France: Log 1

So far life in France has been amazing. After 30 baguettes, ¾ a kilo of Nutella, one (maybe 20) too many glasses of wine, endless fromage and 50 million grammatical mistakes, I can say that I have experienced the “English speaker in France” experience to a hilt.

My first “girl’s night out” with my roommates was few nights ago and I’m proud to say that even though I have yet to go to the Ponts des Arts (The Lock Bridge) or experience the perennial Eiffel Tower moment, I felt very in France.

At the moment, I’m in Dinard, a quaint little tourist beach town. Sadly, there are only 2 age groups here; the old/retired and schoolers. Naturally, finding somewhere to go on a Friday night or any other week night is virtually impossible for a young girl like myself.

BUT, my German roommate and I had spent the afternoon before drinking a bottle of wine on a school night and laughing ourselves out of boredom. We told ourselves that the next night would not find us in this same position.

Alas, we found ourselves in a bar, the name of which we could not pronounce (least of all after a few drinks), La Taratata. Walking from the school, where we (the Jamaican, the German and the Spanish) live in an apartment (flat, as they call it here in Europe), the roads were empty. Ghosttown. We encountered some of our students on our walk through the Valley of Nobody who called us by name from the tops of rooftops or from their bedroom balconies. Apart from these clearly inebriated souls, the town was asleep.

Hélas (Alas in French), after walking and not finding a soul we came across Taratata and heard music.

(Cue angels singing)

There was a little band; a couple singers on rotation, 3 guitarists, a drummer and a harpist (YES a harpist) and they were singing English and French classics. We met up on a few students (15 or 20) and their grand and great grandparents but it was a chill likkle vibe.

Suuuuurree, they sang I Wanna Lay Down My Burdens Down by the Riverside, which I’m sure is a Jamaican church hymn sang to the tune of impending death, but it was fun all the same. Halfway through my Blue Lagoon when they started to sing When the Saints Go Marching In, I was in tears because I had the distinct impression that I was zapped back to Jamaica in a little corner church. I refused to believe that I was in France, reputably one of the most secular countries in Western Europe, and humming along to Christian funeral songs.

The funniest part is that the singers, and more than half the audience had absolutely no idea what they were singing or listening to although they seemed to know all the words.

All in all, it wasn’t a total bust for a GNO. Maybe next time I’ll go to a club, with people born in the time of dial up internet (not before, or long after) and listen to songs more my century.

À plus!!