To put it as politely as possible, I was absolutely beside myself as I boarded the plane to Bordeaux at Gatwick on Wednesday. Hysterically sending last minute texts before having to turn off my phone for the next three weeks- if I’d have received just one message that said “Don’t go, Farrah“, I would have taken it as a God-given sign and marched right out of the departure lounge. I probably would have passed out from hysteria had anyone phoned me to wish me luck or say goodbye.
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| Why would you be nervous here? |
Having experienced a less than successful workaway situation before, perhaps you might naturally attribute this overwhelming desire to sod the plane tickets and wedge myself firmly between my duvet and sheets for the upcoming three weeks instead is down to my little drama in Turkey.
But I’d have to disagree with you. My new workaway placement had excellent reviews (more than can be said for the Turkish one), and I’d spoken to my new host a handful of times on facebook- which relaxed me (and mum) to no end. The place looked gorgeous from the pictures, I was pretty much completely prepared- as far as I ever “completely prepared” for anything- and was looking forward to my French adventure.
So why the nerves? I’d never been this way about anything like this before. I wasn’t afraid of flying- I was with BA, not Jet2 this time, far too many rich people to risk crashing or anything silly like that. I wasn’t particularly afraid my new placement would turn out to be rubbish. I’d done ample catching up and spending the highest of quality time with the family and friends. I was to return to a newly boxed up house somewhere in Holmfirth (yes- moving again- don’t mind me) and then straight onto York, where I’d return to my part time job, which I missed, frankly, and back to another year of linguistics and The Yorker business.
Honestly? I don’t know what brought it on. I was shaky and brimming with dread- though I have no idea what of. In fact, it took until I entered my stopover hotel in Bordeaux for the nerves to subside. The receptionist gave me my key and I pottered off to bed a calmer and much more normal version of myself.
It’s the first time I’ve ever felt that unsure of my plans. I genuinely felt nauseous, and utterly convinced something terrible and scarring was going to happen to me. From a rushed farewell at Clapham Junction to the shabby lift of Hotel Clemenceau, I was 100% certain that I was going to either throw up or run away. Maybe it was because I didn’t feel as prepared as I had been for Turkey- and look how that ended. Though maybe it’s because Taken is set in France.
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| The barn… |
As quickly as the dread came, it filtered away as the lift rose to premier etage. Possibly because I hadn’t been kidnapped yet. Probably because the receptionist was gorgeous. Either way, when I woke, I ambled down to the train station and made a nuisance of myself trying to find my platform, boarded my train, and sped towards Perigueux, happy and excited.
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It looks like no decent pictures for my French adventure- the camera I’ve borrowed is inexplicably shouting at me to turn it off every time I try and take a picture. Bit like when people try to wake me up early really, so I have some sympathy. Though I’d usually use much more colourful language than Panasonic have chosen. Anyway, yes. My iPod’s camera quality will have to suffice. Sorry!
