Parlez-vous français?

It is a truth universally acknowledged in Paris that any foreigner trying to speak French to the locals, will fail. Try as you might to speak the native tongue, more often than not you will find yourself speaking English against your will. Baaaaaad English. You will find yourself in the most basic of conversations with someone who believes you are painfully unable to order so much as a sandwich, or a cup of coffee, in French.

Even the most carefully planned sentences in French will be met with a reply in English. The problem is, it's so obvious that you're foreign. Even without an accent rivalling that of the policeman from 'Allo 'Allo, the French language is not designed to let you get away with mistakes; there is one perfect way of phrasing things, and if there's so much as an apostrophe out of place, you're busted. Deviating from the script that the French have learnt from infancy is not an option.

Whereas a foreigner can stammer out a few random nouns in English and be understood, there is no such elasticity in French. And whereas this used to make me steam with frustration, I am finally learning to accept it with my usual good grace. And I'm not a little proud of good old Mother English for being so accomodating; truly it is the language of communication.

The only thing that niggles is that the French take our willingness and flexibility to understand the meaning from a minimum of words strung together as... simplicity. It IS easier to stammer out a couple of words in English, and still be understood than it is to formulate a well-turned phrase in French, remembering to use the subjunctive and refer to inanimate objects as "she", but it isn't because the English language is basic.

We do in fact, have a vocabulary approximately five times that of French; it's just that it is such a forgiving language, we are able to understand even the grossest misuse of our mother tongue.

While at the beginning I was determined to battle on in French despite their insistence that pidgin English was the way to go, I quickly decided the best course of action was to try and outwit them at their own game. If they wanted to speak English, they'd better bring it on!

Here's a little example of a typical exhange:

Me, smiling winningly: "On peut avoir une bouteille de vin rouge, s'il vous plaît?"

Waiter, smiling condescendingly (he knows my sort): "Yes, of course. You want what? Une Côtes du Rhone ou Bordeaux?"

Me, monotone and break-neck speed: "Oh how wonderful you speak English, well I'm oscillating between the two, I do love a wine with body but I'm thinking of having the duck so I don't want anything too weighty, what would you recommend?"

Waiter, still smiling but a little less condescending: "Er, yes, we 'ave. You want Bordeaux?"

Me, almost feeling sorry for him but not slackening the pace: "Ok, well if you think the Bordeaux then that would be lovely. Two glasses please, and could we have a jug of water too and if possible we're ready to order our food straightaway, thank you."

That's usually it for English for the evening, and we can go back to conversing in our less than perfect, but perfectly functional French.

I understand that most foreigners don't speak a word of French, so they're only trying to be helpful, but how else are we to learn this language?

Le Gogglebox has arrived!

Have finally become a real Parisian and have a television connected at home! Officially don't need friends anymore as have my projector and an array of hilariously awful / awesome French programmes! The Colonel returned from work last night to find me goggle-eyed and singing along to adverts, like Daryl Hannah in Splash learning to speak in front of the TV. With more gallic gestures and without the flippers.

Already feel part of the crowd at work, being able to discuss last night's episode of "Un dîner presque parfait" which is the French equivalent of Come Dine With Me, something I never watched in England, but now seems to be my best prospect! Obviously, dining is taken more seriously in France than almost anywhere else so the level of the competitive amateur chefs taking part is already quite high, and they have celebrity "grands chefs" giving their gallic verdict on the evening's offerings.

The guests are fantastically French and pragmatic in their comments on the meal. Statements like "the meat is far too dry" and "honestly, I find the decoration to be in poor taste" are emphatically not accompanied by the endless anglosaxon "I'm sorry but..." So refreshing! It's like watching four Simon Cowells having dinner together.

It's quite simply, brilliant. Finally, I get to see inside real French homes and virtually experience not one but four French dinner parties in one evening! The episode this week featured a hilarious Irish decorator who lives in Paris, and it was just brilliant seeing him interact with the French contenders, who really did not get his Irish themed dinner, replete with folk dancers and a long drawn-out story about a leprechaun and his pot of gold that his guests failed to grasp at all. "I don't understand. He's a dwarf?!!"

I predict long hours of television watching in the immediate future. I can already report that The Simpsons in French leaves a lot to be desired. Something just not right about Homer Simpson exlaiming "Bof!" and "Oh, la vache!" in a gruff gallic tone. Also watched Dezperet 'Ouseweeves and very much looking forward to Le Code de Vince avec Tom Onks tomorrow!!

It's all just so good for my French, right?!

Birthday party carnage in London

This weekend the Colonel went back to London for a party. You see, that's what's so great about being a young, carefree couple, no kids, no commitments. You can just hop on a train and go back to London to party hard whenever you want! And man, did we part. eeeeee. I can't remember the last time we really let our hair down and went large in London.

It was a sunday luncheon party to celebrate Great-Aunt Dashwood's 90th birthday. Yes that's right. Talk about letting it all hang out. Paris can keep it's café-culture and boutique clubbing scene; we're into UK retro-chic. We're talking taking it back to the Old Skool, with a town hall rental in South London for a finger buffet with 50 of the oldest people in England!

It was pretty full-on. I mean, I must have had at least four cups of tea. I started with a sausage roll, and then like, three cucumber sandwiches or something, and by the end of it we were all downing double profiteroles and singing (Happy Birthday) uproariously. Someone was popping smarties like they were... well, smarties. Uncle Mike had so much cake he could hardly speak and I saw my Dad sneaking off to the loo at one point, clutching his stomach. The Colonel couldn't believe it - he's never seen the Dashwood clan really go large before. Great Aunt Grace was an absolute legend. She was the last to leave at about 4pm, and someone had to put her in a taxi and take her home.

The Colonel and I have just got back, still on a bit of a (sugar) high. Although I'm thinking I'm going to be really regretting that Elderflower cordial come tomorrow morning.

You can't go home again. Well, not right now anyway.

As I look back at past posts, I realise "home" and my longing for a sense of belonging and general cosiness, is a constant theme of mine. Since moving to Paris I've being trying to create a happy new life, in a city which feels decidedly foreign and strange to us. And I'm not entirely succeeding. This makes me feel bad. All the more so, because I know so many people would give anything to be living in Paris. I feel it's all there for the taking but I don't have the bravura to bring it off. It's beautiful! It's French! It's not England! It's amazing! Why aren't I having the time of my life?

I think part of the problem is that Paris is not a hugely welcoming city. I know that London must seem that way too, to outsiders, but I think more even than London, Paris is a city which doesn't go out of its way to include newcomers. Friday evening drinks after work seem to be a rarity, and although I'm often invited to have lunch with my colleagues, conversation remains work-place formal and hardly ever spills over into real-life friendships.

Paris is a city to see people and be seen. It's a city where it's fun to wear lovely clothes and hang out in cafés, striking a pose. It's not a jeans and a t-shirt, yes of course, why don't you join us? kind of a town. And I think that's where I feel the rub. If you are skinny, smoke, and enjoy wearing jaunty hats, Paris is the place for you. If you want to eat well and see wonderful exhibitions, it's also for you, but you won't feel totally at home. You probably won't meet and make friends with Parisians during your time here. It's not a shiny happy smiling people kind of place.

But! It is heart-stoppingly beautiful, compact and manageable, sophisticated and intellectual. And if you've got a Burberry mac and a pack of smokes, you can wander around and feel part of it. (An anorak and inhalor doesn't have quite the same effect). Just don't expect anyone to strike up conversation, because they're too busy perfecting self-conscious nonchalance and smoky exhalations themselves.

The girls I work with love this city. I see them putting on their hats and kicking up their (APC) heels as they trip out the door, and I can tell they get a thrill just from being Parisian. (Or not Parisian, in which case they relish it all the more). I don't think they have a huuuge circle of friends, or girls' nights where they stay up watching silly films and stuffing themselves. They find pleasure in simply being here.

It depends what mood I'm in; some days I relish the thought of hitting the town, soaking up the atmosphere, lunching on a terrace with my book and walking home through the Latin Quarter. Other times I'm bored of the mostly ex-pat friends we've made, bored of bistro-dining and play-it-safe fashion and I want to go home.

When I get off the train at St. Pancras I breathe a sigh of relief. People are less-homogenous, there is more of an ethnic mix. Some people are skinny, some curvy. They take more risks with what they wear - someone's wearing a cardigan as a dress, someone else is wearing day-glo pink. Some of the men have tatoos and long hair and earrings. Everyone looks less put together, and yes, sometimes it's a mess. The tube smells of industrial waste and takes eons to get across town. The streets are crowded and rowdy and sometimes I'm scared walking home at night. And yet, and yet. There's no place like home.

La Rentrée

We got back to Paris last night on the fast train from Marseille, and as usual it felt so strange coming "home" from holiday to Paris. It feels like we're only half-way home, and yet the musty metro and the bright cafe lights and our little street do feel familiar and homely.

It's the first day back, and after 3 weeks of being with the Colonel, I find myself back in the routine we had happily escaped: I leave work at 7 and go and buy vegetables and a baguette opposite the metro. I dodge the drips and smells at Chatelet and bob and sway on the number 4 metro south trying to read standing up. I receive a phone call from the Colonel as I'm walking up to the appartment saying he's stuck at work and will be "a while".

I spend the rest of the evening cooking some supper and eating mine in front of a book or the internet or the projector, and planning to see a friend or two for drinks in the following days, as it re-dawns on me that the Colonel will never be out of work in time for supper - in this job at least, c'est la vie.

I'm still dreaming of the most wonderful three weeks imaginable, with friends in Tangier- body surfing in the Atlantic, with family in England - swimming with seals in The Wash, and just us two in Marseille - picnicking by the Mediterranean.

But in our little flat I walk through the rooms and admire the simple beauty of the windows with their intricate metal-work guards, the white walls with corner mouldings and the walnut parquet floorboards. It's bright and clean. I will explore a new wine cave for drinks with my new friends on wednesday. I will learn something new tomorrow at work. I will understand something I can't yet imagine today.

I look out my window and see the Crêpe man cooking up his pancakes in the kitchen below, and opposite, a loft-style appartment with a couple cooking together in a black and white kitchen with a huge art deco print on the wall. Two children are talking in exaggerated whispers across the courtyard between the buildings; "Maia? Ta fenêtre, elle est ouverte?"

I hear cider bottles clinking and gentle gallic tones wafting up from the street, and I know that, for the time being at least, I am home.

Long time no blog

And so it goes. Once again a heady mix of inertia, self-loathing and re-runs of the West Wing have conspired to keep me from the internet. Parisian life continues apace, although not so much apace these last couple of weeks as Paris has emptied out, leaving only a hardy few to enjoy 4 seats to themselves on the metro, scavenge for bread at the one bakery open over the summer and linger over long lunches while the boss is away.

The Colonel and I are joining the French in their mass exodus in August for an unprecendented 3 weeks away, and we cannot wait. We're going to spend a week in Tangier with our favorite friend who lives there, and then a week in Suffolk chez my favourite parents, followed by 6 days in Provence to recover from said favourite parents. Bliss.

Yet again it feels like we haven't been able to catch our breath since our amzing week in the mountains at Easter, and I can't wait to have all that time, all those train journeys and flights and transits and long empty days to talk to the Colonel. It sounds mad but we really don't seem to see each other during the week, what with the Colonel's hours and my early bedtimes, and surprisingly a week of evenings watching the West Wing whilst mainlining Nutella doesn't put me in the most sociable mood once the weekend comes around.

Our personal admin being what it is, we really should be taking an entire week to sit at home and pay bills and my god how long does it have to take me to get my camera back from my Granny's and our internet re-connected and the lock fixed and pane of glass replaced and post that letter and look for a flat for the Autumn.... but that will have to wait. What we really need is time to mull things over, reflect on Paris and our jobs and our future and London and what and where and how we should decide to proceed. The French have got some things right, and food and holiday time seems like as good reasons as any to stick it out.

Wimbledon, Strawberries and Pim's - Oh my!

Just back from the first weekend we've spent in England at a friend's house in Kent, and full of the joys of England and "home". It was such a treat to go back and feel part of something again, but the experience also left us feeling more positive about Paris and life in France having had a shot of confidence from home. 

Seeing a great friend has that effect - it reminds you who you were, and still are, and should be, and leaves you edified and ready to face the world again, in any language.

With the weather glorious and the Kent countryside looking green and lovely, we headed over to a friend's house to celebrate her birthday this weekend. The Eurostar to Ashford was almost too easy - under two hours from the Gare du Nord to the English countryside - such luxury! It was heaven to see our favourite friend, and in only two days, we managed to feast on such English delicacies as gooseberry fool, strawberries and cream, roast beef and yorkshire pudding, Pim's in the garden, and the obligatory endless cups of tea- bliss! 

There was also lots of sitting around reading the papers, watching Wimbledon, long walks, a garden visit (with a smoking hot band of recorder players laid on for entertainment - practically a festival really!) good lengthy chats and lots of giggles. 

Possibly the best part of all was coming back to Paris and for once not being overwhelmed by Sunday-blues - it's nearly the holidays! 

Could England be our new favourite holiday destination? I think so!