Chapter 7: Arrival in Lyon

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.