DICTAabroad
Yasin Sridhar in Bordeaux, France
A Day in the Life of French Yaz
A
n engine sound startles me at some ungodly hour on the
morning of my exams. It’s not a thunderous roar nor an
eerie scream, but an incessant drone that lasts for over an hour.
In my delirious state of confusion, I assume that it’s merely the
bin men, who typically drop by early to share tales. But when I
fully awake to the sounds of sirens and trucks, I finally decide to
peer out of the window to see what I have missed. Cars are being
heaved away in the dozens, the victims of an arson attack that left
the placid parking lot in front of the park not fifty metres from
my flat looking like the scene of a scorched-earth campaign. I
don’t have much time to appreciate the carnage. Since I have got
three oral exams today, I book a ticket to the centre of all my
Bordeaux journeys: Quinconces.
Stationed next to the tramline are a series of Ferris wheels,
rollercoasters, and crêpe stands. Overnight, the carnival has set
up shop, with dubious-looking rides called “EXTASY” and “The
Love Circle” bound to make the weak-stomached chunder. After
a brief glance, I rush to the tram destined to (eventually) arrive
at the intellectual high grounds of Bordeaux IV Université Montesquieu, but not before breaking down at least once. It is fascinating to see the tram pass through a UNESCO World Heritage
site before transitioning into what looks like a derelict housing
project in a Spike Lee film. Oh wait - that’s my university.
The old adage of not judging a book by its cover is halftrue when it comes to the academics of Bordeaux. The same
professeur who welcomed the handful of Erasmus students in
his Master’s classes with open arms now makes the same gesture to introduce us to our doom: a double-header oral exam
on aviation and competition law. I pick a topic out of a hat and
splutter through it with only mild interruptions of coughing and
wheezing, which Monsieur Grard doesn’t seem to care about. He
seems more interested in how, upon discovering my Canadian
origins, Quebecois liquor cartels operate. And who knew that the
professor who looked like Jabba the Hutt – having openly confessed to not liking students, attesting to having a preference for
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“fresh meat” (yes, that kind), and perversely describing Senegalese women – would arbitrarily give me a good mark after I said
but a single sentence on decentralised administration in France.
The drawback was that he then reminisced on how the preceding
Irish student had reminded him of a time when he visited Ireland
and hit it off with a pretty Irish lass. In his words, “unfortunately,
my wife was there.” Génial.
Shortly thereafter, I seek out the university doctor to treat
what I believe to be the common cold. You know, the usual high
fever, congestion, general weakness, and coughing up blood.
When the nurse rounds the corner, she practically has a heart
attack. In hindsight, I can see why. I had not managed to muster
the strength to shave in a week and had a healthy mix of saliva,
blood, and phlegm dripping from my chin. I whisper that I need
a doctor to prescribe me medication, but she says that I’ll have to
book an appointment at a nearby clinic as there is no doctor at
the university today. The last time I tried to book an appointment
at that clinic, I was waitlisted for a month. I would have better
luck getting Olympics tickets. This would lead me to walk about
with what turned out to be pneumonia for two weeks.
I turned down a chance to see a jazz concert held in a former
submarine warehouse because I am throwing a patented house
party. After popping a sle ܁