Le Chat Borgne

Going back to work after the holidays is never fun. I spent most of the first week back wandering around like a confused mole who had just emerged from a hole deep in the ground, blinking with confusion and trying to understand what the Common Agricultural Policy was again. But one thing that always cheers me up is spending time around animals, specifically dogs. I thought that I would try to alleviate the perennial January blues by doing a reportage about an animal sanctuary in Nantes. Pictures on their website promised puppies. I was very excited. I love dogs more than almost anything. I used to have a large ring-binder which contained a file on every dog breed when I was little. I was able to name any kind of dog from some distance, be it a Bichon Frise or a Xoloitzcuintle (a Mexican hairless dog, obviously). It was going to be great.

I felt my first twinges of suspicion as I approached the address of the sanctuary. It looked very small. More like a pet shop than a delightful dog-land. Indeed, upon entering the shop I was almost struck down by an overpowering odor. First came the smell, then the sound. Of mewing. Or miaulement. I dislike cats almost as much as I like dogs. I'm sorry to any feline-philes out there, but I just don't trust them. They are mean and untrustworthy. I managed to get through the interview by avoiding eye contact with the cruel creatures, whose glare I could feel upon me. One of the sanctuary volunteers, a kinder and hardier woman than I, asked me if I would like to hold one of the cats. I politely declined and left as fast as my legs could carry me.

Strasbourg!

*Apologies for the latest of this recent post. The past few weeks have been incredibly hectic and I hope that the length of this one will make up for any withdrawal symptoms my many readers have been experiencing...!*

Last Monday I boarded a six hour train far too early in the morning for my first ever work trip. Every month, the radio sends two interns to the European Parliament in Strasbourg along with the permanent journalists and now it was my turn. My two colleagues immediately got out their laptops and began preparing their debates. I, however, decided that I wasn't important enough to have to work at 7am and spent most of the journey asleep, or staring soulfully out of the window as we crossed from the West to the East of l'Hexagone.

My first impressions of Strasbourg were just that it was incredibly Germanic. Everything from the place names - 'Wacken' being one delightful tram stop, how beautiful the German language is - to the bretzels hanging in bakery windows made me aware of just how close to Deutschland we were. However, I spent almost the entirety of my three days in the city ensconced in the behemoth that is the European Parliament so I was unable to discover any more about the city. Schade (that's shame in German, Herr Tiger, you should be proud).

Hallo Strasbourg

The first day at the Parliament was a confusing and stressful blur as I tried to work out who I could  find to interview, where the press cafe with the apparently delicious pastries was and why there were so many different passerelles (bridges) in the Louise Weiss building. My first interview was with a German Green MEP, Gerald Hafner. He's co-author of the Single Seat report, which argues that the Parliament should only have one location instead of shuffling back and forth between Brussels and Strasbourg every month.This migration causes enormous financial and environmental waste, and over a third of MEPs voted in favour of the proposal, because clearly it is a slightly ridiculous system. But guess who didn't? The French...

My evening meal gave me a better idea of why some MEPs are pretty happy to keep coming back to Strasbourg every month. With the joy of expenses, they can certainly enjoy the many restaurants proffering Alsacian cuisine, which is essentially composed of cheese, meat and cream. We took full advantage of our food allowance to try out this healthy concoction. My tartiflette (just a plate of bacon, potatoes, cheese and cream) was pretty good. The Spanish intern wasn't too taken with her choucroute though.

A light snack.

The next day was more successful - I had invited Denis Macshane, an ex Labour MEP, to take part in a debate about the far right run by the radio. It was pretty interesting - there was also a member of the Vlaams Belang, the Flemish far right party - who the other speakers attacked throughout the debate. We saw him later on sitting in the Parliament in the 'far right corner' (MEPs are seated according to their political affiliation)along with Marine and Jean-Marie Le Pen, a fairly unpleasant looking pair. The BNP even put little British flags on their desks, which I suppose is just in case anyone in the vicinity is unaware of their stance. Malala Yousafzai was at the Parliament to receive the Sakharov Prize and it was a privilege to be able to watch her acceptance speech.

I'm up there in the corner somewhere.

The other highlight of the trip to Strasbourg was interviewing so many interesting MEPs. They represent huge swathes of Europe and really do have a lot more power than our local MPs, yet almost no one in the UK at least is aware of what they really do or who they are. I had the pleasure of meeting Claude Moraes, a Labour MEP for London. He is heading of a European Parliament enquiry into surveillance and the NSA, trying to understand what we can do to better protect the data of European citizens.

You can listen to the interview here if you so wish.

I also met Andrew Duff, Lib Dem MEP for the East of England and President of the Union of European Federalists. Surrounded by UKIP and Conservative MEPs berating Brussels, he represents many of things that are good about European cooperation that many people in the UK unfortunately ignore.

I also interviewed Mary Honeyball, another Labour MEP for London and accidentally found myself being videoed to promote her work on regulating prostitution in the European Union. Apparently Sweden has the best prostitution laws which she is seeking to implement on a European scale. This doesn't surprise me, given that it is a country which also recently opened an LGBT retirement home. They're doing pretty well as a nation.

Me and Mary

The Parliament in Strasbourg may be underused and full of paper shipped unnecessarily across Europe, but it has a certain charm that makes me see why some MEPs are reluctant to relocate back to Brussels. It was a hectic and stressful experience but definitely an unforgettable one. If nothing else I managed to find my way around a building with over 800 offices. Even though I did have to sprint across the building to retrieve a lost memory card, it was totally a graceful sprint. Like a stressed giraffe.

Searching for ambient sounds

So I said I'd explain what sons d'ambiances are. Essentially, as part of the reportage, it is important to have atmospheric sounds in the background. A person just talking with no background noise apparently lacks ambiance. The odder the sound, the better. Two weeks ago I did a reportage on a project to make laundry in hotels more environmentally-friendly.  I know a lot about different types of laundry facilities now. I also had the experience of spending an uncomfortable five minutes standing in a local launderette, surreptitiously recording a stranger's laundry whooshing around. The glamour is too much, I tell you.

Last week I attended my first ever horse racing competition at the Petit Port Hippodrome in Nantes, in search of more ambient sounds. I wasn't disappointed. The horses were attracted to my tape recorder, and whilst I tried to interview their owners they jostled for attention, grunting as their huge heads pushed their patient minders to one side.

This is Ubriaco. He has fancy legwarmers on which I'm jealous of.

Whilst at the Petit Port, I also learnt what the horses eat to prepare for big races (beetroot pulp) and received a marriage proposal from the son of a horse trainer from Normandy with no teeth. I'm thinking about it.

You can listen to my horse report here.

In other news, I went back to Paris to see Lottie which was brilliant as always. Everyone in Nantes refers to Paris as 'une ville dure' and to their own city as 'une ville humaine' but what's hard or inhuman about living in a city that has it's own designer eclair shop? I don't know.

This weekend I went to the Chateau de Chenonceau in the Loire Valley, which was beautiful. I also found out that Diane de Poiters, an inhabitant of the Castle, fell in love with a seven year old (Henry II of France) when she was 27, but she did the decent thing and waited until he was 17 to get involved with him. Unfortunately, he was married to Catherine de Medici by that point, but Diane was still his fave so she just hung out at the castle a lot and occasionally signed royal documents. She was also obsessed with maintaining her youthful looks (as you would be if you were trying to snare someone 20 years younger than you), so she used to take baths in the River Cher all year round, believing it would preserve her complexion.

That's the 1550s for you. Catherine's daughter-in-law, Louise de Lourraine Vaudremont, also had a passionate love for her husband Henry III, so much so that when he died in 1589 she spent the rest of her life in the castle and covered her room in skulls and crossbones.

Happy in Chenonceau (in a room minus skulls and crossbones)

Overall it was a great day and a good chance to spend lots of time on the train, one of my favourite activities as it allows me to legitimately stare out of a window for hours. The French train system is pretty quirky. There seem to be strikes and delays almost every single day and the SNCF have planned accordingly by leaving enough 'Repas d'Urgence' on each train for all passengers, with lots of dried fruit snacks and an SNCF quiz book. 

They are also far more romantic as a transport network than the good old National Rail. Every time I ascend a train there are at least a dozen young couples saying tearful goodbyes, and a announcement telling those accompanying passengers to kindly alight before departure. This kind of business would be unheard of in the UK, where a stiff upper lip and countless ticket barriers prevent such romantic gestures.

Les 50 Otages

The format at work which I find the most challenging - but which can also be the most interesting - is the reportage. It is essentially a five minute documentary, and involves going out onto the 'terrain' i.e out of the office, to talk to people and get lots of 'sons d'ambiance'. More on that later...

A couple of weeks ago I did a reportage on the Commemoration of the shooting of the '50 Otages' who were part of the French resistance in Nantes during the Second World War. Obviously, this is a very important topic and I wanted to do it justice. However, after missing the initial memorial ceremony due to getting the time wrong and consequently spending a long while desperately searching the recycle bin at work for the information I'd written down, I was quite worried that I would have no material whatsoever.

Luckily, thanks to the kindness of my colleagues, I found myself at a second memorial ceremony in a suburb of Nantes, which I missed almost entirely due to the 'Chronobus' taking a mysterious detour in what seemed to be a route that went back on itself. Alas, I fear I will never understand the Chronobus, nor the Busway, nor the Bicloo or the other hybrid-named Nantes public transport systems. I hitched a ride back into the city centre with a bus full of war veterans wearing copious medals. I felt very out of place indeed but it was really interesting to talk them.

Once the bus had disembarked I was directed towards 'le Colonel', a man who must have been at least in his 90s and seemed to be almost completely deaf. He began to tell me about how he had fought in the French Resistance, helping to liberate France from German Occupation. I was pretty astounded, obviously - having spent a large amount of time studying French History, it was of course incredible to meet him...

But as I walked away, a man ran up behind me urging me to wait. He was a local historian and he wanted to tell me that this man was an impostor. It was a very sensitive issue, he explained. The 'Colonel' often showed up to such commemorative events. Most people weren't aware of the truth behind his story, but the historian had done extensive research and had found that in fact there was no evidence at all of this man's participation in the Resistance. If anything, he added, he had most probably worked with the Vichy government.

As a young history student this was pretty astounding to me. Of course I knew that many people in France bent the truth about what they, or their families, actually did in the War. But it was a different matter to experience it in person. It made me realize just how important the memory of la deuxieme guerre remains today for France.

Here is the reportage if you are interested.

This is a reason why I like working at the radio - I have encountered people, and situations, that I would never otherwise come across. Coming up next: What racehorses eat before big competitions...

Les Zombies de Paris

Last weekend, I finally boarded a train from Nantes to Paris, after over two years without a trip to my favourite city (after London of course- don't worry Golders, you'll always be my number one). I was a tad overexcited and spent most of the journey bouncing up and down. When the train eventually pulled into the Gare and I caught a glimpse the glittering Eiffel Tower out of the window it was simply too much for me to handle.

I met the lovely Lottie at the Gare Montparnasse and we went straight to one my favourite culinary corners of Paris - rue de Montparnasse by Edgar Quinet metro, a street dedicated entirely to creperies. Despite having just spent over two months in Brittany (well, Nantes is not actually in Britanny, but everyone refers to it as part of Bretagne...), Creperie Josselin was better than almost any nantais establishment I have tried.

Me looking quite happy.

The whole weekend was one big food-fest, which also involved a return to the best Lebanese sandwich shop ever in Rue St Jacques, the most chocolatey hot chocolate in the Marais and, saving best for last, FALAFEL. L'As du Falafel is a hardly a well-kept secret in Paris - the long queues at all times of the day are a testament to it's huge popularity. It was just as good as I remembered, if not better.

Lottie is living with a lovely family just outside of Paris and they also cooked us an amazing Sunday lunch. Finally tried foie gras, which was pretty good - luckily at the time I couldn't really remember how it was made...

I also tried to go and visit my old apartment in the Marais. However, there was a zombie walk going on at the exact time that we attempted to walk down the street, which made matters rather difficult. We gave up after someone tried to bite Lottie, but later saw the zombies enjoying burgers in McDo, which we agreed made for a much better diet.

 My old apartment is just above the zombie's head

Overall it was a wonderful weekend. Paris, I'll be back before you know it!

FLASH - Argh.

Last week I presented the midday show and this week it was my job to present the 'flash' which is essentially the 12 O'Clock news. It happens at midday, then at half past, then at precisely 12.57. I have discovered in the past two weeks that:

• When panicking and trying to say something in French, my brain becomes too confused and simply says words in English instead. I recently enthusiastically announced WELL! in the middle of an otherwise French sentence. Swapping between two langues is clearly too much for my overtired cerveau.
• Similarly, I cannot say numbers in French on air. I've always been spectacularly bad at all things mathematical (shout out to Mrs Fidler, my year 9 Maths tutor who tried, but ultimately failed, to help me understand long division), but it seems like my ineptitude for all things numerical is MULTIPLIED whilst trying to speak on the radio. So I just spontaneously make up numbers that don't actually exist such as 'eighty-five fifteen'. Then the lovely presenter has to explain to the listeners that I have said a made up number and tell them the correct one. Sorry to all who have been affected by me getting the date of everything wrong... 
• Talking is hard. A word as simple as libéralisation becomes a minefield, as I witnessed today. I struggled on: liber... liberaliseaa... liberalazeatieeeon... but it was all in vain. At least the technician found it funny.

Some more successful radio endeavors have included a report on people stealing chemical toilets in Bulgaria, which involved me spending the afternoon translating Bulgarian twitter comments into French. Probably my most successful piece of work to date to be honest... 

Today I also attended my first ever press conference. I didn't know I was going until an hour before and rocked up in shorts and a snazzy T-shirt. Unfortunately  everyone else there was a middle aged man in a suit. Whatevs.

Tomorrow, I am going to PARIS. It's been over two years since I was last there and I can't wait!

A bientot xxx

Baggel?

Bagels are one of my favourite things in the world. They're just so great. Lucky for me, I hail from Golders Green, which is essentially the home of the bagel.

Things aren't so simple for me here in Nantes. For one thing, the Nantais are pretty keen on baguettes and haven't really got the hang of what a bagel even is. For one thing, they often spell it 'baggel'. Just...no. The only kind available in my local supermarket are a brand called 'Regent's Park' which purport to be bagels but in fact are sorry, soft and soggy excuses for bread.

So I was cheered to discover a cafe near the cathedral which tantalizingly displays a selection of these beautiful baked goods in their window. Shefferville Cafe is named after a town in Ontario, Canada, near the border with Labrador and on the North Shore of Knob lake (how great are THOSE names.) It's small and cozy with a great music playlist -  we all need a bit of Englishman in New York to accompany lunch. There is a good selection of different bagels and some exciting combinations of fillings. I would recommend the Naskapi (bacon, goats cheese, egg, other amazing things). The owner of the shop seemed relentlessly cheerful and asked with what seemed like genuine concern if he had given us too much food.

The only problem: these bagels are on the steep side price wise- around 5 euros to eat in - because they are imported from Leeds. Yes, that's right, Leeds. Still, it's something. Merci Shefferville.

Shefferville Cafe
93 Rue Maréchal Joffre
44000 Nantes