do, I sat on the button and put my weight on my bum, forcing the whole lift to have to stop functioning so that they could rescue me from sliding down the mountain. I skied one slope after that, and then we went home after I refused to go back up the lift. Another reason why the idea of skiing has always disgusted me.

But, I decided to face my fear, and remembered how the angry Norwegian lift worker showed me how to use the lift twelve years ago, putting your weight on your feet and your arms. I clumsily followed the graceful Cécile past a load of excitable French children and grabbed a pole with a button on the end of it. I managed to stay upright and balanced, but as we rose up the mountain, I was shaking I was so scared. My skis in front of me were going in all sorts of directions as I tried to keep my balance. I remembered what Cécile had said to me, ‘reste détendue’. Relax. Relax. Relax. This was better, quite nice views actually. Wait...shit. I’d become so relaxed that my skis were all over the place. Shit. One had come off. Shit. I was off. Shit. I was sat under a lift with the excitable French children riding past and laughing at me. Luckily, I was on a flat part of the slope, so I grabbed my stray ski and took off the other one, climbing away from the lift area. Now what? I sat on the side of the mountain with absolutely no clue what to do. The only way down seemed to be an impossibly steep slope which advanced snowboarders were grinding down. I looked around. A man on skis vaguely told me to take some slope down the mountain as he swooshed past. No one else. I shouted at people going on the lift past me to ‘Trouvez l’aide s’il vous plait!’ But nothing seemed to happen. I sat for about ten minutes in thick snow, waiting to see if Cécile and Guillaume would come to my rescue. I started to cry. Eventually a nice man on a snowboard came past, and asked if he could help. Through my panicked, sobbing French, he deciphered I was English and kindly helped me down in his perfect English, cursing the university for giving me too long skis and no poles, and not staying with us for the afternoon. We walked down like mountain trekkers and he told me his life story while I told him I wanted to be a journalist. He was right when he said at least this would make a good story.

And that’s all I’ve really gained from my experience of skiing. I’ve tried it, and although I tell Cécile I’ll try again, I probably won’t. The bus journey back was smelly, cold and wet. I didn’t have that big high that people talk about, and that I sort of had before lunch. Just disappointment and a feeling of numb shock. Skiers, please don’t judge me, the reason I don’t like skiing is not because I’m scared, or because I don’t like adrenaline. I go surfing and scuba diving, which I think are proof that I do. To me, skiing was the most unnatural thing in the world. True, if I persevered I would no doubt improve and enjoy myself, but the fact remains that I have an ingrained fear of those lifts. But I’ve tried it, and I can say I’ve tried it. And who knows, in another twelve years I might try again. I’ll be able to afford to go for a week in the Alps, and have lessons 8 hours a day. But for now, I’m happy spending my Saturdays being hung-over, going to the market and making soup.

What is it with the mass amount of hobos that have gathered outside Les Halles, Pau recently? Sorry to be an awful snob, but it's not like they seem to be having a bad time. There's a massive gang of them that spend every day meeting up and getting plastered together. The equivalent of a Church coffee morning, but with Christians replaced by tramps, and coffee replaced by beer, and Church replaced by the road outside Les Halles. On arrival, I gathered that this lively market spot during the morning cum huge, empty basketball court for the rest of the time acts as the tramps' preferred place of residence. But throughout the term this colony of vagabonds have increased in number from about five to thirty five. Before, walking past the homeless crew simply involved a harmless, drunken demand for a beer. Nowadays, a simply dash to Spar is a terrifying adventure past the hairy, dirty mass of drunkards. I have experienced multiple shouts of abuse, dodged fights and nearly been vomitted on, all before midday and on numerous occasions, when all I wanted was some eggs and milk.

But where have they all come from? And why Pau? Do they perform some kind of opposite technique to hibernation in which they sleep under some bush throughout the summer then crawl out during the downpours of winter to hang out and get hammered in the rain together? Or do they migrate from Northern towns such as Paris and Lille to the South for the winter, to stay where it is warmest? Or is this just another dismal effect of the economic crisis? Were these stinking cavemen once high earning bankers whose drowning of their sorrows after being 'let go' have just gone a bit too far?

Dreadfully sorry, followers. I honestly don't know what happens to my days, weeks and semesters. Yes, semesters. I only have one week remaining in dear old Pau before scootering up to the bright lights of Gay Paris next saturday, to meet my beloved, squeal over the sights and get suitable sozzled over turning 22. Bleurgh. I'm not supposed to tell anyone my age at this point in life, the first sign of turning old, but sod it. I'll be at the top of the Eiffel Tower or similar. Then I'm heading back to London for the night, and to Antigua the following day. Smug, me? Yes, I almost hate myself. You're allowed.





Right, so what have I been up to? I climbed a mountain today, as you do. It was about 800 foot, and it was hard. The first hour I was so out of breath that my stomach was turning, my legs felt like jelly and there was a suspicious booming in my head. Bernard, 'le guide', was ridiculously over-enthusiastic and over-fit, and also over the idea of having any 'petite pauses' whatsoever. We pathetically scrambled up practically vertical slopes through woodland, desperately trying to keep up with him . When we escaped out of the woodland and into the fields things improved a little, mainly thanks to the wonderful views that made it all a bit more worthwhile. But everytime I thought we were at the summet, another summet appeared, and another, and another. And compared to the last hike, where we stayed at the top for an hour or two, sitting in the sun, drinking coffee and admiring the magnificent views, the actual summet was disappointing. It was small and grassy with rabbit poo everywhere. And it was flipping freezing. My cold sweat stuck to my back and turned to ice as the wind blasted it. I miserably ate my pasta, also cold and slimy. But it was all worth it for the descent. It was so much easier to admire the sublime mountainous scenery and lovely little Lord of The Rings-style valley below whilst not gasping for breath and shivering to death. The footing was slightly awkward but it only added a bit of adrenaline. So in the end, I stuck to my belief that I might as well have made the most of my last weekend in Pau. I could go out, get drunk and spend the next day hungover any time in Leeds, and although I nearly didn't manage it here, I couldn't climb a mountain in Leeds. Partly becuase there aren't any at a convenient distance, and partly because I wouldn't have the guts that I do here.

Today is my favourite day of the French week. It commences with a welcomed lie-in after my arduous week in classes (cough), followed by a visit to the market. It’s incredible to see two large, rather grim-looking basketball courts, usually home to the hobos of Pau, transform into the magnificent, buzzing, colourful market that is Les Halles. The place is crammed with local cultivators who furnish the courts with rows and rows of their home-grown, fresh and largely organic fruit, vegetables, cheese, eggs, herbs, meat, honey and milk. Movement is limited by the hoards of animated Pau citizens from every background, who flood here every weekend to stock up on provisions. It really is a wonderful place to do one’s weekly shop, and highlights the horrendous quality, evil mass consumption and utter tedium of Tesco, Asda, Sainsbury’s and their competitors. Here, farmers don’t need to sell their produce to supermarkets because they have places like Les Halles to go every day of the week (except Sundays). Farmers markets in Britain should be brought back to their grass roots, away from their middle class stigma and be made accessible to all. Who cares if a cauliflower is 100% certified organic if you know that it has been grown within five miles of your home, and in the same way that it has been cultivated for generations?
I have also started buying meat from the butchers, instead of L’Eclerc or Auchun. It is very comforting to see beef mince prepared right in front of your eyes, and to know that it comes straight from the cow without a load of additives added.
To my some wheat allergy-induced excitement, I later found a little independent shop which Cecile recommended with a huge gluten-free section, and stocked up on bread, rice cakes and, most exciting of all, lasagne sheets! I haven’t eaten lasagne for about a year. The kind gentleman behind the counter also gave me some gluten free biscuits to try and to report back to him about, as he was wondering whether to stock up on them (they ended up being decidedly too crunchy). I’m hoping that I will be used as a gluten-free guinea pig for new products on a regular basis.
On my return, I made a pumpkin and carrot potage with my newly-purchased vegetables, and listened to some French radio. Much of it did not go understood, but I did appreciate the thrilling combination of music all within about twenty minutes: of a rap against the government, Edith Piaf, a classical choral composition and the French translation of ‘Hey Mr Tambourine Man’ all within around twenty minutes.
I’m definitely starting to understand why the rate of obesity is half and heart-disease related deaths a third of ours in Blighty. The French eat food straight from its source, whether it is the earth or the animal. Barely anything is added in between, apart from a few herbs and spices to bring out the flavour. And they eat a good portion of this food three times a day, without fatty snacks between meals. Alors, bon appetite.

Education Education Education...... and some other updates.

It's been a while since I've posted now, and I'm sorry if I have disappointed my vast followers. Three! The excitement that prevailed at seeing this was overwhelming, thank you, loyal friends... But thanks also to those who have not yet declared themselves 'followers' but have also complimeted my blog. Please blame tardy updates on my limited access to internet, not my enthusiasm. At present I am currently battling with a rather confusing French keyboard in university. Numbers are replaced by punctuation, and full stops by semi-colons. I would have thought that even in French full stops are used more than semi-hyphens, but there you go; another French oddity to add to the list.

I started at The University of Pau et Pays d'Adour one week ago. Like all courses in French Universities the hours spent in class exceed my ten hours a week contact time in Leeds by a long way. This underlines the question asked by so many British students: Where the hell do our three thousand pounds a year actually go? French students pay a third of what we do and get triple the amount of contact time in small groups, with enthusiastic and knowledgable teachers. In England we get the equivalent of this three hours a week, while the rest are spent in enormous lecture theatres amongst a crowd exceeding two hundred, while a mediocre 'Doctor' drones on about 'sexual connotations' for an hour. In my French lectures, the lecturer barely even speaks in French! Despite the sense that I'm feeling slightly like I am back in school, I feel I will progress a lot more in University in France than I have in my two years at Leeds. Another thing that's better about France than England. Hurrumph.

It's also worth mentionning that it's ever so fascinating learning a language. Although the University does seem to be rather good at teaching French, I definitely believe that the majority of my language learning will be outside of the classroom. I've always thought of learning a language like putting together a puzzle. In primary school you gather the most basic, big peices, like alphabet and numbers. Later on you learn some vocabulary, some verbs and eventually some tenses. In college and at Leeds I have been perfecting my knowledge of these and putting the puzzle together. But the 'glue' will be speaking and listening to Cecile and my other French friends all the time, so that I eventually, fingers crossed, become fluent.

Talking of French friends, I've now become firm friends with the rather eccentric gay couple downstairs, Seb and Juan. It all started when I couldn't get my internet to work. Cecile mentionned that the guy downstairs was a bit of a computer whizz, so I turned up at the door, laptop in hand and a distraught look on my face at the idea of no facebook for the year. At 6ft 5, Seb is rather intimidating to have answer the door to you for the first time. He assertively grabbed my laptop and got to work without complaint for about half an hour, eventually and ingeniously starting up the little symbol with two computers and a world in the middle (yes, that is the extent of my computer knowledge). All the time he was tapping away, I played with the very cute black and white cat and chatted to Juan, who is very friendly and sweet. I went home happy, thinking what a nice fellow to help me with my computer. Alas, the internet failed to work again a few days later. I traipsed back round to Seb and Juan's. And a few days later. I've now given up hope with the internet, but I've made some great friends out of its failure . Liam came to visit me this weekend, which was wonderful, but we also spent rather a lot of time with Seb and Juan, who plied us (and Cecile) with drinks on Friday night, took us to Lourdes on Saturday, cooked us lunch on Sunday then drove Liam to the airport at 7 o clock on Sunday morning. They are unbelievably kind and generous and great fun to be around. And we can stay up til the early hours chatting... in French!

La vie Francaise.

So I am now fully installed in my new French life, and I like it. One of many things I have noticed about the French is their appreciation of the small but exceedingly important pleasures in life: A steaming, milky coffee from a bowl at dawn, fresh-from-the-source meat and veg (there is absolutely nothing in Cecile's freezer), smoking a cigarette on the balcony before bedtime, wine and cheese with every meal, laughing a lot. The simple, enjoyable things which the English have long since not had time to do, or thought it too much of a threat to health and safety. When all put together, these small pleasures logically add up to a generally more pleasurable standard of life. Nevertheless, the French are also a hardworking nation. Cecile, a typical example of a French student, leaves her appartment before 8 O clock every weekday morning, and stays in college until between 4 and 6pm. In the evenings, she either does homework or goes horseriding, swimming or, from time to time, socialising in bars. Polly's flatmates work during the day but return for lunch and a siesta, then again return in the evenings to enjoy supper and some drinks together.

As you may have noticed, the before-mentionned small pleasures do tend to revolve around mealtimes, and why ever should they not? It goes without saying that food is one of life's greatest pleasures. But mealtimes here are also very important in terms of their social significance, as the French generally always eat together as a family, flatmates or friends. The classic, buzzing atmosphere of a French street seething with brasseries of an evening is a fine example of the sociability food creates. Wine is also very important to the French, and is consumed alongside a meal. However, unlike Bingeing Britain, its consumption is moderated and one rarely sees a French drunkard. All in all it seems that the French have achieved an incredible balance in terms of work and play, and balance is of paramount importance. The extremes in Britain are portrayed by gossip magazines every day, comparing the obese to the anorexic. People cannot simply enjoy a glass of wine, but three bottles. Let's learn how to chat, not scream and shout. We need to take a tip from our neighbours; less is more.