MEGA froid, MEGA faim, MEGA fatigué
How I ended up stranded on a random campsite in southern France two weeks after arriving in Paris
The French are late for everything, it seems, except parties. Throughout our orientation weeks, we were shocked (if pleased) to see each soirée filled to the brim from the very beginning. Whether this would continue into term time remained to be seen. But one thing was certain: this strict attention to timings does not apply to all areas of life, namely coaches to the south of France.
This we discovered while shivering outside the Jardin du Luxembourg at 2am on a random Thursday in September. Never did I imagine that, two weeks into Parisian life, I would find myself embarking on an eight-hour journey to the other side of the country. Yet that is precisely what Le MEGA (the ENS’s annual orientation weekend) entailed.
The whole idea of the MEGA is that you have no idea where you’re going until you arrive. Various predictions were touted, notably Luton. Fortunately, we ended up in the no less distant (but potentially prettier) destination of Corrèze.
Hasty preparations
Had I known about this expedition, I might have brought some equipment to France. Instead, it was off to Decathlon (numerous times) to purchase sleeping bags, flip flops and sports clothes.
There were societies to join and dubiously valid cheques to provide (apparently, in France, you can just scribble on a scrap of paper and hope for the best). All the while, we were hearing equally dubious rumours about life on the MEGA: we would be starved, tortured, kidnapped…
“I would be in un bungalow with seven girls, which certainly raised some eyebrows”
Eventually, we were ready—our bags packed, deposits paid and rooms chosen. I would be in un bungalow with seven girls, which certainly raised some eyebrows... We each had to pick one person we definitely wanted to be with. Thus, an intricate system was developed to ensure we’d all stay together. Shout-out to my “ride or die”, Lucie!
Back to the whole bus business
Where we were separated was on the buses. Being boring Britons, we picked the Bus dodo (sleeping bus). Other options included the Bus Boum (DJ bus), Bus jeux (boardgame bus) and Bus pom-poms (you can guess that one…).
Our reasoning was we’d then have the energy to be the life of the party upon arrival. Unfortunately, despite meeting at 10pm, we didn’t leave for FOUR HOURS. During this time, every other bus did activities, while us dodos were left hanging in the corridor. Not only did the other groups get as much sleep (silence was enforced after 4am), they also got T-shirts labelling them as the fun ones. Meanwhile, our monochrome monstrosities defined our reputations all weekend.
You’d think, given our activity could only be performed on the bus, that we’d leave first. Instead, we got needlessly excited every time a coach drove past, only to experience crushing disappointment when it wasn’t for us. The wait almost felt longer than the journey, which whizzed by despite me sleeping very little.
No rest for the wicked
Soon, I was stumbling groggily around the campsite, searching for our bungalow. Inventories, speeches, unpacking, brunch. Then, suddenly, I was swimming.
If this sounds like a whirlwind to you, just know that it was. With castle-like buildings and a glittering lake, the campsite felt like a fairy tale.
Bizarrely, it wasn’t the lake we swam in (like many things in France, that was interdit) but an ice-cold pool. I lasted a full 15 minutes before spending 30 in my coat. Meanwhile, the French and Spaniards seemed fine with said sub-zero temperatures. You’d think we’d be more acclimatised but no…
Other activities I engaged in included devouring Paris Echo by Sebastian Faulks, leaving my phone in random fields and learning French dance moves. Someone then decided to teach everyone twerking, which of course summoned the campsite man to check on us.
Activities I did not partake in include sports competitions, society initiations (see if you can guess who did join the pom-poms though) and l’apéro mousse—a colour run/foam party.
Instead, I ended up playing a boardgame… With strangers… In French. If that doesn’t sound hard enough, we later played party games like “Seven Seconds” and “They’re a ten but…”1. While the latter taught us some interesting vocabulary, I feel like we were at a slight disadvantage when naming four Australian animals in French in seven seconds.
Overzealous DJs
Three minutes into a five-minute transition between an iconic song cut short and another French rap number, I started to wonder whether attendees of the Boum (DJ club) initiation earlier that day hadn’t been given free reign during the soirée.
You see, alongside the pom-poms, Boum and PSL (lighting club) are two of the biggest ENS societies. What that means is we get lots of shows and parties. Unfortunately, we also get their song choices…
In addition to surprising (yet understandable) obsessions with “S&M” and “Starships”, ENS DJs have a tendency to play English songs we’ve somehow never heard.
Putting our aforementioned dance lessons into practice in a tent next to a castle on a random French campsite, accompanied by this questionable music, was truly an experience.
And I mean that in a good way. Both nights were filled with revelations about friends’ dancing abilities, sickly sweet mocktails and screaming matches with the decibelmetre designed to contain our rowdiness.
Another precaution was drink tallies on wristbands. Though, from what I’ve heard, they weren’t too difficult to rub off…
A Soviet experience
The one MEGA rumour that was unfortunately true was the lack of food. As everyone had lie-ins after the soirées, there was only time for two meals a day.
These consisted of cold coffee, mayonnaise-covered carrots, bread, yogurt and crisps; dinner was slightly more substantial but not by much.
Thankfully, I’d taken heed of the warnings and brought most of Carrefour’s snack aisle with me. Millie and Flossie, feeling particularly bougie, had Monoprix’s finest artichoke tapenade.
Nevertheless, this wasn’t quite enough to sustain us so we dutifully queued for our slimy légumes. During the long wait, members of COF (the student union) shoved microphones at unwitting students and demanded their thoughts on the MEGA.
There were endless renditions of the ENS’s very own dance to Cascada’s “Everytime We Touch”. Originally performed by ENS Lyon, the choreography has since spread across the ENS universe. I discovered this while dancing to the song in the Atomic Cat bar and being identified by a Lyon student.
No, that paragraph was not a product of hunger-fuelled delirium.
l’d try to describe the dance but I think it’s better you see for yourself:
Also on show: a very explicit pom-pom performance of Ashnikko’s “Slumber Party”. You can look up the lyrics…
None of this would ever happen in the UK.
The experience may have left us MEGA froid, MEGA faim, MEGA fatigué (cold, hungry and tired) but these tribulations bonded us together.
I’m still unsure how COF manages to make the same food and transport mistakes every year. Nor why we had to travel eight hours just to stay on a campsite with an out-of-bounds lake.
But I’d go again in a heartbeat; not only were the swimming and parties ridiculously fun, but the trip helped cement friendships and got me speaking much more French.
It was on the way back that I started this newsletter. So, maybe I wouldn’t be writing this without the MEGA. Well actually, of course I wouldn’t.
I’m heading home for Christmas in a week and I’ve only covered the first two weeks of my year abroad. But, hey, so much happened.
Next time, I’ll discuss what it’s like to study (what?!) at the ENS. Yes, some of that does actually happen here…
❄️ Enjoy the holidays everyone☃️
E.g., “They’re a four but they’re un bon coup au lit” (good in bed)