Part 2: Lyon
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Chapter 7: Arrival in Lyon
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I arrive at the academy late on Saturday afternoon after an eight hour journey. The shuttle bus from Lyon's railway station collects five of us off the train from Paris. The academy operates from an old château in the countryside about ten minutes drive from Lyon. The extensive grounds surrounding the château provide privacy, although locals are allowed to walk the through the woods and grounds, and fish in the lake.
I'm one of thirty-three students enrolled for the twelve month programme that starts on Monday morning. We all gather in the huge social room waiting for the last of us to arrive. Food and non-alcoholic drinks are provided.
"Water or coffee," grumbles a young man I later learn is Michael. "You wouldn't think we are in the middle of one of the largest wine producing regions of France."
I'm not sure getting tipsy on wine would make a good first impression on our tutors. But I don't feel inclined to get into an argument on the subject. Two school-age waitresses are topping up the food and drink as we gradually devour the contents of the buffet. It's eight o'clock before the last of us arrive. By then I've had a chance to meet with at least half of the students present. Tuition will be conducted in French, which is going to be a challenge for me. My modest grade in school French isn't likely to be adequate. Fortunately, it appears that we are an international group, and many of us speak English as a first or second language.
"I'm not sure how I'm going to manage with tuition being conducted in French," I confess to a group of fellow students.
"I'm in the same situation," replies Hannah, a student in her mid-twenties from Australia.
Several other students admit to similar concerns about their French language skills.
"What about you?" I ask a young woman hovering nearby who seems hesitant to join us. "Pouvez-vous parler français?"
"Oui, je parle couramment le français," she replies with a shrug before translating her words in response to the blank look from some of the other students. "Yes, I speak fluent French. But I don't think you need to be too worried about the tuition being conducted in French. All the tutors have experience in teaching international students, so they will be tolerant of any language difficulties at first."
"I'm Rebecca," I say. "You speak very good English."
"I'm Yvonne. My parents are English but we've lived in France for the last eight years. I can speak English and French fluently, and a few words of German."
"That's a useful skill," I reply, trying to draw her into our group. "Which dance discipline are you studying?"
"Oriental style," replies Yvonne. "I was told that I'm the only one of this year's intake enrolled for the style."
"Ah! No longer. I'm a late entrant. I'm enrolled for the oriental dance programme," I reply.
Yvonne visibly brightens at my news. Clearly she had anticipated a lonely year of solo tuition. While all the students are gathered together for meals and exercise activities, we are segregated by dance style for our dance tuition.
"What made you choose oriental style dance?" asks Hannah of both Yvonne and me. "Most of us are enrolled for modern dance or ballet."
"I hope to perform professionally," I reply. "I've had some success at amateur shows."
"Vos sales types sont des teasers de bites," says Michael before Yvonne can answer.
My French isn't good enough to understand all of his words but he seems to have accused us of being slutty cock teasers. I look to Yvonne for a translation, but she's angry at Michael.
"Et vous peux mettre ton doigt dans ton derrière," replies Yvonne with some venom.
Again my French isn't up to the task of a full translation, although I think Yvonne's reply has something to do with his finger and arse.
I guide Yvonne away from the others.
"Are you alright?" I ask.
"Yeah, yeah. I just get sick of having to deal with his type. They come to ogle the dancers while complaining about our morals."
"So why have you picked to dance in this style then?" I ask.
"Like you, I hope to become good enough to perform professionally. It's one of the few forms of dance that can be performed solo."
Our conversation is interrupted by the arrival of the academy's staff. Mademoiselle Serena, as she likes to be called, makes a short welcome speech before handing the proceedings over to an elderly woman who will soon become the bane of our lives. Madame Brigitte is the academy's house-mistress. Rumour soon spreads that she learned her role while working as a prison warder. Whether or not the rumour is true, the strict rules she imposes about cleanliness and behaviour soon make us feel as though we are in prison. Fortunately the tutors seem to be a much more approachable group.
We are shown to our sleeping quarters in the west wing of the château. Sixteen of our group have paid extra for private accommodation, which is provided on the second floor. For the remaining seventeen, the six-bed dormitories are located on the first floor. The five male students are assigned one dormitory, and the twelve female students are split between two rooms. Two more dormitories are left unused, although I later learn that one or both of them are occasionally used as a medical ward should there be an outbreak of infectious disease.
We don't get given a choice of dormitory, so I feel lucky that Yvonne and I are in the same room. One of the other women asked to be moved in order to be with a friend, but her request was flatly denied. Only later do I learn that we are grouped with others taking the same specialist discipline. Yvonne was correct in what she said earlier; of the thirty-three students, only Yvonne and I have enrolled to learn oriental style dance. The other four in our dormitory are part of a larger group learning modern dancing. Those in the next dormitory are specialising in folk dance or ballet. There are four students studying ballroom dancing, but they are all in private rooms.
It has been a long day for most of us, so there are no complaints when we are all ordered to bed at ten-thirty. Lights out are at ten-forty-five, and woe-betide anyone not in bed by then. From tomorrow our daily routine is mapped out with military precision. A six-thirty wake-up alarm, followed by a run around the grounds at ten minutes to seven. Then showers and ablutions before breakfast at eight. At eight-forty-five we report to our designated tutors for lessons. Tuition continues until four in the afternoon, with short rest breaks and lunch in between. At four o'clock, we report to the gymnasium in the basement where we exercise or engage in indoor sport. Our evening meal is at six-thirty for which we must be clean and smartly dressed. Failure to pass Madame Brigitte's inspection means a meal of bread and water in the kitchen annex. From the end of the evening meal until bedtime we have what the schedule refers to as 'own time'. In reality its the only time we get to do our laundry and other personal chores, so there is rarely more than a third of us congregating in the social room in the evenings.
The weekend routine is less structured, although we don't get extra time in bed in the morning. There's no tuition, but instead we are expected to spend long periods practising our dancing and undertaking physical exercise. It's difficult to imagine how we will all cope with such a gruelling routine for twelve months. However, if the photographs adorning the corridor walls are to be believed, then plenty of others have lasted the course before us.
Using phones, social media and computers isn't specifically banned, but the woeful WiFi connection available to students makes it a challenge to do more than send an occasional email. I receive a lengthy message from Georgina wishing me good fortune with my lessons, but essentially confirming my own impression that our aspirations are widely different and that our once-close friendship has had its time. I send a polite reply echoing her sentiments and wishing her success with her studies at university. I feel relieved that we are at least parting as friends.
By the start of the third week I feel more settled in the academy's routines. At weekends the academy employs local school kids to do some of the routine cleaning and laundry. My concerns that Mademoiselle Serena is exploiting local children are eased when Yvonne tells me that it is part of a work experience programme run by the schools. The academy provides one of the few opportunities for local youth employment. Some of the older children sometimes work mid-week evenings helping in the kitchen.
Each of us receives a medical check once a week to monitor his or her health and fitness. Adjustments to our individual diet or exercise regime are made as required, and we are expected to follow any instructions faithfully. Apart from Brigitte's draconian rule over the dormitories and other rooms, life at the academy is hard but fair, and I am pleased that I made the decision to accept Heidi's and Serana's offer.
Apart from my developing friendship with Yvonne, I'm usually included in a social group consisting of Hannah, Juanita and Banu. Yvonne occasionally joins us, but she generally prefers my company alone. Hannah shares the same dormitory as Yvonne and me, while Juanita and Banu are ballet students sharing the other female dormitory. We have little social contact with those in private rooms. Many of them tend to spend their free time in their rooms, and generally look down on those of us in dormitories as though we are inferior. As for those in the male dormitory, they have an unfortunate tendency to consider Yvonne and me as sexually available because of our chosen dance style. After a couple of abortive attempts at a platonic friendship with the men, Yvonne and I keep clear of them in social settings.
