Les Discothèques

Two months in and we have finally dabbled in the nightlife of Nantes. It is really weird because there are lots of clusters of bars and clubs but they are not all in the same place.  Bouffay offers the chilled student bars in the form of an Irish Bar, Pti Zync and its 3 euro pints and Havanas avec les très bons cocktails to name a few. Then there is Angers à Banane (literally Banana Hammock), home to the huge sweaty LC club and some really cool bars which I don’t know the name of. (not at all because I am rarely there sober- LAD). Here is a little run down of our last few nights out.

“Mum I am just ringing to tell you... *sob* I just don’t like Tesco Peanut-Butter!”

Most of our group had gone home/had family visiting so the few of us that were left (Myself, Lou, Livi, Lauren, Claire and her boyfriend Chris, and Doug) started in Bouffay, setting the ball rolling with beaucoup de verres du vin and then eventually some of us went to Angers à Banane  to see a friend of Doug’s DJ. All was fine we were chatting away, Becks and her Mum came and joined us. Too much wine, heart to hearts and bloody whisky shots later, it was time to go home. For some reason it was completely logical for me to go home to Livi’s instead of walking back with Lou. It wasn’t so logical the next day when I had to get the tram in the night before’s clothes past all the keen bean athletes running the Nantes marathon. Errrgh. I also outdid myself on a scale of one to twat with drunk phone calls to Ange. I didn’t think I’d beat ringing her to ask her to sing the Welsh National Anthem, but OH NO! It was so important that I rang her to tell her that I didn’t like the tesco peanut butter she bought me and I was really sorry but I didn’t want it in the kitchen. What. A. Dick.

Scagged tights, Broken i-phones and Exaggerated Accents. (A standard night out for me at home but not so common in France).

It was our American friend Halina’s anniversaire so we went out with them and a few of the Cardiff Uni medics to a few bars in Bouffay and then, once again caught the bus to Angar à Banane. We were CRAVING a proper dance, but as it was a Saturday night everywhere was so expensive. I was alright because in true cheap skate style, Annie, Claire and I had had a few glasses of wine that quickly turned into bottles before we met everyone so as soon as we heard any form of English music we were over the moon. A bit of J-Lo, Black Eyed Peas and other Old School Pop never hurt anyone right? It was the type of music we would hate hearing at home but it was just so good to dance. We (well mainly me) was up on the platform straight away (cringe), somehow managing to scag my tights on the way up- ever the classy lady. Annie somehow attracted the attention of some weirdo guy who would not leave us alone. He was going at it like a trooper, desperately trying to dance with her bless him, but alas! Us British girls know how to save a friend in need, *cue aggressive booty shakes to get him out of the way.* He eventually got the picture. Ooh I forgot to mention, on the bus we bumped into some of the other Erasmus students, some of which are Irish. In my tipsy state it was such a good idea to emphasise our welsh/irish/whatever-british accents and be rowdy and just generally pretty cringe. I really don’t know why I do it to myself, très embarrassing. I ended up staying at Ellie’s so I didn’t have to walk through the ghetto to my flat alone, très bon plan, and then we both dragged ourselves out of bed for a heavenly pasta box mmmm. It suddenly wasn’t so heavenly when I realised I had broken yet another i-phone. Knob.

“La Soirée Anglaise”

Because we don’t speak enough English here (hmmm... yeah), we decided it was a good idea to go to the English night. However, the bar was too busy so we found another place and about twenty of us had a lovely evening chatting. OH MY GOD, never have I ever encountered such a weird guy as the Barman in that bar. He was French, but his family were from Wigan so he had the weirdest accent and he had absolutely no concept of personal space. He was going on about how "he sold to everyone, he gives people what they want" for a good ten minutes before I piped up with "do you sell yourself?" Good one Jess. He went on to ask me "what would you say if I killed a rabbit right now and checked if it had cancer?" (he apparently sells medical supplies or something). SO FREAKING WEIRD. He also farted in his hands and blew it to share the wealth with all of us. What a lovely guy eh?

Les Choses Bizarres de France

1. They strike. ALL THE TIME. Since I have been here there has been a strike every week. There is one going on right now and as I am sat in the internet café, there are masses of people walking past with huge banners, loud music, bangers and vans protesting the retirement age (still).

2. The toilets. Most of them are communal so when you walk in you have to hide your shock at seeing a full frontal man at the urinal as you walk past to the cubicles. Not pleasant.

3. The fashion sense. I have said this before but it's just so weird. You get two complete extremes! People are either really amazingly fashionable or completely tragically challenged in that department wearing beige trainers, Eastpak rucksacks and ankle swingers. TRES BIZARRE.

4. Sundays are literally days of rest. Absolutely nothing is open apart from fast food places and the odd tabac if you are lucky. Thus when you have a disgusting hangover and all you want in life is to munch on a bar of chocolate it is just not possible. 

5. Opening hours in general. The restaurants, banks, offices, shops etc can just pick and choose when they want to open. You can't get any food between 2-7pm, if you want anything on a saturday you need to get up at obscene o'clock and trying to get any letters signed etc is completely impossible.

6. No taxis. The trams are really reliable until 12.30 at night Sunday-Friday and 2.30 on a Saturday. however after the last tram there is no other way of getting home and taxi companies just don't generally answer. It's not ideal.

7. They don't have baked beans. Their Diet Coke tastes really weird as does their chocolate. You can't buy chocolate in bars or single packets of crisps, they only buy in bulk. You can't get naan breads or poppadoms and the curries in restaurants are just vile.

8. All the students actually go to all their lessons and they run from 8am until 7pm. Not natural.

To be continued...

"Je ne veux pas être prostituée!"

Last Thursday, we all went out for drinks after our IRFFLE classes because most of us had fridays off. Too many 3 euro pints later, we once again adopted the typical rowdy, British sterotypes and ended up shotting double whiskies and making friends with these random french guys.
These guys were absolutely hilarious and loved Welsh rugby, so as you can imagine, I got massively over excited, especially after Matt had been  handing out the Welsh abuse all night. He even knew the Welsh anthem in French so we sang that in the middle of the bar (cringe).
Then one of the french people stole my phone saying he thought it was his. all tres bizarre- why on earth would a french person have the pile of shit phone I have? Got it back though and all was fine.
We all raced to get the last tram home, Doug (or Doog as the French say) got on his, then Bex, Lou and I got on ours for all of three stops. It was only when we were at the stop Motte Rouge on the side of the beautiful Loire that Lou had to get off because she'd vommed on the tram. Classy bird!

 She then preceeded to vom over the side of the barrier on to the boats when a really geeky looking french guy started talking to us. Me in my stupid rowdy state convinced myself he was a pimp and shouted at the top of my voice that I didn't want to be a prostitute or be pimped out. WHAT. A. DICK.
Becks eventually got Lou and I away from him and we started the MISSION home. Becks took us some long winded way where we essentially walked in circles and ended up walking through a dark, scary forest, *cue my strop.*
Having been on the phone to taxi services for about an hour, using all Lou and I's credit being on hold (Nantes doesn't really do taxis) I was getting really pissy and had blisters galore, plus i had fallen over in the mud.
We dropped Becks off at her halls, had a drunken chat and got home at 3am both absolutely shattered.
As you can tell, we are not doing very well as far as adopting the elegant French female behavioral traits goes.

An Ode To A Small One

I met a girl named Ellie,

When I came to France,

We played lots of cards,

And had a good dance.

A hobbit she's like,

All small and cute,

But she snores like a bear,

The little beaut.

She is never on time, 

She's usually late,

With dry-shampoo in her hair,

It's morning she hates.

Don't underestimate her,

Because she is small,

A tube of smarties in ten seconds,

She can neck them all.

She makes me laugh,

When she tells me a joke,

"I'll 'av an Orangina,

No not a Coke!"

I love this girl Ellie,

She's like our flat pet,

With mezzo pasta all round,

For this term we're set.

She gets my drift,

When most can not,

She let me cut her hair,

And it looks hot!

She talks of mince and bras,

Oh and binbags as well,

And plays Super Bijoju Quete,

Because our new phones are so swell.

She rocks around Nantes,

With her Newport twang,

I loves her I do,

I haves fun when we hang.

LvZ u BbZ

xXxXxXxXx

Potato Loving, Mange Prie Aime and Bon Saves

We might have just found THE best restaurant in Nantes. Forget the wonders of French cuisine, this restaurant encapsulates everything a hungover student will ever need- CARBS. The clue is in the name to be honest - "L'amour de Pommes de Terres" which means love of the potatoes. Claire, Annie, Ellie and I were in a pretty bad mood as it was, as the French say, "Il pleut comme vache qui pisse" (literally raining like a cow that pisses), so we went for lunch to cheer ourselves up. never before in my life have I seen a portion so big. We had masses of chips, a jacket potato with garlic butter, a salad AND the meat we had chosen which we cooked ourselves on a hot stone thing. A-M-A-Z-I-N-G!

After Ellie stopped fannying about raw meat touching her fork and hands and tried to clean her fingers of bacteria by touching the stone (stupid girl) we were all completely and utterly full to the brim to the point where we could not move. Every city needs a restaurant like this place.

Continuing our not so French cultural experiences we went to see Mange, Prie, Aime in french. Two and a half long and boring hours later our minds and asses were completely numb. What a distressingly boring film! Naturally, to sort our lives out, we hit a bar and met some lovely American people. (Still continuing to rack up English speaking friends- good one.)

Today, we went to see an ice hockey match. We were trying to figure out what the average sophisticated French person would say to encourage their team, clapping enthusiastically whilst saying "très bien!" and "bon save!" however, more than 10 sin bins later we realised that the french crowd were not so refined after all! With bellows of "PUTAIN!" and "ALLEZ!" here, there and everywhere! On top of that they kept playing 10 seconds snippets of random songs  everytime they stopped the clock to do penalties etc and the pathetic excuse for cheerleaders were absolutely horrendous. No wonder Nantes lost. Even more upsetting, we left because we were bored after an hour and just as we walked past the window outside the match ended and all the hot players took their masks off. We didn't even get to perve. Pffft.

Pays de Where?

As Erasmus students, we are getting used to being immediately labelled as not French, just from little details like what we wear (no stupid back packs or beige trainers for us thanks) and how we speak (welsh accent? me?) So to help us blend in and improve our french the uni threw us a party where we were so generously given bright yellow wristbands to show we were International students. However embarrassing it was initially, it was actually quite fun as everyone swigged from concoctions they had smuggled in and got merrier and merrier as the night progressed.

Ellie, Claire, Annie and I started talking to some French boys called Vincent, Clement and Willy (LOL). They laughed at our french as we laughed at their English. Willy actually looked like Borat and said his name with some sort of weird Scottish accent, it was tres amusant.

Having been here a while now, I have realised that French girls stand at the hand dryers after relieving themselves until their hands are bone dry, no matter how long the queue behind them is. It's a bloody joke! It was ranting about this that we discovered that the word for 'queue' in french is exactly the same as the word for 'cock.' I couldn't understand why they found it so funny when I came back saying 'Desolée, il y avait un grand queue' until they explained. Way to look cool Jess!

*Prepare yourself for rant*
I know since uni and all the abuse I get their from the jealous English, I have become maybe just slightly too patriotic, but how can people NOT know where "Pays de Galles" is when they know Scotland, Ireland and England? (No jokes please). I genuinely am shocked and appalled. Even the guy in the kebab shop didn't know where it was when it turns out he lived in bloody Merthyr Tydfil for 3 years! Although, the fact he had lived in Merthyr said a lot (no offense intended). But seriously, the French better buck up their ideas before I send a stern-worded letter to the Minister of Education explain just how disgusting I think it is that they insist on making everyone here learn English yet don't teach them about Britain and it's FOUR countries. (I will probably never get round to this as I spend most of my free time catching up on crap American tv but still). HMPH. L-I-V-I-D.

That is all.

Threesome, Foursome, Anal Sex...

Having still not sorted out our timetables, Monday (27th September) began with a talk with our lovely "résponsable" Georges Letissier. He is an absolute sweetheart, speaking fluent English (thank God) but with a really questionable accent. Lou and I got there along with Matt and Bex ready to moan about how confused we were. In true French administrative fashion he couldn't really give us a straight answer as to which module was worth how many credits so we ended up leaving even more confused. Good one Georgie. "I AM PISSED OFF BEYOND RELIEEEEF/BELIEEEF!"

After a cup of tea on campus we managed to derive our timetables, having considered modules in Latin, Economics and History in a desperate bid to ensure we had at least one day off. I ended up with a pretty, multi-coloured timetable with eight credits worth off translation (ergh), a french communication lecture which is just like media, an English civilization module and the French evening classes which is just about fifteen credits and a pretty tidy Tuesdays and Fridays LIBRE. Doug had slept through the meeting with Georges, so as a punishment we thought it was only fair to wind him up. We told him that Georges was really angry with him and to get his fifteen credits he had to do twenty two and a half hours a week and that we had signed him up for Tudor modules, Latin and Economics on top of the translation modules. It was really cruel of us, but it was funny to see the panic-stricken look on his face.

We mooched around campus until 1.30 when we all spread out in the next classroom praying that we wouldn't get thrown out again. We were in luck, the lady was lovely, but I can see her getting really angry with us all for correcting her translation in the future haha. A personal favourite of mine was Bex telling her that in English we don't usually start sentences with "But." (you will understand why this was my favourite by the end of this entry).

To celebrate our first successful day in uni, we decided to go to the pub (obviously). In good old British-Student style we ended up getting rowdy, singing 90s classics, playing the Rizla game, Shag Marry or Push and I have never (fueled by a few too many pints and some really dodgy shots). Doug lost the Rizla game as Christopher Robin, and other people/characters included Bill Gates, Jigglypuff, Judi Dench, Dick Van Dyke and Crash Bandicoot.

The 90s medley then took over as we all sang at the top of our voices classics such as City High, Spice Girls, B*witched, Five etc... The French weren't too keen surprisingly and just looked at us in disgrace. Doug was loving it singing along with us, so don't believe a thing he says otherwise.

Then it came to I have never. Well! What a bunch of sexual deviants we turned out to be! I won't go into too much detail for fear of my life, but let's just say the "But" argument from translation earlier that day was taken to new levels with the invention of "THREESOME FOURSOME ANAL SEX." The barman also got involved, and told us of a lovely sexual position called Houdini or something, here's a tip for guys- if you want a broken nose I'd suggest you try it sometime!

As you can see, we are settling into Nantes nightlife well and representing the youth of Britain appropriately... NAAAAAAAAT.