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!