November, 2005
A hungry, tired and cold Nadine walked into her F1 – the one-bedroom flat she was renting whilst she was at Université de Poitiers – and locked the door behind her. She picked up an envelope, which she stepped on as she came in through the door. From the return address on the back, she saw that it was from the la CAF, which was short for la Caisse d’Allocation Familiale. The carrier bag in her hand contained some packed meals she had bought from a bistro on her way back from university. She placed this on the kitchen table, before tearing open the envelope from the la CAF. A cheque for €195 made out to her, fell out and she smiled.
Her accommodation had been advertised through the private-sector student housing at €500 a month, but she also had to fill some forms for the state-owned CAF. The forms asked specific questions about her accommodation, such as size of the apartment, the number of occupants in the apartment, how many rooms it had, her sources of income, whether she had a job, worked part or full time, was unemployed, and some other things – known as variables – she didn’t remember, now. She wondered why these pieces of information were being taken from her, and she was informed that students usually got a refund on their rent from the state through la CAF. The exact amount of the refund was dependent on the variables highlighted on any individual la CAF form – in her case, a cheque for €195 arrived without fail, in the first week of every month, meaning that her rent was actually €305.
She was grateful not just for the money, but also for the type and location of her accommodation. Unlike in England and even in Nigeria, campuses were rare in France, with the result that French students normally attended the university, that happened to be closest to their homes. The alternatives for those who decided to attend university, in a city away from home, were to rent in the private sector, or seek out private-sector student housing also known as estudines. The estudines varied, but appeared to mostly consist of studio-type flats, whose sizes were around 15-35sq metres. They were normally fitted with a big bed and desk, and the en-suite bathroom tended to be relatively small. The tiny kitchenette would also be typically furnished with a two-plate electric hob, microwave, small counter, mini-fridge, kettle and a few drawers for storage. Given that she was particularly averse to small spaces, Nadine was thankful that she found a flat, whose size was more suited to her tastes.
She was made more aware of her good fortune, when she learned from some students on her course, that some found accommodation through associations, similar to the YMCAs and YWCAs in England. For instance, Paris had a cite universitaire, where students were housed according to their nationality. The younger sister of one of her course-mates, who was studying at a Parisian university, lived in the Association et Foyer International. It was a 6-storey building, which was manned by a concierge and had a ‘lock-out’ time, meaning that any resident who returned after 9pm on a weekday, or after midnight on weekends, would have to find alternative accommodation for the night – because they would be locked out. Some of the bedrooms were shared, as were all the bathrooms – one per floor. The bathrooms were apparently similar to those in gyms – so, as a rule, a bathroom in that kind of accommodation would consist of four shower stalls, five washbasins and five toilets. Sometimes, there would be a laundrette within the building; if not, residents had to find other nearby laundrettes, where they could do their laundry. Yes, Nadine was incredibly grateful for the type and location of her own accommodation.
When it came to cuisine, Nadine knew she would gladly pick the French over the British. Although she no longer felt like gagging whenever she smelt coffee, she found it difficult to resist the lure of the creamy hot chocolates served in their cafés – even when she knew that coffee was brewed in the same buildings. With a selection of eateries classified as brasseries, which were the most similar to pubs in England, bistros to denote somewhat smarter establishments, and restaurants which were the swankiest of the lot, Nadine had to admit that the French knew what they were doing. With the ulcer she had suffered in England now healed, she was keen to make sure that it did not re-occur in France. For about €10, one could obtain a 3-course meal consisting of a starter salad, a filling main course, and a decadent dessert – such as fruit and ice cream, chocolate mousse, or tart of the day. She had acquired a taste for escargots, mussel and chips, and flageolets which were often served as an accompaniment to lamb shanks. She was overjoyed that the French preferred grilled fish and chips, but couldn’t bring herself to ingest cuisses de grenouille or get her head around steak tartar and chips – she didn’t understand the fascination with raw food. But she was insatiable when it came to winter comfort food – pot au feu – made up of beef, carrots, potatoes and onions, cooked with herbs, garlic and some wine in an earthenware pot.
She could never get enough of pot au feu and Raymond and Stella now teased her for re-christening it ‘health in a pot’. But she didn’t care and ate it every week, sometimes twice a week. She usually got it from a bistro on her way back from university, and she saw it as the perfect way to begin a slow weekend. Yes, there were clubs and recreational facilities in France, but without Stella or Raymond, she felt a little lost. She had managed to become friendly with some students on her course and had actually gone out to a nightclub with them, the weekend after she arrived. But she had not enjoyed herself because it just felt different. It wasn’t just the absence of her partners-in-crime that irked her so; the atmosphere wasn’t what she was used to. She wasn’t a ladette by any standards, but the reservation of some of the French felt like standoffishness to her. And it made her feel isolated. Along with the racism, which was just as bad.
She wondered if the racism was a new feature. Or if it was something she just hadn’t noticed when she visited Paris with her father. Sometimes, Nadine felt her skin colour was being made an issue and at other times, she thought it was more to do with her not being French – some of the students on her course also had tales of experiencing racism, both subtle and blatant. And some of these students didn’t have skin as olive as hers. Some were Chinese, a couple were Polish, and one was even British. She also remembered hearing an American girl on her course, complain. As she had never – to the best of her knowledge – suffered racism in England, being on the receiving end of something so insidious, was painful. Even worse was that there was nothing she could do about it. It was at times like these that Nadine missed her parents, her boyfriend and her best friend … so much that her stomach would hurt. And although she was making a genuine effort to take care of herself, the thought that the ulcer which plagued her in England, had returned with a vengeance, would cross her mind, from time to time. She would then have to remind herself of the reason she had come to France, and before telling herself that the academic year would not last forever.
University was brutal. Yes, she did feel sometimes, that she had it easier studying at a British university in some aspects, than she would have at a Nigerian university. But studying in Paris stretched her to the limit, and then some. It had nothing to do with the fact that all thought and communication was to be carried out in a language that was not her first language. No, she was not afraid of hard work, either. It was more that the system was unlike anything she had ever known, so adjusting to it was tough. Because Université de Poitiers was a université publique – a public university – fees were fairly minimal, with the result that gaining admission was relatively easy. This was in addition to the facts that virtually everyone had a right and access to free education, and there were no quotas on university places. Consequently, student numbers were high and this inevitably placed a strain on everyone. There were 20 examinations to write and students needed to pass at least 10; easier said than done, especially as about half the class usually failed. They had the alternative of re-sit particular exams, or even re-do the entire year, should the need arise – to Nadine, these were not options available to her – but anyone re-doing the year, absolutely had to pass on that attempt. Or they would be kicked out. Private universities worked differently, as they were more expensive, favoured a concours d’entrée – an admission test of some sort – meaning that getting a degree was a given. More money also meant better infrastructure. These particular differences were irrelevant to Nadine, who just wanted to get through the year, with her sanity intact.
As she spooned some food onto a plate before putting it into the microwave, she smiled. Raymond was due later tonight. Nadine went through a mental check-list of things to do, before she saw her boyfriend. She had already been to the regular farmers’ market in her quartier – neighbourhood – yesterday to buy some fresh vegetables. But she needed steak. Lidl did bavette a l’echalote, but she wanted something different. Monoprix was too far; she’d found out the hard way, when Stella visited. Franprix had run out of chateaubriand when she checked yesterday, and she knew that Raymond didn’t like minced meat, so she knew that getting steak hache frites was out of the question. But, she was sure that there would be some filet mignon in stock at Champion just before she went to the airport in time for his arrival.
The microwave beeped, and Nadine opened the door. She uncovered the steaming plate and closed her eyes, as she savoured a forkful of her ‘health in a pot’.