Office Antics - Year Abroad #4

My next article for Inter:Mission about the fun of an inappropriate office... 

Upon embarking on a 6 month placement in a French marketing and PR agency in Bordeaux, I was fairly confident of what to expect; lots of coffee-making, plenty of scanning and many embarrassing language-barrier moments. Officially only an intern in the ‘Community Management’ department (my job description in French … really), my expectations of tedious and trivial tasks were quite wrong.

It goes without saying that the communication issues were incredibly prevalent at the beginning of my placement, often leading to hesitant nodding in the affirmative to tasks even if I didn’t have a clue of the instructions. However, the scanning and barista tasks were few and far between. Instead, I was treated like a fully capable employee, reflected in every part of my life at the agency, except rather unfortunately, by my salary (a big thank you to the European tax payers, the Erasmus grant is a wonderful thing when your salary just about covers your rent). This means that although I only earn about 2 euros an hour, doing ‘real’ work means that I am getting to know my colleagues quite well. Perhaps too well.

An eclectic group of personalities, made up of more interns than full-time staff (no, I’m actually not joking), by the end of the first week I realised that formality was not necessary in this office. The telling moments included being added on SnapChat by more than one colleague in week 1, over-hearing someone in the creative department ask someone on the PR team if she was pregnant in front of the boss and a client (she wasn’t) and being offered something quite strong at our first work soirée. Needless to say I am always on my best behaviour, much to their disappointment and often pretend to find understanding French a little harder than it is.

Although my first few weeks were made up of memorable and fantastically inappropriate moments, my most amusing occasion in the office so far has to be the day when I stumbled across the profile of one of my colleagues on an online dating website (I know you’re wondering what I was doing on there myself, well you can read all about my online dating experiencein France in my previous article). Thinking of this as the perfect way to contribute to lunchtime conversation and get a foot on the banter ladder, I prepared to bring it up over a baguette-induced silence the following day. I perfected my speech, ensuring I had the right vocabulary to hand…their response? “Oh, of course we know all about it, our previous intern found him on there too!”

I could not have asked for a better year abroad job, and I’m not just saying that through fear that my boss will read this article. My colleagues are patient with my language gaps and encouraging of initiative and responsibility. Usefully for me they don’t speak any English (except the mandatory Friends quotes) and they are rather keen to teach me both formal and informal French. Although I do make plenty of cups of tea every day, they are mostly for me and, as of yet I have never been asked to photocopy anything. 

Internet Interaction - Year Abroad #3

Next up on Inter:Mission: a bit of an experiment...

After almost 2 months on my year abroad, I decided that I would stop leaving my love life up to the Gods, and I would take matters into my own hands. No more waiting for Jean-Pierre to step around the corner in his stripy shirt and beret and take my breath away, it was time to get proactive. After thinking through my options briefly, and overhearing a conversation between colleagues, my mind was made up; online dating.

I think attempting online dating is the perfect example of something that has captured my year abroad spirit. I can’t imagine that I would create any such profile in the UK, predominantly through fear of cyber-running into someone that I know, but when in France my self-judgement seems to go a bit hazy. I can always say that I did it for an article anyway… Justification out of the way, a bit of research led me to the most popular French online dating website, ‘adopteunmec.com’ or as we could translate, ‘adopt a guy’.

As the title suggests, the website is heavily focused on girls having all the power. While men pay 30euros for the privilege of a picture of themselves and a couple of descriptive sentences, girls get the service free of charge. Not only do men have to pay, but in order to send a girl an email, the girl has to ‘accept their charm’ before one word can be exchanged. I like the sound of this already, no creepy 50 year olds asking you if, ‘you have ever been with an older man’ (apparently that happens). The site continues to amuse with  sections such as ‘sales’ where you can find the ‘best’ guys easily under categories such as ‘geek chic’ and ‘sporty’. My favourite aspect has to be the option to, ‘add to cart’ when you find a man you’d like to chat to, so it is basically just like being on Asos.com (more justification you see). The attention to detail on the site really makes the whole experience quite agreeable, although perhaps more so if you’re a girl…

Without a care in the world, I set up a profile indicating my Erasmus status and a photo chosen by Slovak (read my previous article to find out more about him). It was worryingly easy, within 5 minutes my photo had been approved and I was starting to feel a sense of that phrase Miley has us all arguing over, ‘female empowerment’. Flicking through images of 21-26 year old men within 50 kilometres of Bordeaux, I couldn’t quite escape the feeling that I was being horrendously shallow, but perhaps that’s the point of girl power.

After a necessary cull of many of the ‘charms’ and an addition of a second photo, the seemingly more normal guys began to surface. A few ‘bonjour, ca va?’ messages later and I already have a date night set up with a guy whose profile picture has him holding a puppy. Assuming that it will be a disaster, I really have very little faith, I’ve asked Slovak to ring me an hour into the date to ensure I’m safe. No doubt I will be back at my laptop keyboard shortly writing about how disastrous the whole thing was… I do hope he brings the puppy though. 

Dangerous Domestics - Year Abroad #2

My second column for Inter:Mission, this time I decided to talk about moving in with strangers...

When you make the decision that you want to live with other people (rather than in a studio flat) on your year abroad, you put your hand into a lucky-dip of unknown personalities. You may create future friendships that are to last, or you could find yourself slap bang in the middle of disaster. When you decide, as I did, to live in an Erasmus flat where the people change every few months, you are multiplying that risk by 10 and adding a pinch of communication trouble into the melting pot too.

When I first moved into my 4 bedroom, ‘this’ll do’ apartment in Bordeaux, the first person I met was a lovely Austrian girl studying French in the city. We immediately hit it off, chatting about lots of things we had in common and about how beautiful Bordeaux was. Perfect, at least I’ll have one friend. Not so, she soon informed me that she was in her last week, and she didn’t fail to add that the other guy, a Slovakian, was an interesting personality.

She was right, the Slovakian guy was an interesting personality. Although rather charming, especially if you’re into the Russian/eastern European accent, I soon discovered that he was affording his travels through blogging. ‘How interesting, I like to blog too. What do you blog about?’ He has 100 webpages apparently, and one of the most prominent money-makers focuses on a lovely group of 5 English boys called One Direction. Ah. The second eyebrow was raised when I asked his age and he responded that it is a, ‘secret that even my ex-girlfriend doesn’t know’. Of course I headed straight to Facebook, (I’m slowly discovering that an obsession with Facebook stalking is a decidedly English attribute) and after much searching of birthday posts and graduation years, the most I could deduce is that he’s older than 33. He still won’t tell me.

The next to enter my flat of eclectic eccentricities was a French girl who couldn’t understand a word of French that either Mr Slovak or I said. Although I am well aware that my French is not perfect, it is at least comprehensible. Whether I was confused, insulted or mildly irritated, her bedtime of 8pm on the second evening told me everything I needed to know about the longevity of our friendship (or lack thereof). Even Slovak said he didn’t fancy her, and that’s saying something.

Despite the mystery of an Erasmus flat, I truly believe that my year abroad is designed for experiences like this and I love it. When else will I get the opportunity to learn about different cultures so intensely and be able to shout Britain’s praises to others? ‘The Olympics was just such a huge success, you see’. Also, my room has a lock. That helps.

You can find the original article on Inter:Mission Bristol here.

Tea-Total in Wine Country - Life In A French Office

I was recently very flattered to be asked to write a piece for the Travel section of the University of Bristol’s newspaper, Epigram. Two months into my time in Bordeaux, I decided the best theme for the article would be my attempts to integrate into a French working environment…

Image: Flickr: Aurdesco

One of the greatest benefits of having a year abroad is that, for one year, we briefly leave behind the 'Bristol bubble' and get to dip our toes into the paddling pool of real life. Of course, there are many that choose to study. However, the majority of British students who go to France opt for life at a desk with a cup of strong coffee in one hand and an AZERTY keyboard to tackle with the other.

Like most Bristol students, I had done various bits of work experience where I sat at a desk pretending not to be on Facebook, so I felt I had a fairly good grasp of the way things work in the corportate world. However, on my first day in my marketing office in Bordeaux, I learnt very quickly that things are somewhat different here. The first earth-shattering, fear-inducing panic attack came when I discovered that my office, shockingly, didn't have a kettle. Apparently on the odd occassion that they make tea, also sacrilegiously plumping for fruit tea over black tea, the microwave is their method of choice.

The tea debate was made even worse by that fact that the French word for kettle, brouilloire, is possibly the hardest word for an English person to pronounce. Therefore, as I resigned myself to the fact that the french prefer coffee to tea, I decided to embrace my surroundings, or as the cliché goes, 'broaden my horizons' and made the transition. You may think that I am over-dramatising a mere swap from tea to coffee, but my next shock came in a more physical manner; their coffee was strong enough to give me the shakes.

Leaving the ktichen behind, I was there to work rather than to drink hot drinks after all, I was soon showed to my desk and introduced to my colleagues. Cue awkward cheek kissing. The interesting thing about working in your second language is that the simplest task becomes a nightmare. Sending a quick email to your boss sends shivers down your spine: what if it is littered with mistakes? Using Microsoft Word leads you to believe that your computer is trying to trick you as 'ctrl + B' no longer turns your words bold. Why is it trying to search your document instead? However, all this pales into insignificance the first time you hear the dulcet tones of a ringing phone. You look around to discover that you are the only one in the room. You brace yourself as you pick up the phone: 'Bonjour ... pardon?' 

Despite the many difficulties I've faced during my first two months in a French office — being asked to translate 'Sidebar Widget' is fairly high on the list — I have also learnt a huge amount. My favourite aspect of the office has to be lunchtime where we sit down together to share bread and cheese in the middle of the table. Even though I may still occasionally hide my Facebook in the bottom corner of my screen, or pretend to work when I'm actually writing an article for Epigram, I have certainly gained a fresh outlook on office life. I'm looking forward to diving in permanently sometime in the future.

You can find the original article on Epigram's website here and the complete E2 Living Section on Issuu here.

The French Can’t Drive

After four years of driving in the UK, I decided that it was time my little car got to take a holiday and come with me to the wine region of Bordeaux in the south of France for 6 months. I had been warned about French drivers by my Father (coincidentally an advanced driving instructor) who taught me how to drive. Under his strict ruling, I had to complete at least 50 hours of lessons before sitting my test and failing was not even an option. However, despite all the warnings, I could never have been prepared for driving in France. Quite simply, the French don’t know how to drive.

Right-hand Drive. My brother, who drives through Europe on a weekly basis these days, had kindly informed me of toll roads requiring payment (on the left hand side) so I invested in an automatic Télépéage before I even reached the border, but I hadn’t quite realised the same would go for car parks. I have since discovered two methods of reaching a machine on the wrong side of the car; “the jump-out-and-run-around” as well as the “extreme-lean”. Neither is particularly comfortable. I believe it is Napoleon I have to blame for this, you should have stayed on the left!

French Kissing. It would appear that the French adopt their attitude to kissing to their cars as well. When a Frenchman is driving, he indubitably feels the need to roll along bumper to bumper without a care in the world. ‘Bumper kissing’, as I now refer to it, is an obligatory stage of parallel parking too. Don’t forget to kiss both the car in front and the car behind when you squeeze into the space! Personally, I actually care if my number plate is bent in half when I return to my car. The French don’t seem to.

Parking: French Style

Speed Limits. This is more of a gripe aimed at the people who decide the speed limits on French roads. Nobody, and I mean absolutely nobody except me, sticks to them. Perhaps it is a suggestion that the speed limits are too slow, or perhaps it is too easy to get away with it, but it is infuriating when I am driving along at a legal pace and the person behind me wants to go faster, and he shows it by extreme bumper kissing me. 

Traffic Lights. Before now, my experience of driving has been limited to country roads in the UK. You can imagine my surprise, therefore, when I arrived in Bordeaux and I discovered that the amber light was in fact an indication to speed up, not to slow down as I am used to. As a result, I witness cars running red lights on a daily basis, and I gasp each and every time. The worst occasion was a crash that I witnessed between two cars because one ignored the red light. Frenchies- amber means stop. 

Not speed up...

Beeping. I live on a busy street, a street that lots of impatient commuters use to get to work in the morning. If someone wants to parallel park in the road and needs to hold you up for 1 minute while they do so; let them. Some of us are trying to sleep and your constant beeping is only stressing everybody out. They will take longer to park, and I will wake up from my magical dream about how the French have all suddenly become wonderful drivers… 

So I suppose for now, I shall just have to embrace French culture and learn to drive like them. One thing, please don’t tell my Father…

The Things the French Got Wrong

Image: Waldo

My self-prescribed mission was to embrace French culture as far as is possible while in Bordeaux. My assignment thus far has been fairly successful; I buy bread most days from the Boulangerie, I spend 5 minutes kissing all my colleagues every morning and I’ve completely forgotten how to drive smoothly. However, as much as I am enjoying temporarily denying my true nationality, there are some things that I miss about Blighty…

QWERTY Keyboards. I fully accept that other countries should use other keyboards to fit with their languages. Accents are common in French, so therefore putting an é on the keyboard makes sense. However, banishing a full stop from its place causing it to be impossible to find is frustrating and being rid of a £ sign when constantly needing to write prices in English is infuriating. Needless to say, within a week, Amazon.fr was my new friend and the AZERTY keyboard was exiled to the shelving unit.  

Strikes. I know that we’re not entirely innocent of this at home, but the French take it to the extreme. The news must be checked daily to ensure that public transport is all running smoothly and an extra 20 minutes must always be left just in case. I found it particularly amusing when I was in Paris 2 years ago and there were large strikes over raising the retirement age from 60 to 62. In England, it’s currently 65. I kept my mouth shut…

Sundays. It may be unfair to say that the French get Sundays wrong, perhaps it is fairer to suggest that they simply haven’t updated their Sunday system along with the rest of us yet. If you wake up on a Sunday morning without anything in the fridge, you have two choices; no food or restaurant food. Shops still believe in a full day off in the south west, however, it may be interesting to note that the wineries are all open…

The Internet. The only one of my list that has actually been less of a nuisance and more of an annoyance. Our internet provider was genuinely proud of the fact that they take less than two weeks (10 days specifically) to deliver the box after we purchased the internet. When I, and the Austrian girl I was with, explained that our internet at home is installed immediately, I think they got a little bit offended…

As much as I have now become a regular user of the phrase, ‘this would never happen in England’, I imagine that the moment I step off the plane and step into a long queue back home, I shall utter the words, ‘this would never happen in France…’ 

Living With Strangers

So as part of my attempts to slip seamlessly into the French way of life on my year abroad, I opted to live with French (or at least ‘non-English’) people as part of a, ‘colocation’. I have now lived with 3 different French people, an Austrian girl and a Slovakian fondly known as the, ‘Slovak’ and I have learnt quite a lot about living with people you don’t know much about…

It’s what English people do. The wonderfully useful thing about living with people from different cultures is that you can be as strange as you want to be, and simply blame it on your culture. Want to eat supper at 5pm? ‘It’s normal at home’. Want to take a shower for half an hour? ‘What, you don’t do that in your country?!’

Unfortunate awkwardness. I had the amusing, yet rather frightening situation of a flatmate wanting to be more than just friends. Discovering that I could lock my bedroom door was certainly a delightful relief but I was a little nervous about the atmosphere in the flat afterwards. Luckily, it all turned out fine as he soon met a Brazilian girl who was far more exotic and the off-putting glances stopped.

Flatshare fridge- good idea or bad idea?

Meal times. As a group of four who didn’t know each other very well, we tended to be fairly antisocial when it came to food. Although there is nothing wrong with an episode of badly streamed Masterchef providing the only entertainment of the meal, the problem lies in the cooking. Lack of communication often finds four people wanting to use the oven at the same time. And we only have 2 baking trays.

Communication barriers. A group of people who all speak different languages is a wonderful experience as a mixture of Frenglish and Franglais can provide for many amusing moments. My mentioning that decoration in the loo would be nice subsequently led to Slovak investing in an enormous One Direction poster. Also, many a laugh can be had upon hearing a Frenchman utter the word, 'beach'. 

The French Don't Like Cupcakes

Image: Zazzle

I am not a very good cook, nor am I a baker. However, the one thing I know I can do is whip out a pretty good batch of cupcakes which have usually all disappeared by the next morning. It goes without saying, therefore, that 6 weeks into my time in Bordeaux, I felt it was about time to treat my flatmates to a sweet surprise. The plan was made, I would go to the supermarket after work and make them that evening. Of course it was a nightmare, here is why…

The Supermarket. It wasn’t until I headed to the 3^rd supermarket that I found everything that I needed. When I say supermarket, think the hectic atmosphere of Oxford Street’s Primark mixed with the overwhelming size of most IKEAs. It is practically a department store, and they still didn’t have everything that I wanted.

The Flour. Perhaps I should have looked up the word for, ‘self-raising flour’ before I headed off on my adventure, but I figured it would be simple right? Wrong. Self-raising flour doesn’t exist in France, the closest thing I could find was titled, ‘Farine pour gateaux’ (Flour for cakes). Hmmm…

The Cases. After two rounds of the supermarket, by which time the guy behind the cheese counter was starting to recognise me, I decided it was time to ask someone where to find cupcake cases. I was led to another floor (yes- multi-story supermarket) where I found them hidden amongst kitchen utensils and bed sheets.

The Baking Tray. You know what I mean, with all the holes for the cakes? The French don’t know what I mean. That doesn’t exist in France.

The Oven. Okay, so I won’t blame the French for this one. In my flat I have a very old oven and unfortunately I didn’t realise that it lied about the temperature and so a lot of guess work was involved.

The Result? Squidgy, misshapen squarecakes with burnt bottoms.

But they actually tasted quite nice!

The Challenges Of Moving Abroad

My recent big move has been a fairly smooth ride as far as these things go, but it hasn’t always been completely bump free. A voyage across the seas for an extended period of time can be an incredibly worthwhile thing to do; independence, initiative and interest can all be acquired while you’re away. However, it isn’t always plain sailing (perhaps you learn how to make travel related puns as well), here are a few reasons why...

Image: cartoonaday

New People. Meeting people is often one of the hardest parts of moving away. Meeting fun, nice and normal people is often even harder. However, don’t forget that while you’re abroad, you have the perfect opportunity to meet a huge variety of people. Why not approach a randomer on the street and ask them to show you around? If they think you’re weird, just tell them it’s what all English people do.  

New Habits. Getting used to a new routine can be a very confusing thing, but it’s very important to embrace the culture of the place where you are living. Waiting until 9pm to eat dinner, as the French do, was practically impossible to get used to, but now I prefer it. Clubs not even opening until 2am was even stranger but I finally felt like I fit into French culture when I discovered that I can start work as late as 9.30am.

New Living Arrangements. Moving into a flat with strangers and a kettle-less kitchen can be a daunting thing. Discovering how to make the washing machine work provided a particularly deceptive challenge (the washing powder and the freshener look identical!), but making mistakes and learning how to not burn yourself when lighting the oven is all part of the ‘broadening your horizons’ experience.  

Had to invest!

New Language. Without a doubt the most nerve-wracking, nail-biting pre-year abroad jitters for me came from my fear of not being able to understand those around me. Of course it was a struggle at first, and I still occasionally nod my head when someone looks at me expectantly without a clue what I’m agreeing to, but over time it occurs less and less and you begin to understand more and more. 

Using Vine To Fill My Time

As you may know, I am currently in Bordeaux working in a communications firm that specialises in quality food brands. Although only an intern, I actually get to do some interesting work, especially with the English press and the brand, ‘Instant Naturel’. 

However, when there is a little time to spare...we like to make videos!

(with minions...)

Instant Naturel's Cake Decorations:

Instant Naturel's Flavoured and Coloured Sugars:




Instant Naturel's Vinegars With Fruit Pulp:

The Things the French Got Right

I am now just over 1 month into my time in Bordeaux, and I’m starting to shed my patriotism and accept that there are some things that the French do rather well. Although I will always argue that they don’t understand tea, there are some things that perhaps they do better than us...

Bank Holidays. This week there was a bank holiday that fell on a Thursday. The French have come up with a genius thing called, ’le pont’ (‘the bridge’) which essentially means that Friday becomes a day off as well so that the whole country gets a 4 day weekend to spend by the beach.

McDonalds. You know how when you walk into a McDonalds in England, you sometimes feel a bit gross just for being there? The French fast food establishments are actually quite swanky; rather than going to the counter to be served, they have machines near the entrance where you enter what you would like and then wait for your number to be called. Genius.

Cheese. My local supermarket has two entire aisles dedicated to cheese, need I say more?

Drinks’ Prices. We all know that wine is cheaper in France than in England, and that is particularly true when in Bordeaux. However, it did come as a rather hilarious surprise to discover that it is actually cheaper to buy a glass of wine in a restaurant than a Coke. Supermarkets trick you into boozing too; a decent bottle of wine in the South West will set you back just 2 Euros.  

Ordering Tea in France

As much as I love learning about new cultures and languages, and I really do, I’ve started to notice that there are some Englishisms that I can’t quite drop. I’ll happily adopt the daily visits to the Boulangerie for a baguette, I’ll even speed up when the traffic lights go orange rather than slow down, but when it comes to tea, I remain a patriot. However, sticking to my tea-drinking habits is not as easy in France as you might expect. Here are a few reasons why…

They hate milk. French people hate milk. It might be a teeny generalisation, but UHT milk is pretty much all you can get in their supermarkets. Something doesn’t seem right for me when the milk is kept in the larder and not in the fridge and it doesn’t go off for months… it’s unnerving.

They give me funny looks when I ask for milk. Many a waitress or colleague have raised their eyebrows upon my request for milk with my tea. ‘I’ve never heard of that before’ responded one waitress earlier this week, ‘I’ll ask the chef’. Even if they do finally understand the concept of milky tea, it is often brought to the table hot and foamy. That’s for coffee, duh.

They like funny flavours. The most common appears to be Darjeeling, but Earl Grey is a popular choice as well. If I’m going to forgo French culture, I’m going to do it right. English Breakfast only please.

They prefer coffee anyway. I think my strive for a tea taste of home is fairly fruitless, with various occasions of being brought a tea bag with a cup of milk (no water), hot milk on its own (with no tea)and often a cup so full there is no space for milk in it, perhaps it is time to age a few years and start drinking Espresso. I’m all for embracing the culture, but I might just keep a stash of Tetley’s in the back of the cupboard for the next time something exciting happens in the royal family and I feel nostalgic for home.

A Moment from a Movie

This weekend I had a plan. I was to travel back to England for a total of 23 hours in order to celebrate the 21^st birthday of one of my closest friends. Planned far in advance, rather keenly so, I had booked my trains to take me from Bordeaux to Paris and then the Eurostar from Paris to London, acquired so far in advance that the sizeable cost was almost forgotten. She had asked me to do her speech after all.

Of course there was a thunder storm the night before. Of course all the trains to Paris were cancelled due to floods. Of course I didn’t let this stop me.

After deciding that the airport was the way to go (both metaphorically and literally), I jumped in a taxi and exaggeratedly shouted, ‘take me to the airport!’ Dramatic, I hear you say. Well, the fun didn’t stop there. Upon arriving at the airport, I had my movie moment. The moment that allows you to have a story that you know you will always remember and over-tell for a long time to come. That story that your friends will get pretty fed up of hearing but you’ll keep telling them anyway.

Me: ‘Your first flight to London!’

Easyjet Lady: ‘It’s in 40 minutes’

Me: ‘I’ll take it!’

…

Me: ‘Wait, how much?’

An experience and a half, I was whisked through the airport, ushered through security and was sat with my seatbelt on within half an hour. Now that is efficient airporting.

Perhaps it is not the best advice to say arriving at an airport to buy your ticket 40 minutes before a flight is incredibly successful, but stress-related feelings aside, it was rather effective- I didn’t have to wait around for even a minute. Needless to say my friend’s party was incredible and I can only thank her for both the amazing evening, but also for providing me with my very own scene that could have been taken straight from a script.  

French V British: What Makes Us Different?

Image: Crossed-flag-pins.com

I have only been in sunny Bordeaux for a week, but I have already noticed a lot of culture differences between us awkward Brits and our froggy neighbours. They may be stereotyped, but they’re very true.

Their Driving. I decided to make a little road trip out of my year abroad and so brought my car to Bordeaux with me. I expected dilemmas to arise when entering car parks and not being able to reach the ticket machine on the other side, but I hasn’t quite realised that the French aren’t particularly bothered by the welfare of their vehicle. I have yet to see a car without a dent or scratch and am counting the days until I find mine with a wing mirror knocked off.

Their Size. They may eat lots of bread, but I have yet to come across anyone larger than the likes of Dr Jenson recommend. I’ve seen lots of fast food restaurants, but fast food junkies seem to be few and far between.

Their hate of supermarkets. I haven’t quite worked out why, but the French seem to hate the idea of buying everything in one place. They have separate shops for food products (Boulangerie for bread, boucherie for meat, epicerie for all the condiments) and I really cannot understand the lack of the all-encompassing Boots. Make-up, shampoo and plug adapters all in one place? Yes please.

And the one thing we do have in common? We secretly love each other! We can’t get enough of French restaurants in England and I seem to be seeing the British flag everywhere in Bordeaux. Not only that, but within a 10 minute walk of my apartment can be found, ‘Sherlock Holmes’, ‘Charles Dickins’ and even a ‘Cock and Bull’ (Yes, real pubs! Apparently one of them even serves Pimms…). 

Image: Hammeroftruth.com