La vie est simple. Manger. Dormir. Parler français.

The adventure continues – did our heroine make it to Quebec?

Well, the simple answer to that is yes, I did. The visa arrived, albeit 2 days after I was supposed to fly out. I ended up missing the first 2 days of the meeting in Montreal, and all the important information about getting a national insurance number so I can get paid (an ongoing saga even now, a week into working) and registering for local medical services etc. I arrived just in time to be bussed out from Montreal to Quebec city on Friday and picked up by my responsable, Martin, who I stayed with for the first few days before moving to Beaupré. Martin’s wife, Sarah, is from Ontario and speaks English, and their 3 children (adorable, even after the 100th rendition of High School Musical!) are all bilingual, so for the first 3 days I spoke next to no French whatsoever, but had a fantastic time, and made some interesting discoveries about the place I’m going to call home for the next 10 months.

My first breakfast brought with it the realisation (and the terrible quotations will continue for the next 10 months by the way!) that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Having poured myself a nice big bowl of yummy looking cereal, I looked around for the milk. Now, I wasn’t expecting it in a nice glass bottle like at home, I’ve travelled enough to know that the cheery morning whistle of the milkman is something almost unique to Britain these days, but I wasn’t expecting to be presented with milk in a PLASTIC BAG. A bit like the intravenous fluids in hospital, milk comes in litre bags here, but I imagine IV drips make less mess! It’s OK when the bag is less than half full, but it’s hardly practical. When I explained that we still had milk from the milkman, in glass bottles, Martin’s kids looked amazed, like I had stepped out of the pages of history.

I spent a very pleasant afternoon on the Saturday wandering around old Quebec, being touristy and attempting to practice my French. The quebecois accent certainly makes life entertaining! Even something as simple as Pas du tout! (You’re welcome/Don’t mention it) sounds like gibberish to the untrained ear – what you’ll most likely hear is Paaaan toooot! Once you get used to the fact that everyone here has their vocal cords in their nose, it’s not too bad. The extensive use of Franglais bothers me more than the grating accent. The Quebecois are, as a rule, very proud of their French heritage and particularly the more radical among them resist any English influences surrounding them from the US and the rest of Canada. When you’ve spent ages reading about the laws passed to make Quebec francophone, and the tensions surrounding the use of English, it’s somewhat disheartening to then be confronted with giant billboards advertising “The leader en nettoyage” or to find that EVERYTHING in the supermarket is labelled in both languages, despite English having no official status in the province. However, I can’t really complain as the majority of people in Beaupré, including most of the teachers at the school, speak only French, so I’m getting plenty of practice.

After I had been wandering around Quebec city for an hour or so, I began to realise that something wasn’t quite right with the cars (other than them being on the wrong side of the road, obviously) but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was different. Until I realised that it wasn’t possible for the entire population of Quebec to be driving illegal or new cars without number plates on the front. It’s often the small differences that seem to jump out at you the most in a new place. Whilst I’m on the subject of cars, I might just complain about the general driving ability of the population – they have none. The Canadian driving test might require controlled skids on black ice, but it seems lane discipline is considered less than essential. Right, left, straight up the middle, what does it matter so long as nothing is coming the other way – this seems to be something of a Quebecois driving motto. And even if something is coming the other way, Canadians have gone in for building their cars as tank-like and unmanoeuvrable as the Americans, so the other guy had better get out of the way!

Anyway, enough of my musings and back to the story at hand. I moved into the room I am renting on Monday, it’s only 5 mins walk from the school and I have TV, all my meals, a huge wardrobe (lots of space to buy new clothes!) and a bathroom, so I’m pretty much sorted. My landlord is pretty awesome too, and is always helping me with my French, which is good. I started my first official day at school on Tuesday. I have my own classroom, but it has sofas instead of desks and it’s bright purple. I also have a tiny little office off to the side of my classroom, but I prefer to sit on the sofas, they’re more comfortable. I don’t actually start teaching until the 15th, and the school timetable is organised in 2 alternating cycles of 9 days, so I only see each group once a month. It’s a shame I don’t get to see more of the students, but it does mean a lot less lesson planning, as I can use most of the material over and over again for all the different classes. I’m spending my first nine day cycle getting to know the school, getting lost looking for the staffroom (twice already), and introducing myself to the 20 different classes I have to teach. I’ve already started to get an idea of which groups are going to be the ones to watch out for! The langues-etudes students, the ones who specialise in foreign languages, are obviously much more motivated and eager to learn, and I know their lessons are going to be the most enjoyable, but if I can get the regular (and notoriously uninterested) groups to join in and learn (something, anything!), I think that will be more rewarding at the end of the day. I do like a challenge!

Beaupré itself is great. What it lacks in local amenities (like a bookshop, supermarket or public transport) it makes up for in beauty. The shadow of the mountain over the town has an almost protective air and the sound of the St Laurent river (which this far north is technically the sea, so I am told) mimics the peaceful rhythm of the town’s ebb and flow. The architecture is a bit bland, nothing to write home about, but I imagine the place comes into its own in autumn and winter, when the leaves blaze in a glory of colour before giving way to a dazzling white wonderland. I’m not a summer person, as most of my friends know, so I really can’t wait for the first snowfalls!

A bientôt!

THE Year Abroad... but will I ever get there?

As I prepared to embark on another years adventure, thousands of miles from home, I thought about turning my hand to the clichéd yet enduring work of blogging. Now, I may not be the next Bill Bryson, but at the very least my family and friends will feign interest in my musings and insights into another culture, my adventures on another continent and undoubtedly my trials, tribulations and cultural faux-pas that are certain to occur as I immerse myself in that wonderful institution of language students, The Year Abroad.

The details of this mythical right of passage, you cry? Well, here you go.

Now, most (sane) people, when choosing where to go on their year abroad, would not pick a tiny little village, nestled at the foot of a mountain, in rural Quebec. A cultural hub in France perhaps, or one of the many beautiful island territoires d'outre mer, golden sunshine and unspoilt beaches guaranteed. Instead, I chose 6 months of winter, impassable roads, no public transport and a bizzare variety of French that is sure to have my tutors and fellow classmates puzzling over what exactly it is I have just said on my return to St Andrews.

Admittedly, when I first applied to the British Council for an assistantship in Quebec, I had only a vague idea of what it would actually be like. I just knew I wanted an adventure and to me the idea of such a vast distance (2863.8 miles to be precise) cried ADVENTURE. Images of mounties and maple syrup danced through my imagination as I filled out forms and attended interviews until one day, my email inbox made that tell-tale pinging sound, and I found out where I'm going.

My destination? Beaupré, Québec. Naturally, I had no idea where this is, so out came the big guns - Wikipedia and Googlemaps. For anyone still awake and reading at this point, it's about 20km north of Quebec City, on the coast of the St Laurent river. The wikipedia article on the town is less than helpful (seriously, read it for yourself) and most guide books are annoyingly vague about the area as well. I get the feeling if it wasn't for Mont Ste-Anne, eastern Canada's highest skiing station, it wouldn't be mentioned at all. But I'll reserve judgement until I am actually there. I have a sneaking suspicion it will be quite wonderful.

My task? To teach English at the École secondaire du Mont Ste-Anne, to help the kids improve their speaking skills, to teach them about British life and culture and hopefully have a lot of fun whilst doing it. To boldly go where thousands of other language students have gone before (Sorry, couldn't resist! For future reference - I am a geek).

For now, that's all I can really say about the place or the job. All I can do now is count down the days to my departure (5) and hope my visa arrives in time. Because naturally, I would have to have some calamity or other before I even get there. Actually obtaining a visa to get into Canada is a costly, yet fairly simple, process. However, I must have broken a hall of mirrors or something recently because mine is still to arrive. The Post Office (current target of my seething rage and cursing via Facebook) appear to have "misplaced" my medical results. No medical results, no visa. No visa, no Canada. How they can manage to lose tracked mail is beyond me - as one person put it "They only have one job - to deliver - and they can't even get that right!". I wholeheartedly concurred with this statement, and began ringing customer services, the Canadian High Commission and the GP in Manchester to see about getting another set of results. So hopefully, a visa should be faxing its way to me soon (I no longer trust the Royal Mail to get it to me at all, let alone on time) and I can, as intended, fly on Sunday.

I could at this point go into a massive long rant about the Customer Torture Department at the Post Office, (apparently losing post "is not their fault") but as I've gone on for long enough, I think I'll just leave it there, and say "See you in Canada!"