Still in Aix, now relishing the comfort of a perfectly appointed Airbnb apartment. I need to write a review of my experience living with a French teacher for two weeks. Almost feel like I have a duty of care to others who may be hoping to develop their French. Perhaps like me, you’re retired and ticking it off your bucket list. Perhaps you’re a parent thinking of sending your kid.
I’ve been walking around Aix with husband, Al, this morning. All the time I’ve been looking for the bewildered Australian woman who I knew was coming in hot on my heels yesterday, to live the same immersive experience. I saw a couple of dazed looking single women in the vicinity of that 17th century hôtel particulière. Didn’t approach of course.
Will try to be objective here. In summary: S.L.Immersion in Aix-en-Provence provided good remedial French teaching for three hours a day. However, the accommodation was sub-standard; poor. The shared meals were mostly uncomfortable dining experiences eating cheap food. Save your money. Engage a private tutor for 2 hours a day, or join a class. Organise your own meals and accommodation.
I spent 2,800 euro to live with a French teacher for two weeks at half board, ie. accommodation and two meals a day. I had a reasonably large room with a double bed, bathroom and separate WC. I had two basic, occasionally unappetising meals a day. The meals were at a minimum cost, generally edible and covered the five food groups. (2,800 euro! What could you do with that much money?)
I was exhausted that late Saturday afternoon when I arrived. I’d landed in Paris the previous Thursday, hoping to get over some jet lag during two nights there, before taking a three and a half hour train trip to Aix. I’d eaten a sandwich at about 1pm during that train journey. Luckily.
When I arrived at the Gare Routière - bus station - in Aix it was raining. I’d been advised by the teacher to take a taxi to her apartment. There were no taxis available for about half an hour by which time my luggage and I were a bit damp.
I eventually arrived at the 17th century building, which under ordinary circumstances would have been about a 15 minute walk away, with luggage, guided by Google maps; would have been relatively easy given my light packing. The entrance hall in the hôtel particulière was shabby, cavernous and a little breathtaking for someone who normally lives in a Californian bungalow in a Melbourne suburb. Despite my relatively light packing, I was glad that my host came down to help me get my backpack up those 60 steps. She practically ran up, leaving me gasping with tachycardia on the third landing.
The apartment consisted of a lofty living room, a master bedroom - hers - a guest room which would be mine and a tiny, oddly shaped kitchen beyond which was my host’s tiny bathroom and WC.
Immediately upon arrival, before I’d had any time to catch my breath or settle in any way, I was invited to sit down in a chair that quickly had me at a disadvantage, my bottom almost on the floor and my knees up: a chair that was difficult to get out of without some serious bicep and leg work.
I was excited, exhausted, thirsty and quite hungry.
Could I possibly have a drink? I asked. Briskly, she answered, of course, and got me a glass of tap water. It’s The Source, she pronounced and I gulped it down.
Could I possibly use the bathroom? I asked.
She showed me my room, and although it was quite spacious it was dingy. My stomach sank. The low double bed with a patterned polyester doona had no bed head. One half of it backed onto an unused, sealed door, the other backed onto the bare plaster wall. A small wooden chair served as a bedside table. A plastic shaded lamp sat on the chair’s concave base. (My water bottle and other night time necessities would lean into the centre of that cobbled nightstand for the next two weeks.)
At the far end of the room was a small toilet cubicle and next to that a tiny, dank bathroom with old fittings and exposed plumbing. In the bathroom, a shower curtain hung over a tiny hip bath. There was no fixed shower rose, only a hand held spray. Cleaning products, and what I presume were other people’s left over gels and shampoos, were ranged along a low tiled shelf.
Further, this bedroom, as I later discovered, was unventilated once the bedroom door was closed. One small, clean, well-worn folded bath towel sat on the end of bed. There was also a hand towel in the WC. I wasn’t offered fresh towels or bed sheets after the first week but when I asked for a towel it was provided. I also had to ask for toilet paper to be replenished, which it was on my request. I cleaned my own WC and bathroom.
A wardrobe, built under an external staircase, held a rack of mismatched coat hangers, the type that come from the dry-cleaners or are given away with purchased garments. There was also a pokey corner desk with a lamp, built in under the stairs. There was a wooden chair by the desk.
At that stage, I was horrified at the amount of money I’d paid in advance for what would be my room for two weeks. What’s more, it was noisy, and a reinforced glass ceiling/floor in one half of the room meant my room was flooded with light whenever the upstairs light was turned on during the night. This was fixed half way through my second week when I had a dummy spit due to poor sleep for the previous ten nights. The teacher insisted that the owner of the apartments install a carpet square in the upstairs room, offering some relief but turning the room into a spacious dark cell. The room had no wifi, so basically, if I wished to use wifi I had to sit in the kitchen or living room.
We didn’t eat until around 8 that evening. I wasn’t offered a snack of any sort before then either. I drank a couple of cups of tea to get by. It got to the stage where I had to ask when we’d be eating. (Lucky I’m on an insulin pump that adjusts insulin delivery according to my body’s needs!)
I fervently hoped that the lessons would be worthwhile, given the accommodation was poor. Fortunately, my teacher quickly diagnosed my French language deficits and worked out a suitable program of remediation. I enjoyed the teaching and learning for 3 hours each weekday morning and the 2 to 3 hours of homework and reading - some Guy de Maupassant short stories - each afternoon and evening. I found a couple of nearby brasseries with good wifi and did my homework there, surrounded by charming Aix. I also enjoyed the teacher’s guided tour of the city, our ‘walk in Cezanne’s footsteps’ and our day trips to both Marseille and Lourmarin, which I chose from several possibilities. The S.L.Immersion guidelines specified that there would be two excursions each week. On my first Sunday, my teacher also invited me to accompany her to a free exposition, which was quite impressive.
I discovered that on several nights a week, my host gave private hour long French lessons in her living room. On those evenings, I had to sit in the kitchen or sit without wifi in my depressing bedroom. Exhausted by that stage of the day, I was reluctant to go out alone.
The meals. Cereal and toast for breakfast. I had a slice of toast with butter and cheese each day. Could have had more. I drank tea with milk, mostly using my own tea bags, although loose black tea was available if I wanted it. During two weeks I ate a variety of soups, breads and salads and 2 omelettes. The meals were adequately nutritious and extremely economical. I felt uncomfortable sharing meals with the teacher, particularly in the mornings, when she was uncommunicative and told me she needed time to wake up. Lunches were better, at times cheerful.
Generally, despite being implored to feel at home and to help myself to anything, I didn’t
feel free to do this. Despite the teacher being able to eat in the living room, I was told to eat my own evening meals only at the small kitchen table, in my corner, unless the teacher wanted to use her bathroom, at which point I swiftly moved into the other room. She didn’t want to invade my space by using the guest bathroom in my room. It wouldn’t have bothered me. The lack of privacy made life difficult, for both of us, I imagine. Definitely for me.
I’m glad to have experienced this, but hugely relieved that it’s over.
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