And Then a Bird Pooped On Me: My Year Abroad So Far
By Niamh Morgan
In the months prior to moving to Toulouse for my exchange year, I spent a good chunk of my time conjuring up a romanticised image of how I would spend my every day here. Think ending your evenings sitting by a lulling body of water and gulping down mouthfuls of white wine, with weekends spent travelling across France, and even further afield into Europe, immersing myself fully into the ins and outs of everyday life in a sun-soaked foreign land. In my head, I was about to embark on some kind of Bourdain inspired journey into southern France, wherein I would inevitably find myself, or something along those lines. This aforementioned romantic notion, in many ways however, does not exist; the wine is still cheap and headache inducing wherever you go, the water remains the same muddy brown it is in every large city and the trips are, for the most part, just as expensive as they are at home.
Now that is not to say that the month and a half I have spent in Toulouse so far has not been incredibly special; the city itself is stunning. I mean absolutely breathtaking. The scenery around the Garonne River honestly feels straight out of a painting, and whilst I adore Belfast, it’s hard to argue that visually it comes anywhere close to ‘la Ville rose’. There is also an excitement to student life here which I feel lacks slightly in Belfast. The nightlife here never really seems to quit; most clubs stay open to the wee small hours of the morning, with many still playing music until 6am – I know, imagine a nightclub not shutting its doors at 2am! Revolutionary!
Despite this, my year abroad to this point has, quite frankly, felt far more mundane than I would like to admit. Partly because, as I have discovered, a change of scenery cannot change who we are this drastically and I am, in the words of my mum, ‘quite an unfortunate soul’. Well, my first week definitely lived up to this, the kind of situation that perfectly fits the saying, ‘If you didn’t laugh, you would cry’. The very first blow came before I had even stepped foot in France. On this day I had left my long-distance boyfriend off at Dublin Airport to fly home, already an emotional time of seismic proportions, a feeling which some of you may know. After already being emotionally slapped in the face, I returned home and opened my laptop, only to be met with an email saying that my accommodation in France had been cancelled. I mean, does it get any better? The next few days consisted of me trying desperately to figure out whether I had a place to stay in the country I was moving to in a matter of days. Spoiler alert, after some very stressful calls and emails, I eventually found out that I did, and that the email had in fact meant nothing; if nothing else it’s a good story to tell, right?
The second hurdle was still being unable to move into my accommodation immediately and having to pay for hotels for a week and a bit after moving to France. My friend was in the exact same position as me, so we were able to split the cost of a room, but, as you can probably imagine, I racked up a hefty bill regardless. We also had no way to cook our own food, as much as I would have liked to have bought an air fryer for our gorgeous, fun size hotel room, so buying food out was really our only choice. At the very least I am now au fait with quite a few budget restaurants in town, you really have to tell yourself these things sometimes.
My most unfortunate day, however, came about a week in, when classes had officially started. For some context I had many problems with obtaining my GHIC card, so when we were told to present our cards to receive our student ID, I wasn’t exactly in the best of positions. When my name was called, I explained my situation, only to be told that I could have my student ID…. for now; Great! I was now filled with dread that my student ID would be rescinded at any given moment, how did they know that’s what I needed?
Later in the day, while my friends were in Salsa lessons, (I gave this one a miss as I have all the co-ordination of a newborn giraffe on roller-skates) I decided I would venture to the banks of the Garonne River to listen to music, in what was now a desperate attempt to romanticise my day; this was shockingly unsuccessful. A short while into this, my mum called me, so I took my air pods out to chat to her. Halfway through this call, I clumsily knocked one of them out of my hand. To set the scene, the only thing separating you from this huge body of water, are a few small steps. So, when I knocked said air pod, I watched it bounce down every single one of these steps, careening towards the water. Accepting my fate I did not try to intervene, but, as if some divine presence had stepped in, it came to a stop just shy of the water. I’m talking centimetres. Obviously, this was a sign that luck was finally on my side; I had been freed from my unfortunate few days!
Waiting for the bus with my friends, I let this wave of optimism wash over me, everything was starting to look up for Niamh!
And then a bird pooped on me.
