D-day has arrived and similar to 6th June 1944, I write this as I cross the Channel ready to battle through France (with my awful accent and some very heavy suitcases). Of course unlike D-day I hope to be welcomed by baguettes rather than bullets flying from Nazi machine guns. As Eisenhower proclaimed of their operation however, I too “will accept nothing less than full victory” from my own conquest. (And by full victory I mean the ability to eat croissants every day for a year without returning to England the size of a baby elephant. Learning some french along the way would also be good).
So here i sit; coach B, seat 44, clinging desperately to a positive attitude and a huge cup of coffee. It all feels very surreal at the moment but that could be due to it being 7:19am and having already consumed the whole week’s recommended caffeine intake.
After setting off from Peterborough at 5:10am, the plan is to take the eurostar down to Marseille and hop across to Toulon. Easy enough on paper but considerably complicated by the fact that we have six large cases and four bags between three of us. Assuming we survive the trek, once unpacked and settled into my little studio, tomorrow is set aside for sorting out bank accounts, loans, SIM cards and other grown up nonsense. I’m very lucky my mum’s done a year abroad herself and my dad’s annoyingly particular about things otherwise I would quite frankly be living in a hole. All that’s left then is a bloody huge trip to carrefour and then my parents are due to leave early Sunday morning. I think that’s when this huge cup of coffee will wear off and everything will get real and scary. But that’s what I thought about uni and after one shot of vodka all my nerves disappeared into the best two years of my life, so let’s hope the vodka is just as charming in the South of France.
Sadly the hopeful and well caffeinated me had no idea things in France would be quite so difficult. The above was written and ready to post on Friday but from the minute we arrived in Toulon things didn’t really go to plan. This is therefore an edit of my optimistic little D-day post – the uncut version without the lovely smiley social media filter.
After a stressful evening of making appointments and to do lists on Friday, we wandered down to Gaétano et Fils and innocently tucked into lots of pizza and wine, thinking the worst was over. Bless us…
Saturday we had a bank appointment but were quickly told there is no way I could open an account without numerous codes and documents; one being a tax number from the school. We couldn’t get to the school until monday, so we trotted off unphased to Orange to get a phone and wifi. No can do: I need a bank. No problem we thought, let’s move into the studio today and the rest can be done tomorrow. I unpacked to find that my hot water doesn’t work and I can’t have more than one light or appliance on without my entire electricity supply cutting out every five mins. My lovely landlord promised to get this sorted and I unpacked by torchlight.
Sunday morning arrives and we have nothing other than ‘buy houseplant’ crossed off the list. Slightly worrying as my parents are due to leave in what was a matter of hours and contrary to my previous post, I quite frankly do seem to be living in a wifi-less hole sans electricity and hot water. My landlord returns to explain that he can’t fix anything because everything is closed on a Sunday. Mum therefore insists on staying an extra day to speed up ticking off our entire to do list the following day.
Monday does not live up to our efficient expectations. I meet my mentor at the school I am due to be working at and am instantly at ease thanks to how friendly the staff are. Aurélie speaks perfect english and I shoot her a lot of nervous looks when the staff speak too quickly. The problem, of course, was in the paperwork – the school have never heard of this necessary tax number and tell me the bank is ‘bête’. This is true but not helpful.
Following Aurélie’s advice to change banks, we then trek 40 mins to a HSBC in Mourillon only to find that banks in France are closed on Mondays because of course they are. Desperately trying not to be disheartened we change plans and head to the CAF office to apply for my accommodation grant. They want another 100 forms and documents, including a social security number. We slump over to the sécurité sociale office and are told I need a bank account. Back to square one.
After already writing the day off as unproductive, later that evening whilst organising my swarms of paperwork, I find out that in small print I have also been allocated to another school; more uncertainty, more nervous meetings and inevitably more forms. Excellent. I then get an email about needing my birth certificate translated despite being told otherwise and that I must fill in more paperwork for medical and house insurance. At this point I declare myself defeated by the french bureaucracy system. Not even the cheese seems worth staying for anymore.
Following more tears and a cup of tea (after waiting 35 mins for the kettle to boil due to the temperamental electricity), I message the other language assistants in Toulon and it seems I am not alone in wanting to rip up all french paperwork. Quite on cue, a very happy Monsieur le landlord pops his head in to say the electricity and hot water is all fixed. I shower him with kisses before testing out the actual shower.
This brings us to today: a fresh baguette for breakfast and everything has fallen into place from there – a bank account, a french SIM card, wifi, railcard, and gym membership. Still a very long to do list but one I’m now excited to complete. Seemingly baguettes are the new vodka shots!
