I've spent the last six weeks in a quandary. A travel-related quandary.
It started well. A much-missed friend from New York (Barry, who I have seen once in the last four years) got in touch to say he was planning a trip to Paris, and another beloved friend from university (Sarah) moved to Paris, and the planets seemed to align and I thought, "Woo! Weekend in France!"
I had a seductive mental image of myself sitting glamorously on the Eurostar, sipping champagne, wearing big sunglasses and reading poetry. I thought "I'll be an independent gal about town. I'll go to galleries. I'll eat brie for lunch. I'll sit outside cafes and drink espresso, even though I hate it. I'll hire a poodle." I fell a bit in love with this fantasy. I told everyone I was going. And then, from nowhere... I found myself not booking it.
I not-booked it for a month and a half.
At first I avoided thinking about it. Then as the weeks started to fold into each other and Le Grand Weekend was fast approaching, I started to worry. My French is sketchy at best (or should I say, "Mon francais est... er..."). My knowledge of Paris is very minimal. And I'm just a bit of a chicken ("C'est vrai, je suis un poulet").
It's been quite odd. Doing things I find a bit scary gives me a thrill, so for the last six weeks I've been frightened and excited to the point of paralysis.
Finally yesterday it reached a point where I really couldn't stall any more. I wasn't going to be able to book anywhere if I waited any longer. Like pushing myself into the deep end of the pool, I abruptly booked my trains. There was no going back. And today I reserved a room at what looks like a really lovely (and cheap) little hotel.
So that's it. I'm actually going to Paris on my own. Bon. And merde.
Note to self: things I must not do in Paris:
1. Start smoking again.
2. Get lost and burst into tears.
3. Kiss a French boy. (They will only break your heart.)
4. Ask the gendarmerie for directions. (They are police, but they are not 'friendly bobbies'.)
5. Cause a political fracas.
6. Use the word 'hiyaaaaa'.
7. Pretend to have read Le Deuxieme Sexe, even though I do have a French copy of it that I pretentiously bought at a market on the Seine when I was 20.
8. Allow myself to be guilt-tripped into posing for a hideous street portrait. Again.
9. Kiss a French boy.
10. Start smoking again.
Freaky Fug Friday: Winner Edition
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At last, our dirty affair with this photo has come to an end, and it can
stop haunting our dreams with its ruthless evils.The winner: Cecily. And
here is t...
6 hours ago
5 readers just couldn't let me have the last word:
You'll have a wicked time. It's such a great city for just strolling about, and if it's warm the riverside on an evening is magic. My other half's there this weekend (she did her MA in French and her mate lives there) and I'm incredibly jealous!
une. The smoking: don't beat yourself up. It wouldn't be smoking *again*, it would be Smoking in Paris. Totally different thing, and the natural whim of both the mildly discombobulated lone foreign traveller in general and the writer "en" Paris in particular.
deux: Horses for courses, but I wouldn't advise kissing boys of any nationality. I let an English one do it to me once; their cheeks are like Swan matchboxes and their tongues are like leather.
trois: I swore and was sure I was going in April, but now it's May, and I didn't, so I'm glad someone is. In the unlikely event you want a mission, I have several fat magazines to deliver to a photographer there (tall-ish, dark, handsome-ish) and I would pay a courier fee to save the £4 million postage and he would probably buy you lunch and be entertaining. Alternative mission: when I was going to go (I am glad someone is), I was going to have a look at a couple of places in the centre to see what was there. If you might have a chance to scope them and write two sentences about them, the reward would be an additional reporting credit on the Sunday supp feature of the year (ish).
Have your people contact my people if any part of point trois appeals.
Have a great time too. It's more or less inevitable really.
If the second World War taught us anything, it is that going to France is waaay cheap. You can take anything you want. They just, sorta, give it to you....
isn't that nice of them?
JamesT: Thanks. I can't wait!
kitchenhand: Thanks so much for the offer of a bit of work, but I don't think I'm going to have any spare time. Already planned loads of stuff!
Joseph: It's ok for us Brits to make fun of the French... but you Americans aren't allowed. That's my neighbour you're mocking!
So i have lived here for 4 months and:
1. Whilst i can't speak in the past or present tense, I do know the french for skipping rope, bad dream, 3rd wheel, love handles, grapefuit and gallbladder.
2. Have given up smoking.
3. Have not read any book of note in either french or english. (In fact the only french book i have in my possesion is a borrowed copy of charlie and the chocolate factory. Illustrated.)
4. Have started all conversations with the word 'hiiiyaaa'.
5. Have taught my incredibly chic french flatmates phrases like 'muffin top', 'plunging neckline' and 'mingin'.
6.Have promised to cook at least 6 different people toad in the hole whilst under the influence.
Some things never change.
See you next week xx
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