In Year 10 our French teacher arranged for us to attend a "colonie de vacancies" (summer camp) near Savines-le-Lac in Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur - an activity holiday with all the instruction in French. Less than a month before departure, the headmistress stepped in and cancelled it, claiming that it had been arranged without her consent. One of her objections was we would be in mortal danger if we were unable to understand rapid-fire instructions when participating in a high-octane activity (whitewater rafting, water skiing and kayaking being on the agenda). Had she bothered to ask, someone could have reassured her that all the instructors spoke English well enough to issue instructions in case of emergency. In any case the vocabulary required to steer a whitewater raft or a kayak is fairly basic - left / right / forward / back / faster / slower covers most bases - especially if you have done those activities before, which all of us had. Two years earlier we had participated in a more conventional activity holiday (i.e. instructions in English) near Embrun in the same region of France.
Despite the headmistress's intervention, an intrepid six of us managed to go. One of the pupils' fathers nobly drove us all the way from London to Paris (this was in the days before the Channel Tunnel), where we were introduced to our fellow campers on the Alps-bound train, and after that we were left to the care of the French camp counsellors.
It was 3 people to each tent and initially I shared with two of my schoolmates. However after a couple of days I got talked into moving to a different team in which I was the only English kid. This was a bold move, perhaps too bold. It was definitely the best opportunity I ever had to improve my French, but I didn't get on that well with the French kids. Teenagers are not renowned for their diplomacy. Despite being surrounded by the vast open spaces of the Alps and the wide expanse of the Lac de Serre-Ponçon (said to be the largest reservoir in Europe, albeit a bit reduced in capacity due to drought), I still felt trapped. I remember the last night, when there was a disco and I wandered down to the lakeside to escape the snogging song. (It was actually Phil Collins's
Another Day in Paradise which is a song about homelessness, not a romantic ballad - the bloody French couldn't understand the lyrics.) I ended up having a long conversation with one of the camp counsellors about how difficult I'd found the camp. Having to describe my feelings in French made me feel better - the nasal sounds and guttural Rs are great stress relievers, I've found.
The decision I made to isolate myself from my fellow English speakers in order to improve my language skills was one I made again when I attempted a disastrous Erasmus exchange in Stockholm (see
earlier posting). Before I went I had heard so many accounts of students on Erasmus exchanges who spent the best part of their first term trying to escape their halls of residence that I insisted on being lodged with a family. Although this "family" turned out to be a recently divorced woman who'd lost custody of her kids and who eavesdropped on my phone conversations and insisted on lecturing me on how to live my life. What with my choice of accommodation, the absence of any other Erasmus students in my subject areas and the impossibility of getting involved in clubs, I rarely met any fellow overseas students. Maybe if I had been in contact with other Erasmus students I would have realised far sooner that I'd been the victim of a monumental misunderstanding. But I was left to stew in my own juice.
Looking back on both those experiences - the French summer camp and the Erasmus exchange - I see my decision to prioritise improving my languages ahead of normal social contact as a trait of Asperger's. Not that I would have said that I had no need of social contact back then, but my rationale was that "I'm mostly on my own anyway, so what does it matter if I do my own thing".