So ten weeks ago, I was waking up to my first mornings in Montpellier, ready to face the challenging day ahead of having to speak proper French to proper French people and do all the serious stuff that needs to be done when you’re setting up a life somewhere. I quickly realised this wasn’t a holiday, and that actually bank accounts needed to be set up and the phone contracts needed to be taken out. Little did I know back then that it wasn’t going to be as easy as I had hoped. But I managed it, and I can safely say that after 10 weeks I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be for whatever the French bureaucratic system decides to throw my way. I now know that if you need to see the bank for whatever reason, you will have to go in, say what it is you want to discuss, be told to come back in another time, to then make an appointment….for yet another day. Sounds crazy? Pretty normal for round here. If you want to get a simple thing such as a tram pass, you will need 3 different types of document and probably a blood sample.

My illusion that the south of France is always bathed in glorious sunshine has been shattered completely this week; the summer clothes and the flip flops have been firmly stored away in the back of the wardrobe, don’t think they’ll be resurfacing anytime soon, sadly. Montpellier has been hit by some sort of monsoon season that has made it sometimes impossible to leave the house. I really wish I was kidding. I know that if I left the house I’d just get blown away by the wind and I really don’t fancy doing a Mary Poppins. It’s the kind of weather where you just want to get into bed and eat chocolate, drink tea and watch films all day. Shame I can’t do that, as it turns out I actually have a fair bit of uni work to be cracking on with. The closer it gets to the ends of term (only 6 weeks to go), the closer we get to actually having to do some work. I'd almost forgotten that that's what we're here to do...

Other small updates on my life…the battle between me and the supermarkets for fresh milk rages on – there are times when I’ve lost, meaning black coffee and dry cereal for me, yum. It’s amazing how such a little thing can become so important! So far this experience is turning me more French by the day. I now eat my steak much rarer than I'd ever have even touched before (in my opinion, it's raw, but damn it tastes good), I drink COFFEE and haven't had made a cup of tea in all my time here (sorry Steph), I've taken to olives (so sophisticated) and my staple diet consists of wine, bread and cheese (très française). I’ve also learnt another major lesson – the green man at the road crossing, which I’d always assumed was an international symbol for “you’re ok to cross now”, apparently does now have the same meaning in France. Cars can still go, so you take your life into your own hands every time.

One last thing. As much as I love France the one thing I have to admit that I’m missing more than I had realised…the English pubs. There just isn’t anything quite like them! 

Avignon

Here's a few photos taken of Avignon - another place crossed off the list!

View from Pont du Gard

Palais des Papes

Pont d'Avignon (the one with the song...)

View from Pont d'Avignon

Allez les bleus!

Today was the first and the last time in my life that I’ll ever get up so early on a Sunday to watch a match of a sport that doesn’t really interest me and where England aren’t playing. But when you’re in France, and France are playing in the Rugby World Cup final, you really don’t have much option but to go and watch it; it’d be crazy not to, right? So there I was, 10 o’ clock in the morning, cheering away and shouting at the screen like any other mad-crazed rugby fan. It really is impossible to not start chanting “Allez les bleus” along with everyone else when you’re completely surrounded by French people who are acting like this match is a life or death situation. The guy next to me kept hopping up and down and clapping, so he was clearly having a whale of a time. From the start, the crowd were booing and jeering at the All Blacks, so shouting “Allez Nouvelle Zélande” would probably have got me a punch in the face. Supporting France was the only feasible option.

Without even realising I was doing it, I got into the match more than I thought I would and was cheering/booing along with everyone else, in support of France. I have to admit, 5 minutes before the end I realised that I actually wanted New Zealand to win, and can safely say I wasn’t too disappointed with the result…

Watching the final was an experience in itself, it has to be said. First off, it took ages to find a place to sit, not just because there were so many people wanting to watch it, but also because surprisingly few bars were actually showing it. Now, if this had been England, every single pub would have some form of screen, people would take the day off work, and essentially the world would stop functioning for the entirety of the match. People here were casually drinking a beer while the match was on, but if this was England, everyone would be pissed before kick-off, no matter what the time of day. The biggest surprise of all (and something that, having only ever watched sport matches in England, I’ve never witnessed before) was that at the end of the match, the French people, despite having lost, started clapping the New Zealanders for their efforts. You wouldn’t get that at home…

Overall, it was worth getting up early for, but I won’t be doing it again in a hurry!

My most amazing find yet: 1kg of Cornflakes for 2.50 euros. I kid you not. I felt like I needed to share this with you all...

I don't even like them that much, but for that price, you can't really say no.

Beach, Ladies' Night, Bike disaster.

For the first time in my life, I can now say that I have been to the beach, in 34 degree heat, on the 12th October. I'm not even kidding. I even got a bit sunburned, thanks to my English mindset that any sunshine in October couldn't possibly be that strong and couldn't possibly burn you. Turns out it can be, and it did.

Ladies' Night: here you go girls, you're finally all getting a mention! Wednesday night was LADIES NIGHT, meaning it involved lots of wine, lots of dancing, and everyone trying to think of songs with 'ladies' or 'girls' in the title. We only managed 'Here come the girls', 'It's ladies' night' and the classic, 'Girls just wanna have fun'. Any other suggestions, answers on a postcard. So at the club, the night being all about the girls, we ignored all male advances and danced until we couldn't move anymore.

Lynn, Katie, Marie, Me, Lies - happy now, ladies?!

So after a successful night out, I decided to use the Velomagg (the bike system) to get home. The idea is that you pick up a bike at one station and deposit it at another one. Sounds simple, right? DISASTER. First of all, getting onto the bike was a mission in itself; they're huge, and I'm not. Challenge number two came from the fact that I can't actually remember the last time I rode a bike, so there's me trying to figure out what to do while the girls are falling about laughing. I finally, miraculously, managed to cycle home with both myself and the bike in one piece, and was starting to feel quite proud of myself. Only, I try to lock the bike into the station outside my house and completely fail. So there I am, feeling quite desperate and not actually knowing what on earth I'm going to do, and I'm looking at this goddamn bike and wanting to throw it under the nearest tram. Eventually, I had to stop a passer-by and beg for help - thank God they stopped and didn't just think I was a crazy person and walk on past. So, a journey that should have had me home and tucked up in bed in 10 minutes ended up in 40 minutes of panic, desperation and a good Samaritan. We finally managed to get the bike locked into place and I went home feeling sheer resentment for that stupid bike.

Decided to use it again last night. Turns out it's really easy to lock into place. Great.

Best new discovery of Montpellier so far - the lake. It's peaceful, stunning and so relaxing!

Barcelona WOOWOOWOO!!

When we heard that the Erasmus people were organising a weekend trip to Barcelona (or Buffalona, as we like to call it), the general consensus was “YES PLEASE”. But this being France and their organisation skills not being quite on top form, the Erasmus society kindly only allowed 50 places for around a thousand students, naturally meaning that most of the people who wanted to go couldn’t. Didn’t stop us though. Seven of us made our own mini-Erasmus group and off we went for what turned out to be a pretty good weekend.

When 2 English girls, 3 Belgians, 1 Italian and a Finnish girl all head off to Barcelona, you know it’s going to get interesting. Using eurolines, France’s version of nationalexpress/megabus, the trip didn’t get off to the best of starts. The bus arrived 45 minutes late and when this is at 8 in the morning, all you can think about is that that 45 minutes could have be valuable sleeping-in time and could have saved you getting up at stupid o’clock. Eurolines also had a brilliant system of deciding to not let one of our group onto the same bus (Marie, “AUTRE BUS!”), which resulted in us trying to cobble together our Spanish to explain to the bus driver that this simply wasn’t going to happen…. Despite the hassle, we survived the four and a half hour coach journey (thanks mainly to the amount of food we had with us) and got there in one piece.

For dinner, we decided that being the typical students that we are, we’d save some money and cook something at the hostel. Having an Italian in the group, it seemed pretty much a given that we were going to have something pasta-like, and that he was going to be in charge. Big mistake. My stereotype of Italian people has now been completely overturned after I watched Luca BURN, yes, burn, the pasta and go about making the sauce all wrong. Never again! The rest of the night didn’t really turn out much better – we got to the club too late to get in for free, and there was no way we were paying 12 euros entry! We then got completely lost on the way back (this always seems to happen) but finally made it back to the hostel. 

Saturday being our one and only day to attempt to see the whole of Barcelona, we made ourselves be up and out by 10am – I’m still amazed that we managed to do that. We kicked off the day at Casa Milas, well worth seeing, especially for the view of the city from the top. 

Casa Milas

View from the top

The indoor market on Las Ramblas was amazing – I could happily have spent the whole day in there eating all the fresh fruit on offer!

Parc Guell was the best part – I finally found out what that mosaic lizard thing is, I kept seeing it in people’s photos and wanting to go there! Being standard tourists, we climbed on top of it (definitely kicked off a trend there) and had our photo taken. The rest of the visit to the park consisted of walking a bit, sitting down for a bit, eating a bit, walking a bit more; and generally being a bit hyper and going “woowooowoo!!” a lot…don’t ask.

Sagrada Familia was a bit of a let-down (sorry Gaudi) – they really need to admit defeat and stop trying to build the rest of it, it’s clearly not going to happen.

So back to the hostel for a quick power-nap and off out again to see what Barca had to offer on a Saturday night. We found a bar that sold a bottle of Cava for 13 euros – needless to say we snapped those up. Despite intending to meet up with the other Erasmus people, this never actually happened – it turns out that trying to find your friends in a city that size is pretty impossible. Realising that once again we weren’t prepared to pay double figures to get into a club, we wandered around different bars, rocking up in one, quite frankly awful, “English” bar. I nearly fell asleep in there, it was that bad. As Katie so rightly put it, “if I wanted to go to an English pub, I’d just go to England!” – sums it up perfectly. The next bar was home to the ‘whiskey incident’ (I’ll say no more than that) and when we sat down on the pavement and nearly starting having a nap, we decided maybe it was best to head home.

The night wasn’t over yet! As always, the best parts of the night are the ones you never expect. We stumbled across a bar playing live music and, everyone being drunk and happy, we loved it. It turned out the lead singer is from Coventry – small world! Singing at the top of our lungs and dancing like crazy, it was a perfect end to the evening and the trip as a whole.

So Barcelona was well worth the effort it took to get there. But don’t worry Mum and Dad, it wasn’t all partying, it was educational too. I learnt that:

- You should never trust an Italian to cook pasta

- If you spend 100 years building something and it starts to look worse, then you should probably give up

- You’ll never find a decent English pub this side of the continent

- That weekend will probably be the only time in my life where I will be in Barcelona and it will actually be hotter in England than there

And that was Barcelona!