70s Child: Surviving the school French Exchange ...

The fun and games of being a pupil in the 80s

Photo by Daryan Shamkhali on Unsplash

I recently walked past the collection of AQA French revision books lying on our staircase, next to the stray socks without partners, the discarded hoodie destined for Depop and spare loo rolls that never seem to make it up a floor to the actual bathroom.

My son is 15 and in year 11 which means GCSEs are looming next year. French is one of them. It got me thinking back to my own experience of French at school and more specifically: ‘The French Exchange’.

Now, I don’t know if exchanges still happen. Are they still a thing? They certainly don’t seem to be occurring in the local state schools round our way in South East London. Anyone born in the 70s or 80s who studied French at secondary school, (other languages are available), is likely to have gone on a day trip across the Channel or the very least have been encouraged to strike up some kind of ‘pen pal’ correspondence with their enthusiastic/ unenthusiastic teenage counterpart on the continent. However the pinnacle of the academic year was the French Exchange.

I couldn’t help wondering how my own children and their peers would handle a similar experience aged 14 and 15. Wrenched away from the familiarity of their families and sent to live abroad with strangers. No Tik Tok. No Snapchat. Barely able to communicate, (yes that is the point of the ‘learning’ experience, I know). Stranded in the middle of nowhere. No contact with home. Subjected to the dubious attentions of a middle-aged man. (Well that was my experience). Required to share a bed with a teenage stranger. (Just me again?)

To say it was a ‘character-building’ experience is something of an understatement. At times it seemed like a game of survival.

For those of us familiar with ‘The Exchange’ welcome to a little trip down memory lane. If you never had the joy of ‘The Exchange’ then let me share with you how it worked in the 80s….it went something like this.

All aboard…

Your coach, full of your teenage peers, pulls up into the carpark of your ‘exchange’ school where a burgeoning group of parents and fourteen and fifteen-year-olds are assembled. Your teacher, by now beyond frazzled after a particularly testing time on the Dover Calais ferry crossing in which three pupils got seasick, another threw his mate’s anorak overboard for kicks and one was caught attempting to shoplift a bottle of Malibu from Duty Free, stands with a register and a wearisome hangdog expression as you disembark, collect your suitcases and eye up the assembled exchange partners for the first time. You have probably already been given a few details about your ‘partner’, their name perhaps, whether they own a pet perchance. Whether they have une soeur or un frère. However this is the first time you are actually meeting them face to face.

Fingers crossed! The pairing-up lottery.

One by one people are paired up. Your teacher calls out names whilst counting down the seconds he can shed his final pupil and head to the nearest cafe for a stiff Pernod. ‘Shaun and Fabien. Nicki and Sabine’. You look anxiously around, a mixture of anticipation and dread and pray your person is ‘ok’ and that they are not the one standing with the sinister-looking dad currently sucking hungrily on a cigarette with hollowed cheeks and angry eyebrows. You see your fellow classmates say ‘salut’ to their partners. Some are happy and chatty. Some are silent and anxious. They get into cars and disappear off into the night.

Your french abode

You attempt to settle into your new french abode, your home for the next week. Again a lottery. Whilst some of your peers will be in the centre of town next to ice-rinks, parks, burger joints and alluring teenage hangout zones, others will be in remote locations. You have been paired with Virginie. She has a blunt fringe, glasses and seems very shy. You do your best to speak any of the 58 french words you can remember as her dad, (thankfully not the scary cigarette-smoker), transports you to their home which appears to be in a small hamlet in the middle of nowhere. You get out of the car clutching your bag to your chest and navigate the barking Alsatian dog which is chained up outside the neighbour’s house. You feel a sense of foreboding.

Dining en famille

Mealtimes at home with your own parents when you’re 15 can be arduous enough. Being required to answer annoying questions like ‘What did you do at school today?’ ‘Have you remembered you’ve got PE tomorrow?’ is far from ideal. Mealtimes when you’re grappling with the language and all attention seems to be focused on you with laser-beam intensity, only ups the pressure.

You meet Virginie’s mum who looks exhausted and is not very smiley as she presents a dish which makes your heart race with panic. It contains eggs that have see-through gelatinous bits. Virginie’s two younger siblings are eyeing you with judgy-curiosity. You dutifully eat your culinary idea of hell so as not to appear rude. Virginie’s mum says something fast in an annoyed manner to Virginie’s dad and leaves the house. You later discover she is a nurse who works night shifts. She is very tired. You barely see her again for the rest of your stay.

Your first night away

You discover the sleeping arrangements. It is most likely you will be sharing a room with your ‘pal’ unless their family has spare rooms or runs a B and B.

You are shown to your room where you realise you’ll be sharing not just a room but a queen size bed with Virginie. You try to hide your surprise at the sleeping arrangements. The two eyebally sisters hop into the bunkbed in the corner. Virginie shows you the bathroom and explains by way of gesticulations that under no circumstances must you flush the loo if you need it in the night. You nod obediently not daring to question why. You get into bed and listen to the younger siblings giggling and whispering about something which is probably you. Virginie starts snoring next to your head. You feel a bit homesick as you attempt to nestle into the pillow which is inexplicably hard and cylindrical in shape. You wonder how all your fellow pupils are doing in their respective French households and whether they are sharing beds too?

Comparing notes

The next day everyone heads into school bursting to give accounts of their respective ‘familles’. You are beyond excited to see your UK cohort. A surge of relief washes over you as you see familiar faces and are able to speak a language you know more words in for 15 minutes. You cluster around in the playground rapidly exchanging quick-fire and essential details before a bell goes and you are ushered in for some kind of assembly. You are a bit jealous to hear your best friend Katie is staying at a house in the middle of town and her exchange pal has a gorgeously handsome older brother called Thierry. She later points him out across the playground. He has spiky gelled hair and is wearing a white polo neck jumper and stonewashed jeans. He is beautiful.

Photo by Parul Khetan on Unsplash

Culinary highs and lows

Highs: As the days pass you discover how much you love the novelty of daily baguettes, fluffy and crunchy at once. Perfection. You enjoy drinking hot chocolate from big slurpy bowls and cannot get enough of this heavenly confection called Nutella that seems like something Willy Wonka has dreamt up. You also love ‘sirops’ in flavours like cherry and grenadine that you add to glasses of water.

Lows: You realise you have eaten horse meat. The realisation hits you ten minutes after you have cleared your plate at a family meal involving Virginie’s grandparents who have come over for dinner. You try not to dwell on the whole ‘chevaline’ discovery but as a fifteen-year-old fan of horses and a keen pony rider it is a little unsettling to say the least.

The organised activities

You spend the rest of the week navigating life with your partner and their family, attending lessons, doing some sight-seeing and wishing your school was like this where no-one wears uniforms, everyone seems to have a brightly coloured rucksack and a regular supply of Hollywood chewing gum in flavours like ‘cola’ or ‘fraise’ in their pockets.

You are counting down the days until Friday evening when there will be a disco at the school. You secretly hope Thierry will be there with his gelled hair and white polo neck. You have animated discussions about who is going to be wearing what. It’ll be the perfect opportunity to get out your electric blue mascara. Result! You leave the school on Friday afternoon telling friends you will see them later.

Photo by Volodymyr Hryshchenko on Unsplash

The crushing reality

You discover your introvert partner Virginie does not want to go to the school disco and even if she did, her mum can’t take you because she’s working a night shift and her dad is awol. Your dreams of hanging out with mates and dancing to Duran Duran and Simple Minds in the vicinity of Thierry lie in tatters. Even worse, you can’t alert your friends to the tragedy that you are not going to be there because you have no means of communication.

You spend the evening on the sofa in the remote hamlet resentfully watching some kind of TV quiz show you don’t understand while Virginie reads a book. Her dad eventually comes home and you find yourself grinning uncomfortably when he leans over the back of the sofa and starts tickling you under your armpits and around your ribs. It will be many years later that you start to think the behaviour of Virginie’s dad was somewhat ‘odd.’ The tickling, the sideways glances and the afternoon in which he took numerous photos of you by yourself during an outing to a stately home, getting you to smile in front of spewing fountains and topiary hedges while Virginie busied herself elsewhere. What was that about? And what happened to those photos?

Photo by Jan Tinneberg on Unsplash

Au Revoir

Your week is done. Your French adventure draws to a close. You assemble back in the playground with your suitcases and bags ready to say ‘Au revoir’ to your pals. Some people cannot wait to get on the bus and are running away so fast after the obligatory cheek-kissing their trainers are practically on fire. Others seem genuinely sad to be waving goodbye to their French contemporaries. There are warm hugs from many and overly dramatic tears from Laura Lewis who has found true love with an older boy called Franc, the proud owner of a moped and a leather jacket.

Back in the UK

The coach arrives back at your own school where a little crowd of mums and dads are ready to greet you. Your teacher is thankful there was only one vomiter on the ferry crossing this time and no shop-lifting attempts. This is progress. You get home and tell your inquisitive parents about one percent of what actually happened in France and then realise that in four months time you will be reunited with your French partner and will have to go through this whole merry dance again on home turf. This is something to look forward to if you got on well and bonded with your pal. It is not so great if they are a shy and introverted, albeit sweet, 15-year-old called Virginie who doesn’t seem to enjoy any of the things that you enjoy.

Nevermind. You have learnt some new French words including the ones for ‘shit’ and ‘horse meat’ although you don’t think those two will be much use in your forthcoming French exam. You will ask your mum to buy baguettes next times she’s at Sainsbury’s and you have also discovered you quite like Malibu. On the downside you have been told by someone that the beautiful and exotic name of Thierry is the French equivalent of Terry. This is a bit disappointing. Oh well. As the adults around you seem to be so keen on saying, it’s been a ‘character building’ experience. You wonder if your character needed ‘building’ as you head off watch Mike Smith introduce Jennifer Rush onto Top of The Pops and dream about Thierry.

LE FIN.

*Apologies for the lack of illustration. But this was the 80s so I therefore have zero photographic evidence of this entire trip. There may have been a disposable camera in the mix but it has long since been disposed of. Please imagine a 14-year-old with Krystle-Carrington-wing/bob hair, bright blue eye-liner and stone-wash jeans from Etam.

So there we have it. The French Exchange 80s style. I would love to hear what experiences you had. And if you have children, have they been on an exchange recently? Do they still happen? Maybe you are a French pupil who came to the UK…now that would be interesting to hear how you fared? Let me know!

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