My Erasmus: We dreamt and lived those dreams

Shared by: Jon Catshoek
Erasmus Trip:  s-Gravenhage Paris
It was:  2006

La vie à l’envers

 
It's my first night in a new city and I 'm not sleeping. I'm standing in front of my window and I look out over the courtyard. It's dark, but not silent. Sounds of passing traffic lie over the building like a net of noise. Tomorrow I'll walk the crowded streets, into a new life. I'm full of energy. Through the open window the city climbs into my room. The flat of the hand of the motorist that hits the claxon, the dog that barks at a passenger... I'm in Paris. A city that doesn't sleep, just like me.

            I occupy a room in the Collège Néerlandais in the Cité Universitaire. The Cité is an international campus, that has been set up in the thirties of the previous century to promote friendship between students from all over the world. My predecessors are still present in my room: yellowed tapes on the walls where once were photos and posters, the ring of a coffee mug on my desk, a burn stain of a cigarette in my curtain. It immediately feels like home.

I’m in good company. My neighbour Nasir is a cheerful Lebanese, a strapping lad who will become a very good friend in the six months I’m there. Vlatko, a self-proclaimed movie-expert with a severe fear of dirt, lives at the other side of the hallway. Each morning he’s woken up by the sun, because he attached a Macedonian flag to the middle of his curtain rod, so his curtains don't close anymore. He doesn't let a chance go by to let know that Alexander the Great was a Macedonian tóó. Furthermore I meet John and Elise from New-Zealand, Njaka from Madagscar, Pierre from Reunion, Mattias from the Czech Republic, the French Antoine, the Dutch Sara, Marten and Marieke and many others.

            With them I experience the first days, that I spend mostly on bureaucracy. Armed with a packet of fresh, but unflattering passport photos I run from office to office. Applying for rent subsidy, opening a bank account (because without a bank account no subsidy), inscribing myself at the housing corporation. Now I also visit the place where I’ll be thrown into the deep waters of the French educational system: the Sorbonne Nouvelle.

            It sounds like a dream, but it is a quite pleasant block of concrete in the lively Quartier Latin. The hallways are packed with students, the walls hung with artistic posters and barely decipherable time-tables. Worn patches in the floors have been fixed with pieces of floorcloth, and an overhead projector is in these parts a novelty of which only rumours have been heard. Here I’ll be instructed les 'Etudes européennes' in French. This subject fits well with my studies, International Relations, and I’m looking forward to brush up my French. I take courses about the military history of Europe,  the establishment of the European Union, but also a course about the nineteenth century French literature and its  interaction with the art of painting. Of course a French language course is also included.

            Of all those concerned in the lectures, old-fashioned discipline is expected. A few keywords appear in chalk on the blackboard, the teacher talks and the student writes along in a terrifying speed. What I feared for doesn’t happen, because I can follow the lectures very well. There are a lot of Erasmus students in the classroom, so the professor explains some concepts extensively. At moments like these, the French students roll their eyes. But when caution is thrown to the winds, it goes too fast sometimes and the message doesn’t come across totally. Amongst international students the words of the speaker are being carefully followed: did he really say that the founder of the European Union liked baking cakes?

The courses go by without any problem, until the fourth week of study. As I come in through the heavy spring-loaded doors I see that the hall is full of banners and the classrooms have been barricaded. Strike! The new redundancy law that the government wants to implement, is obviously not well received. Till further notice of the student troops the faculty will remain closed! From this day on seven weeks of stagnation follow. Nearly every day I pay a visit to the faculty to check if the classes will be resumed again. The weather is nice, the city is tempting, but this is not exactly what I expected of it. My international colleagues and me would like to improve our French and get to know French students. I would like to let the local female students experience that Dutch can be a very romantic language, tóó. My French companion Antoine tells me happily that the strike will be a more valuable experience than my studies: this is an exceptional chance to study the French national character at its best, after all striking is the national hobby. Together with some French and foreign friends I later take part in a huge demonstration. We’re walking behind enormous banners, while shouting along with the slogans from the megaphones. I’m always willing to help my French colleagues. After the strike is over, I’m more motivated than ever to get cracking again. For two weeks I’ve had a job as a telephonic salesman and now my brain wants to absorb as much useful information and French language as possible.

            It really starts to become summer and in the metro it’s unbearable. Stains of sweat start to become visible under some armpits. Hairs stick to foreheads. It’s hot, too hot. When I spot a bicycle in a hypermarché just outside town, between the crockery and the do-it-yourself furniture, my choice is made easily and I pull out my credit card.

            From the moment on that I don’t have to take the metro anymore, I get to know the city better. Alone or together with Nasir I roam the city. The boulevards are often packed, but luckily enough the bus lane has been opened for bikers, too, so that I regularly zip past rows of miserable mobilists, with a broad smile (not too broad, after breathing gasoline vapour is not one of my favourite hobbies). In case of emergency I zigzag short stretches over the sidewalk. I enjoy the city, and as long as you watch out it’s not so bad. Anyways, I wón’t wear a little helmet!

            Now it starts to get warmer, the parks of the city start to exert an irresistible attraction on my friends and me. In the evening we often sit outside, in the centre of the city. The Paris of the picture postcards doesn’t play a big role for us students, but there is óne logo that forms a meeting point for us: the Seine, around the Île de la Cité. No bar, no disco, no living room gives such a fantastic view, such a free atmosphere as the quays and little parks along the river. At the end of the day we sit there together, looking out over the water in the twilight, sharing our experiences. The wine we brought from the local shop is being put to our professional test.

Along de Seine you can be quiet and enjoy the moment, without the silence getting uneasy. As the summer progresses more people gather on the quays, the Parisians with picnic rugs and extended  meals, later followed by the tourists with bottles of wine and beer. The canal touring boats let their floodlights shine boldly in our face, like we’re part of the city. And I realise, it’s actually true. In a short while I have made myself familiar with the city. Even though I still get lost sometimes, my French isn’t optimal, Paris has become my home. The small, grubby alleys and the grand boulevards, the buildings that hang on to each other, half decomposed, I feel deeply connected with it. I can’t imagine that I’ll have to say goodbye to this life soon.

The Netherlands, three months later. With a webcam and an internet connection my friends from Paris are still close. We call eachother regularly or send an e-mail. I learned more in six months Erasmus time than during the three years of study before. In a new environment one has to give oneself a place again. The friends I made in Paris had to do the same and they share an unforgettable experience with me. In a pressure cooker of new impressions, experiences and people, close friendships are formed.  

When I think back of Paris, I get homesick. Then I miss the receptionist of the Collège who I hated so much, the crazy cleaning lady with the cackling laugh, the clochards in the metro, the creaking parquet of my room.

A ticket for the Thalys isn’t expensive, in a few weeks I’ll go back again. I can already dream the journey. As usual the lights in the carriage flicker out shortly before the metro enters terminal station Porte d'Orléans and a voice sounds: Porte d'Orléans, terminus. Destination reached. A little bit home.

Jon Catshoek