Erasmus: Waving My Screwdrivers In The Air
HOLDING three screwdrivers in my hand, I wondered where I had gone wrong in my Lyon life. After the door handle on my bathroom somehow managing to fall off I had, mistakeningly enough, thought that I could easily overcome this challenge. Declining all offers of help from my male friends, I rushed to the shop to purchase screwdrivers, smugly smirking at the till. I was a woman now. However, an hour later, where I had exhausted both myself and every possible Youtube tutorial, I decided that enough was enough. With a bruised ego, I resigned myself to emailing my landlord for help. In the meantime, I am stuck with the knowledge that I am useless at DIY and stuck with a bathroom door that won’t open, therefore leaving me without a mirror and makeup. The lessons learnt in womankind are not easy ones.
Unfortunately for my ego, the bathroom incident occured two days before my greatest fear – a presentation. In French. In front of my class. At least 20% of whom I probably fancied. Sadly enough, I am one of those people in society who fear presentations. My last presentation in UCD ended with me developing a lisp, a stutter and bursting in tears in front of my poor French tutor and desperately hoping for the sympathy vote.
However, in a mere two days I’ll have to speak in front of my whole class about the decline of Irish language. While my presentation plan initially consisted of pointing to a picture of Michael Collins while punching the table and crying, I will, in two days, hopefully find enough French in me to describe the Irish language. Realistically, it will probably consist of me running into the sunset chanting the national anthem, but I can at least pretend to be optimistic about my chances..
As always, Lyon is great. Unfortunately enough, it is getting seriously cold, particularly a few weeks ago when it was 2 degrees. The same weekend when my radiator spontaneously decided to break. Shockingly, my 9 euro Penneys knits proved to be a useless force against the cold, but, not to be defeated, I embarked on the town that Saturday night with 10 euro and the intention of finding heat, and perhaps a potential French husband.
Like a hurricane, I rolled into the local supermarket, deciding that the only way to end my plight was through the medium of alcohol. Even though I hadn’t drank in months – and don’t normally drink – I decided that tonight was the night. Unable to afford any other source of heat (such as a blanket) I decided that a €3 bottle of white wine was the only possible way. However, hours later I seemed to have forgotten the other side effects of wine as I danced on a stage wearing a beret. In hindsight, I probably should have realised that while trying to find heat going out for a night, wearing a pair of tights doesn’t qualify as ‘winter clothing.’ Nor does stealing someone’s beret.
French souvenirs so far – a stolen beret and three screwdrivers.
Photos c/o suitcasemag.com, cheezburger.com