End of an Era.

So today I finished my first term's worth of lessons as an English Language Assistant.

My 3em in the morning were a bloody nightmare, like usual. We were talking about the enthralling topic of 'health' so I thought I would win them over with some risqué video clips. And, granted, they did find Supersize v. Superskinny and Man v. Food disgusting, each in their own unique way (i.e. gross amounts of person v. gross amount of food). However the shock / attention-grabbing factor of me showing them such clips was severely undermined by the teacher showing them an extract of Supersize Me before they had their half hour with me. So far my novelty value + doing something more interesting than the half hour with the teacher (usually consisting of grammar and being told off for chatting) had won me some brownie points. Not today. 3em, if ever the phrase 'drawing blood from a stone' is to be used aptly, it is in your classes.
Actually, I take it back for some of you. One particularly smart boy was able to explain the point of the first programme from just a short extract (no mean feat at all), and another piped up with the word 'anorexic' before I had started to pull my hair out. That's the depressing thing about teaching. There are actually quite a lot of good kids in that class, but they are over-shadowed by the bad behaviour of certain individuals...

However I like to keep these blog posts fairly upbeat and humorous, so I shall move on to how I ended my day:

Namely with my gorgeous, cute, enthusiastic bundles of joy in 4em. Like usual they won my Favourite Class of the Week Award. In the first lesson we were acting dialogues between fussy customers and waiters (they found it particularly amusing when one girl protested that I was not performing, and I proceeded to act both roles on my own in what I like to think was a rather Michael McIntyre-esque fashion...). In the second, we talked about Hallowe'en and they all watched my PowerPoint, enraptured at what I had cobbled together last night in twenty minutes. What I found particularly cute was that when one of the more fidgety/chatty boys started talking another boy got especially upset and told him (in English) to 'shut your face!!'. I probably should have told him off for using such language, but was too flattered by how much he clearly cared about what I was saying.

Note to self: research French translations for words before I include them in lesson plans. Far too many times have I asked for a translation, only to have the same word with a French accent thrown back at me (golf, sport, endurance, calories, vampires, costume, even Hallowe'en which I should probably have seen coming...)

So that's the end of that then. Until 12th November.

To be honest, I am in desperate need of a holiday. I'm glad I only ended up doing three weeks of proper lessons to start off. Six weeks of lessons after the vacances de Toussaint is going to be a trial. The next two weeks of PAID holiday (hah! to anyone spending the Year Abroad at university) are going to be spent exploring this region of France further with my parents and younger brother for a few days, before returning to good old Britain and then heading off down to EXETER!!!!  A thoroughly exciting social calendar has been planned and will be enforced. Watch Out.

The end of another era comes in the form of accommodation. After meeting the charming Kyann and friendly Christel they have decided that I am not a freak, my average French is something they can survive with, and that they are happy for me to live with them. I am going to be living with in an actual house!  So that'll all be happening in the next few days. To cap it off, Carla is moving out to rent a flat in the town centre, Alicia has moved to Paris to work as a surveillant (a role in a school), and Carine won't be here for two months in the spring due to a work placement. So I'm sort of glad that I'll be moving out, as I can spend time with my new housemates and if all else goes to pot, watch horrific amounts of French TV, eating tarte tatin which I have made in my PROPER KITCHEN!! Such Fun.

Other eras coming to an end? Probably my regular pilgrimages to the boulangeries. I'm getting what I have semi-affectionately called 'pastry face'. It needs to stop. I am playing badminton three times a week here (keeno, right?!) and it's a half hour walk each way to school, but somehow I think it's not quite enough, given how my cheeks are now less like English roses, and more like French religieuses...


* (See left for a picture of a religieuse) These delicious edibles (essentially two profiteroles) are so called because they look like a nun AKA une religieuse. 

Bolbec and Le Havre: checked off the list...

So this weekend I decided to pop over to Normandy and impose myself on my lovely friend Imogen. Despite public transport's best efforts, I made it to Bolbec (her town) after five hours and twenty minutes on coaches, trains, the metro and a bus.

Gare St Lazare. Don't be deceived by its size -
it hides a multitude of platforms and hidden passageways.
A bit like Platform 9 and 3/4 combined with Hogwarts.

Let’s just say to cut an incredibly long and arduous Suzie story (of five hours and twenty minutes, to be precise) back to the basics, if I had been five seconds later at Gare St Lazare, I would have missed the train to Bréauté and that would have caused all manner of exclamations (comme putain, merde et conards, par exemple) and problems (i.e. having to take another train, if there even was another to a rural part of Normandy). 

After nearly being hit by a car in my rush (my transfer time between trains left something to be desired), I arrived at the wrong end of Gare St Lazare in Paris (unwittingly - I was deceived by the billboards). I had two minutes before my train was due to leave and could not see anything telling me my train's platform. After accosting two ladies who told me they reckoned my train was leaving from the other end of the station (merci, mesdames) I had to sprint – like an absolute lunatic, not doing much for Anglo-Franco relations – almost the full length of the station. To give you an idea of the length of the Gare, there are over 20 platforms. 

By some act of divine intervention I happened to look up as I tried to beat Usain Bolt's 100m Olympic record, and, lo and behold, on the screen of the platform to my left was written ‘Bréauté-Beuzeville'’: my stop. I skidded to a halt and if my trainers could have left burning rubber marks on the polished floor they would have. Yes, this was the train I was meant to be taking. I fumbled for the correct train ticket and jammed it into the compostage machine. Once more I looked up at the screen showing the train’s destinations, which instantly flicked to 'ACCES INTERDIT' (access to the platform is forbidden).

I grabbed my stuff and sprinted to the closest door to the train. I made it. Almost immediately the train started chugging away from the station.

Relieved, full of adrenaline, dazed and, most of all, sweaty, I suddenly realised that I should probably try and find a seat. I ended up spending my journey next to a very nice French man from Toulouse, who looked at the grey skies outside with evident disgust and commented on the fact that he certainly wouldn’t be here if he wasn't visiting his children.

How Bolbec would have looked if it hadn't been
grey and raining. En français, you'd say it was like
'une vache qui pisse' = a pissing cow

Bolbec itself is about the same size as Romo, and I had a quick mooch round/tour of the main high street by Imogen. The most noticeable shop was the fishmongers, if only for its pungent aroma. I spent a very enjoyable evening with Imogen, and four other girls who are assistants d’anglais, eating pizza, bemoaning French élèves and comparing Australian and British culture on youtube (Michael McIntyre vs. Summer Heights High).

Saturday brought with it a breakfast of croissants and a bus ride to Le Havre where we met with more assistants who gave us a brief tour before we went to a restaurant for lunch. A personal highlight was the placemat which was a piece of paper with horoscopes in French (apparently someone is going to help me ‘to accomplish my mission’ - 1Pl, DEFEAT. Sorry, I just couldn't help myself) and a wordsearch (a ‘mots mélangés’ – a crossword is a ‘mots croisés’ for any vocab keenos out there… why the silence?).

I chose the ‘assiete de terroir’ which means literally ‘plate of the earth/soil’. C’est-à-dire a plate of local meats and cheeses (plus chips and the compulsory slices of baguette). I admit it, I do not like cheese but I think I deserve credit for at least trying to appear un peu française despite my outrageous French accent! (Quotation from…? Answers on the back of a postcard addressed to ‘The Only English Girl in Romorantin, France’. I’m sure they’ll find me…)

Macaroons (Eng) / Macarons (Fr)

After having a thoroughly French more-than-an-hour-maybe-two lunch, we moved on to a patisserie we had spotted earlier for a casual peruse. It was here that I engaged in a momentous occasion: I bought my first macaroons. Yes I admit they were un peu chers (0€90 each <-- note how the French write prices) but I did enjoy my chocolate ganache, praline and passion fruit / raspberry macaroons. If you haven't had one, they're a bit like tiny meringues with a paste in the middle. 

In an effort to then merge into the crowds by feigning Frenchness, we took the tourist ‘scenic view train’ – I love French translations – around Le Havre which also provided us with a very useful booklet in English about the sights we were seeing. Le Havre was seriously bombed during WWII (by the British, ahem, let's quickly skid over that), and in its rebuilding more attention seems to have been paid to creating shelter quickly as opposed to in an aesthetically pleasing fashion. Let’s just say that the architect (Auguste Perret) considered reinforced concrete to be ‘the most noble’* of materials… 

* = my tourist booklet

Sunday was a wet day of little interest. I made it back to Romo safely and without missing any trains, despite my best efforts: I forgot to composter my tickets. If you don’t, you get a fine. The reason you must composter them in the first place is that certain tickets can be exchanged /refunded if not composté. We were given a reminder from the train driver with two minutes before departure, so I sprinted back along the platform – bloody typical that I was in the front carriage, furthest from the compostage machine – and then had to walk the entire length of the train back to my place…

Six hours after leaving Bolbec I arrived back in my room, ready to create a lesson plan for the following morning for my troisième classes! Ah, the joys of being an assistant. Je plaisante (I jest). The real joy was receiving my Erasmus grant today – HELL YEAH BABY!!! Can help to pay off over 11 hours of train tickets…

Bonne intégration!

So Wednesday was the three week anniversary of my arrival here in France. It's quite a considerable time, longer than I have ever spent abroad in any country, let alone France, and as a result a certain amount of integrating has been achieved.
For instance...

Chambord Chateau

• I have been to my first French church service.
• I have been to a food festival and my first ever Handball match with a lovely teacher
• With my new FRENCH friends at the MAJO, I have
• seen Chambourd chateau 
• watched deer at dusk (the sounds they make are called 'braume' here)
• seen my first wild boars
• played Flag Football (mixed, non-contact American football) for the first time on Wednesday - it was SO GOOD!!
• been to an ABBA homage - really good fun
• eaten my first roasted chestnuts - ok, but I wouldn't pay for them
• had my first ever Zumba lesson!
• I have played badminton with the natives and been invited back to play next time
• I have finally been let loose in my two schools with my own classrooms and agendas!! SUCH FUN!

However, there are the occasional moments (at first they were several times a day moments but thankfully their frequency is diminishing) when I feel like I have stumbled into a funeral wearing a clown outfit. Take for example....

• When being asked for my 'nom' and replying Suzanne. For those who do not understand, 'nom' in French means 'surname' and prénom is first name. I don't think I've actually submitted any forms under the name 'Wood Suzanne' yet though... je croise mes doigts (fingers crossed). 
• Tuesday, when I needed to tell the secretary at the bank my surname. I started to spell it: 'W... O...'. However she decided to ignore the 'W' and write it 'OOD'. Then she looked at me as if to say 'what a ridiculous surname' like it was my fault. A friend whose surname also begins with 'W' has also found reluctance from the French to spell it this way; variants are said to include 'V' instead of 'W', but I haven't had this yet. 
• Or one of my favourite things (along with crisp apple strudels - how right Julie Andrews was): being early for everything. Yesterday I ventured along to play badminton with the natives, and, not knowing where the Gymnase was, I left myself a bit of wriggle room. I arrived 10 minutes early, but didn't consider this a problem as it gave me a chance to ear-wig on the mothers of the French children using the same hall to play basketball. At 8pm the man who I could only assume to be in charge of badminton (he was carrying a bag of shuttlecocks / volants - which I would literally translate as 'flyers') arrived, and a kindly mother ushered me along towards him, and told him I had been waiting for 10 minutes for him. I was then chastised - 'why did you turn up before 8pm? I told you 8pm! Don't turn up early!' I think I mumbled something along the lines of 'the English are always early...'

Nonetheless, I still think I am gradually getting the upper hand in this surviving in France lark. 

More of my favourite things:

• The Baguettes. You know bread is good when you can eat it on its own. 
• The Mars bars. They are SO much better here! They are the same as milky way bars, but with caramel. I was beyond excited when I realised what I was eating. 
• Eating baguette and strawberry jam in my room
• but not so much getting crumbs and jam over my bedding...
• Finally getting approved by a bank!!
• haven't dared to look at how to set-up my internet banking though
• I'm really enjoying the teaching. Which is a good thing, since I've got 12 hours per week of it for the next six months!
• The word 'mélange' - far superior to our word 'mixture'. 
• The way the French just whack the word 'bon' in front of something to wish you a happy X, Y or Z. For example: bon appetit, bon weekend, bonne journée, bon fake-tan (je blague)... My favourite is definitely 'bon courage'. Literally 'good courage', but the equivalent of 'chin up' or 'keep calm and carry on'. 
• The way everyone says hello to each other here. 

• I can't enter a room without the occupants welcoming me with a 'Bonjour!' which sounds like they genuinely mean it. It's lovely. 
• Nor can you escape the bises (kisses): the number of bises (one on each cheek, starting on the left) I've given to and received from French chaps and chapesses is innumerable. As a general rule, it's the first time you see them in the day and then you're set for the rest of the day, but with my close friends here it's when I see them in the morning, and in the evening when we go for dinner. I hasten to add that they are on the cheek - naughty (Miranda Hart eat your heart out). Girls give and receive kisses to guys and girls, but the guys here at the MAJO shake hands with other guys. I've seen male teachers at my school give each other bises though, so maybe it's a generational thing. 

• The pace of life here. For example, the way everyone takes two hour lunch breaks. Great if you're having lunch, but not so great if you want to go into the bank (closed from Saturday lunchtime until Tuesday morning), or trying to organise an activity and your only free time is at lunchtime. Everyone just seems so much more relaxed and content. Or maybe I'm just deluded and they've slipped something in my éclair au chocolat in order to keep me as a convert here forever...
• Romorantin. I really am loving living here - it is just SO cute and French! And I love going to a boulangerie or patisserie every day for bread or a tarte aux pommes, and the people are so friendly (I've been given lifts home twice by strangers) and understanding when I make a mistake in French... After constantly moaning about coming on this year abroad, I know it's going to be a tear and a half to leave... 

Slight drawbacks but nothing to buck my stride:

• My timetable still isn't finalised. Don't be silly. 

"Character-Forming" Experiences

I'm sure that other Year Abroad students both past and present were told pre-departure that the year abroad (wherever they would be going) would be 'character-forming', perhaps even that we would emerge from it as 'better people, better equipped to take on life's challenges and experiences'.

I am currently experiencing this period of 'adaptation' in which my new 'character' is formed. I imagine the process is about as painful as it is for a caterpillar to turn into a butterfly, but instead of a huge pair of wings erupting from my back, I am being made to jump through bureaucratic hoops.

Banks: any future year abroaders, take careful note of the following warning: under no circumstances try and open a French bank account without a French person (preferably from your school) present. Repercussions for not following this advice include: headaches (both physical and metaphorical), depression, stress, further requests for forms which no bank in your academie has EVER asked for in the history of Language Assistants, and potential hysterical crying in front of secretaries.

Paperwork: both British and French people here to whom I have bemoaned my bureaucratic botherances have agreed that it's a bloody nightmare. There's no way around it. Just suck it up and get on with signing your life away for the sake of not causing a fuss / if you want to get paid at any point in your seven months as a language assistant. Try and accept your many authorisations in the form of "Lu et Approuvé" as all good vocab practice and you know what they say: practice makes perfect...

Waiting: we Brits love a good wait. Be prepared, as an LA, to spend a lot of time waiting, watching, and then waiting again as your timetable is amended. Don't bother killing trees to print off your timetable til it has been in place for at least a month.

Working stuff out for yourself: this is perhaps the most useful 'character-forming experience' category in my opinion. This ranges from working out how to use a Youth Hostel laundry or internet system, to being understood when asking for directions or a pain au raisin, to taking the right number of items in a school canteen (many thanks to the understanding Dinner Ladies). Perks: immense satisfaction when you get it right and a smug, warm feeling inside.

Learning to map read like a boss: in order to avoid looking like a tourist, it is advisable not to wander around with a map in your hand all the time. I have finally learnt (despite two years of orienteering lessons with OTC) to memorise markers for key points of my journey, and a sense of direction!!!

Adapt and Overcome: yes it may be shit chat, but it's true. Every day I get slightly better at learning which way to look when crossing a road. Every time I go into a patisserie I pronounce 'pain au raisin' slightly better. Every time adversity threatens, my improving French shrug, mumbled 'bof', and slightly-more-relaxed-than-before attitude steer me away from stress and towards a solution (banking experiences excluded - I haven't yet adapted and overcome this particular difficulty but give me time...)

Putting together these accumulated skills of patience + self-reliance + resourcefulness = a character-forming experience, just as promised by our year abroad veterans. Who knows, I might well emerge as a better person at the end of it all...

Introducing Blois

So today I went to Blois. It's a large town about 40mins drive north west of Romo, and I took the bus to get there (getting up at 6.30 in order to get the bus from the train station at 7.30). However I think it was definitely worth it.

In Blois I met up with two English girls and one American girl who are primary school assistants there, and they showed me round Blois. It makes Romo look minuscule  Northern and southern Blois are separated by the Loire river (left) and we stayed in the northern section.
First of all we went to the market which was happening that day in the centre of town, and it was HUGE!! It took ages to do a circuit, and almost every foodstuff imaginable was on sale, not to mention clothing, shoes, bags and books.

Then we ventured into a children's toy shop to look for teaching materials. It was those wonderful and commendable toy shops that barely sell anything that needs batteries i.e. PROPER toys which use children's imaginations and develop more than their ability to spend hours staring at a screen. Anyway, in this lovely little shop there was a lion which, whenever he was touched, would roll around on the floor, laughing. I found this hysterically funny. When the lion had stopped roaring with laughter and rolling on the floor, I bent down to pick him up which prompted him to start the charade again. I was caught in a endless circuit of trying to touch him to turn off his battery, and setting him off every time. In the end the French shopkeeper had to intervene.

The four of us spent the rest of the day 'brochery' shopping at the Office de Tourisme (my new favourite made-up word, meaning going to the OdT specifically to raid its free leaflet section systematically and without mercy); looking at the façade of the chateau (my first chateau!) which comprises of several buildings built at different points between the 13th and 17th centuries and as a result the architecture changes with the different sections - see wikipedia for more info, it's certainly not what I did, ahem... moving on...; and hunting down a patisserie and returning to a flat to savour our purchases while watching The Great British Bake Off. Perfection.

A slight down point was that today it decided to start raining. Not serious rain, just a consistent spittle as if to say 'Suzie, you've been here one and a half weeks, you've settled in perfectly well, and as a result we're going to stop giving you constant sunshine.'

It's true, I have settled in far better than I thought I would. Much of this is due to the lovely former Spanish assistant who has introduced me to all her friends here at my accommodation, all the friendly teachers who have chatted with me during lunch and been patient while I've stammered along, and that I've had so much help with all the bureaucracy from various people. A certain bank EXCLUDED from this praise for reasons it knows only too well, and which are too laborious and tiresome to go into here ever. One lesson has been learnt at least - don't choose a bank based on its name.

Tomorrow I might venture to wash some of my clothes here for the handsome sum of €5 and I may indeed attempt to experience my first French church service. Wait out for that story....

Cheeky French Children

So today I observed my first lessons in the Collège. Up until this point I had only had a quick tour of the building and met the main staff members I would be working with, but after realising nothing would be planned for me unless I asked for contact hours (it seems don't ask, don't get - my timetable is a bit like a yeti: many have heard of it, yet no-one has actually seen it...) I emailed my collège responsable last night for some lessons to observe today. French school starts at 8am (and generally finishes around 4 or 5pm) so I was picked up from my accommodation at the horrific hour of 7.40am. Anyone reading this blog should know me well enough to know that I tend to get up around 11am, and reluctantly at that.

First lesson: watching 30 sixieme students (French 11 year olds) vote for their class representative. Ah the days of School Council... that made me feel really old.

Second lesson: watching quatrieme students (13yrs) struggle with irregular English verbs - I know they're difficult, but French irregulars are just as bad!!

Small break: raining, so I chat to teachers in the staff room.

Third and four lessons: being interrogated by troisiemes (14/15) about Britain, my culture, but most of all my personal life. How old am I? and What sports do you like? dramatically took a turn in an altogether different direction when one confident and cheeky individual asked Do you have a boyfriend? which quickly led to Do you love him? Are you going to marry him? Do you like French kissing?

Nonetheless, they were both very entertaining hours, perhaps the most fun I've had since coming to Romo, and the kids seemed really nice. Many of these children (because this part of rural France has some quite deprived areas which the kid are bussed in from to go to school here) will never leave their departement, let alone France, so I really am exotic and fascinating for them.

Warning: self-indulgent pensive thoughts hereon

This led me to the following sombre thoughts.
Firstly, how depressing it is that this is the case in a 'First World' country and how much I take travelling for granted. This summer alone I went to Germany and Canada before coming here to France, and at Easter I went skiing in Austria.
Secondly, I realised that I really must try and bring a bit of Britain, of the world, even, to them because they're not going to be able to go and grab the world for themselves. For so long the Year Abroad has seemed like an inconvenience to me when I could be at a Cheesy Tuesday in Arena or playing in the mud at OTC.

Only now when I think about it do I realise what a privilege it is for me to be in this position. I have been served a life experience on a plate. This is the best chance I am ever going to get at integrating into France (or any other country) because I am young enough not to have any real ties, and this teaching job is an amazing way to integrate, to learn about another culture, and learn more about what brings us together as people. 'It is in teaching that we truly learn' has definitely taken on a new meaning for me!

Not being fluent in French has really shown me how much of 'language' is actually 'body language'. Particularly in the MAJO where I have made friends with some people my age and they speak very fast and use slang terms (sou = cash, I now know), most of the time I have absolutely no idea what is going on. Nonetheless I can grasp the jist of the conversation from key words and people's actions and tone of voice;  the French in particular like to gesticulate and make sounds to replace words.
Hopefully I have been filled with a new resolve to really make the most out of my year abroad, for both those I am teaching and myself.

Lycée Claude de France

Anyway, that was my time done at the collège. I then sped-walked to the Lycée, rapidly filled out my Erasmus forms - bring on the grant, patisseries beware - and went to see the secretary to give her my bank details so that I can be paid (yet another bonus from being a TA on the YA). Which leads me onto the topic of banks and HORRIFIC French bureaucracy, which shall be left for another blog entry...

Paperwork and Public Transport.

Caution: this blog entry may contain rants, long rambling Suzie stories which have no real purpose (or they do, but I forget them), and general tomfoolery in rural France.
Suggested method for approaching this blog entry: see the headings and ignore what does not interest you.

Navigating SML3010:
So I spent my Sunday morning working out what on earth is included in the module Exeter University use to assess the Year Abroad for those doing British Council placements. Turns out, after bragging to all my friends doing their finals this year, that I actually have quite a bit more work to do for this module than I first thought... But I was not deterred (if slightly put out at the thought of having to break from stuffing my face in patisseries and wandering around chateaux) and I set about making various lists, sticky notes and reminders in my filofax to try and get a handle on the tirade of personal goals, vocabulary logs and 'employability reports' that would be expected of me come August 2013. Which sounds far off, I know, but one might end up waking from a millefeuille induced coma in late July and realise that part of their degree does still require fulfilling.

Left: a millefeuille, for those of you who don't know what it is. It literally means 'a thousand leaves' and is made by layering pastry (I believe filo pastry) and custard/cream multiple times. Scrumptous. I had one today (Thursday 4th) in fact at the Lycée canteen with my lunch (€3.04 for a salad, roll, hot main meal and pudding plus free water).

Rural french public transport:
Upon glancing at my watch I realised that I had to go and get my train to Orléans at 1715 (synchronise watches - one for the OTC people reading!) so I promptly collected my things and walked to the train station in the evening sunshine. I noticed the coaches as I crossed the car park. I noticed the people in the lobby as I crossed over to where the platforms where. I noticed the automatic doors definitely not opening as I got closer and closer. And then I noticed the people watching as I gave the automatic doors a little shove, as if to say 'you know you should really be opening for me. Please.' Feeling perplexed, I asked a woman in the lobby what was going on, and got a reply about how complicated the situation was for the woman behind the counter who was dealing with a Gendarme man. The counter-woman finished dealing with the Gendarme-man, said something in French I didn't catch and the 'complicated'-comment-woman grabbed me and said 'c'est vous! c'est vous!' and pushed me towards the counter.

Counter-woman looked at me. I looked at counter-woman. What did she want from me?? I sort of bleated something along the lines of 'where are the trains?' and pointed limply at the automatic doors barring the platform from me. After a few more confused exchanges about where I was going, whether I had tickets, when I had tickets for, I was essentially told that 1. there would be a coach (the one outside) taking me to Salbris where I could then get my connection to Orléans. And 2. to go away. On my return from my journée d'accueil in Orléans I found the same situation - a coach, not a train to Romo.

Cathedral Saint Croix in Orléans

The solution to my puzzlement came in the form of a French lady who offered me a lift back to the MAJO from Romo station. Breaking every personal safety rule I had ever been given by my parents, the British Council and society (i.e. don't get in a car with a stranger) I gratefully took it. I think a little OTC-inspired part of me was thinking 'I could take her...'. And it was when conversing with this lady that I asked if it was always a coach that took people from Romo to Salbris, and what about in the other direction towards Gièvres? 'Oh it's always like this', she said. 'The railway hasn't worked in ages. First they said September, now they say November...' Why, why, why had that girl behind the counter not told me this when I bought my bloody train tickets?? With my thick English accent and stammered, grammatically wonky French*, how could she have possibly thought that I would know that the trains don't work in the countryside?
* which is apparently so incomprehensible that the girl at the boulangerie couldn't understand 'un pain au raisin s'il vous plait' - very depressing.

So the moral of that story is, take lifts from strange French ladies who you don't know (but reckon you could beat in a fight) because they will tell you more about how to survive rural French transport than the people in charge of giving you your train tickets.

The best things about the Journée d'Accueil...
* most of the day being in English so that we English Assistants were 100% clear on the important details of teaching, bureaucracy etc. Having a day where my brain didn't start melting from French over-exposure was bliss. 
* being able to have a really good chat with some English and American Assistants who are living in Blois (a town not too far from Romo). I have been a bit deprived of company which is my age recently, I hope it didn't show through...