Black November

We are on day 8 of the transport strike in France. Unfortunately it has coincided with a cold, wet spell and the whole city is seething. The pavements are packed with grumpy Parisians, the streets jammed with road rage of every kind; car, motorcycle, and bicycle, the few buses and metros that are running are so full that people are risking getting limbs cut off as they squeeze in the doors. Manifestations are now taking place in busy areas with thousands of people protesting. If you get caught on the wrong side of the protest you are stuffed, the police stop traffic and the protesters take their sweet time going across while you patiently wait or take the very long way around. The French are tres pissed off and want the world to know.

Attempting to make the best of it, we have donned our trainers and scooters to make the trek to and from school every day. Once Dad does his drop off he swiftly transforms into Superman and runs the remaining 8 km to work (much to the delight of the mothers on the school run). I continue to push the pram through muddy Champ de Mars and should be bench pressing 250lb easily by Christmas. After drop off I jump on a velib and join the crazy road ragers, praying I don’t get hit by a tour bus.

The children however are coping amicably with our new regime. Scooting/walking 3 km to school with hundreds of other people in cold, wet conditions is a far cry from our cosy local school 2 minutes from home, yet they have rarely complained. It is the mothers with young children and old people who suffer at these times, or anyone who is physically disabled and relies solely on public transport to get around. I stare with disbelief at all those able bodied people who stubbornly wait for the sardine packed bus instead of using their own two feet.

Next in line; civil servants, teachers, students, lawyers, judges, air traffic controllers, and most importantly, tobacco retailers (‘fuming’ about the imminent public smoking ban) are all jumping on the bandwagon, protesting over many of Sarkozy’s reforms. Very soon normal life as we know it will cease and the country will just become one big whinging unproductive mass of moaners, huddled together outside in their hordes, smoking, debating, and idling, what the French are best at anyway. With France’s former president under investigation for embezzlement, and their new President under attack for attempting to ‘modernise’ the country and create incentives for the French to work harder, we’re wondering if this is the right place to be. Sarkozy’s hardest reforms are coming next year apparently, within the health care sector, general pensions, and the labour code. If this is Sarkozy’s 'Black November’, what are we in store for next year???

World Cup Woes & Bicycle Foes

The city is swarming with international rugby fans, and lucky for me, the players as well. Running in Champ De Mars is never dull at the moment, seeing a scrumful of rugby boys running together is more than inspiration to keep me going.

As usual, Paris has done things in style and have suspended a huge rugby ball in the middle of the Eiffel Tower, lighting it up green and gold at night throughout the tournament. They also have large outdoor screens up in front of Trocadero and Hotel De Ville for mass viewing. It felt quite unreal to be watching England play in such an atmosphere, with the late afternoon sun setting on Hotel De Ville the picture was still amazing as people lolled about on the fake grass beneath the screen. The police, as always, were in control, with high security and directing people and traffic, and numerous Gendarmerie vans on standby. A year ago I would have criticised them and accused them of being control freaks, but now I realise what they do makes sense, they don’t want it to get out of hand, and you can be sure you won’t see any drunk English louts singing ‘Sweet Low Sweet Chariot’ whilst stumbling along Place d’Hotel DeVille, for if they did they’d be quickly silenced. Most Brits we passed by nodded in patriotic showmanship, the funniest being a tubby Anglophone with his roses proudly on display above his impressive gut, teamed with a French beret…..now that is class!

The city of Paris has introduced a new, inexpensive, biking system - the 'velib'. Several thousand very good quality bikes are stationed all over Paris, 300 meters apart, with over 300 km of bike lanes created especially for those brave enough to use them. After finally working out how to use a 'velib', I set off with a friend along the Seine on a splendid late summer’s morning. It felt so liberating, and not quite as terrifying as I thought, to be riding a bike around Paris. Because so many people are doing it, it makes it more accessible somehow, easier to slip into the crowd of nervous yet gleeful cyclists weaving their way around the city, much to the chagrin of taxi and bus drivers.

As I'm getting used to all the bus/taxi/bike lanes whilst dodging the traffic of pedestrians, motorcycles, cars, and other cyclists, it all seems to be going very smoothly, no crashes or injuries…until the junction at Pont Neuf. Just after this things get a bit tricky, and we end up on the wide pavement adjacent to the bus lane, which was very narrow and full of buses, a mere gap stop til we could get on the road again. However, in Paris, you are not allowed to make a mistake or deviate from the norm, and a vendeur (man selling books along the Seine) decides to inform me of my crime of briefly riding on ‘le trottoir’ by grabbing me as I ride slowly by so I nearly fall. Unbelievably aggressive, he shouts at me in French for 'rouling' on the sidewalk. Aggressively French back I tell him ‘Ne touché pas!’ and it infuriates him (unbeknownst to me it was a form of the language used only for the lowest of the low). Enraged, he comes after me. I hop on my bike and try to ride away and he kicks me as I wobble away, shouting a very English retort over my shoulder, bien sur!

Lesson learned – wear heels next time so I can kick him back.

Holidaying with the French

I’m taking great comfort in seeing that not all French are the pristine, classy, well turned out people that the Parisians portray themselves to be. In a self catering resort in the south of France, there are all walks of French life, and in this type of place you don’t find as much chic and sophistication as you would in Paris. They are on holiday, after all, with the first rule being to bare as much flesh as possible. This is understandable when living in what constitutes basically a large microwave oven. I have no idea which parts of France these French people are from, but there is evidence that class distinction also exists in this country, we all have our versions of chav, thank goodness.

There are still, however, some things that remain exclusively French across the spectrum of classes. Their vanity for example. Only here would you see grandmothers shouting at their grandchildren to ‘jouer!’ at the poolside, swatting them away like flies, whilst they proceed to sunbathe topless, unashamed of the scars on their breasts from implants done quite some time ago. When they’re completely grey and saggy there has to be a point where those things just don’t matter, but not for the French. It matters very much for as long as they are on ‘display’.

Interaction with children on holiday seems the same countrywide. Very little basically, with the odd slap for minor misdemeanours, I even heard one mother call her little girl ‘Vache!’ by the pool whilst giving her a smack . They are far too busy browning their boobs and smoking fags in the sun to play with their kids or swim in the pool, no wonder all the little Frenchies stamp on our sandcastles, they’re pissed off their parents didn’t help them make any!

Saving grace – the French are late risers therefore there is no rush to reserve your sunbed on the beach or by the pool (as with the Germans). Just get there before lunch and leave before tea when the hordes of French teenagers arrive, most with their prepubescent breasts on display.

Gendarmerie Dreams

The mysterious Gendarmerie. Nobody seems to know exactly what they do. Apart from being military police and apparent security guards outside important buildings, their job seems so secretive, which is perhaps where the attraction lies. As they are stationed near my son’s school outside Invalides I walk by them often. As do most French men, they make their attraction noticeable and attempt to get my attention, jigging from foot to foot in that boy gang type way, pointing me out not so discreetly, chuckling to each other. Although slightly imposing in a group, they always smile, sometimes even with a wink and flirty ‘bonjour madame’.

A uniform always has an effect on me. Gendarmes look very official and quite sexy in their tight navy blue suits, black belts and boots, wearing the traditional kepis on their heads. Standing outside their windowless blue vans, they can seem intimidating.

As I walk by I come over all girly, and can hardly suppress a giggle as I am victim to their obvious ogling. I want the confidence to wink back and say ‘bonjour monsieur’ in my sexiest French accent, but end up looking down and walking quicker….mother of two children, married, nice catholic girl, shouldn’t flirt…..all racing through my head. I know they’re watching me from behind, making comments on the size of my derriere presumably, debating on size and form. Not only do I wish for a smaller butt at this moment, I also wish I could wiggle it like the French girls do, a small but controlled jerky thrust with their pert buttocks jiggling on top of high heels. Somehow, I think they’d settle for mine anyway.

What if I let them have their way with me, I wonder as I walk on. What if I just walked onto their big blue bus and said ‘Bienvenue messieurs, je suis a vous (welcome gentlemen, I am yours). What if I took one of them by the hand and had my way with him. ‘What if’s’, like ‘I want’s’, never gets……

What is this city doing to me??? Time to change temptation focus.

Saving Grace - The summer sales are starting, watch out shops…je viens!!

Fantasme Du Jour

Shopping, eating, drinking, and beautiful men, I’m finding all the enticements in Paris irresistible………this way wickedness lies I fear. I’m starting to think those medieval gargoyles stationed up high around Paris are having a peculiar iniquitous effect on me. Looking down from above they are watching me all the time, ready to pounce, hook their talons into me and fly me away to those mysterious corners of debauchery I secretly want to discover.

Of course the fashion and pastry persuasions in Paris are worthy of much discussion, but at the moment I can’t help noticing all the men in uniform in this city. From the police to the gendarmarie to les pompiers, these men of heroic stature and profession are more than fit to rescue (unlike their American donut eating compatriots). As they ride around the city on their mountain bikes, motor bikes, horses or rollerblades, they always seem ready for action, to save that damsel in distress or just to point you in the right direction, giving service with a smile and flirtatious innuendos. Their gentlemanly demeanour demands respect and ignites desire...many a fantasy is inspired just watching them at work....tight cycling shorts, clingy uniforms, the power, willingness and capability to help, all create the perfect bouquet garni to my French dish, definitement !

Not so Saving Grace – My underwear drawer is sadly still filled with your basic M and S selection, and there has been no need for a man in uniform to save this damsel as of yet…..though I am considering climbing a tall tree to be ‘rescued’.

For Girls Only

As I walk around Paris everyday it feels like every inch of the city is drawing me in, pulling me into its various pockets of temptation. It is the ultimate city for women in many ways. Everything focuses on their desires, senses, and longings. The lingerie shops exude sexiness and class, the chocolate shops are extraordinarily decadent, the designer clothes shops are devastatingly posh, even the food stalls are too tempting with their luscious fruit displays. These glories surround me every day, begging me to stop, look, taste, buy, indulge.

Living in such a city is bringing out my ultra feminine side. I find myself making more of an overall effort with my appearance, wearing perfume more often, moisturizing every bit of my body rather than just the required below knee bits, and attempting to wear matching lingerie. There’s something about Paris that makes me want to feel sexy, toujours.

Maybe it’s the array of men in view. Big cities offer more flavour, but there is something about French men that can send tingles to undiscovered places (I’m talking more Olivier Martinez types here rather than your local tubby poissoniere). The dark, brooding features, the sexy accent, the aggressive passion in everything they say and do. Basically, they love women and aren’t afraid to show it, it’s up to you whether you view it as vulgar chauvinism or simple appreciation for the opposite sex. Personally, I view any attention as flattering in a city full of beautiful people, (observable beauty that is, Parisian inner beauty is a phenomenon undiscovered in my experience).

The city of chocolate and cheese, champagne and shopping, culture and hauteur, Paris can be a girl’s best friend, or enemy. Either way, I’m going to just embrace it all and see what happens….

Gnomes at the Louvre

Taking a midnight stroll through the Louvre is truly spectacular. Everything in Paris should be seen during the day and at night, both perspectives offer so much in different ways, and there is something even more romantic about the city at night (if that’s possible). However, it’s not just romantic for us dreamy eyed married lovers walking amongst the maze of hedges leading on to the Tuilieries, it’s also the playground for gay garden gnomes apparently, who seemed to be popping out of the bushes at every turn as we walked by, no doubt excited about the loud British male voices they were hearing. UK’s version of Hampstead Heath, the gardens facing the pyramid at night are full of ‘cottagers’ looking for ‘lurve’ at the Louvre. We dared our male companions to go in but they only provided a wee bit of mincing for their Louvre lovers who obviously missed out on a quality bit of English Roast beef (with a condom to avoid mad cow disease bien sur).

Lovin' The Loire

The pleasant chirps of birds singing, soft wind blowing through the leaves, the gentle whirr of the pool’s motor with the odd, distant grunt of a tractor nearby…….We have traded the constant din of car horns honking, blaring ambulance sirens, and foreign French chatter for the blissful quiet of the Loire countryside. How much more you appreciate the simple things in life when you’re surrounded by chaos most of the time. Staying in a freshly decorated small farmhouse near Descartes (where the famous philosopher lived), we have adopted the local Labrador Tiggy, are picking fresh strawberries every morning from the garden, and are poolside every glimpse of sunshine we get (which sadly, is not often). A much needed escape from city life, we are visiting chateaux and drinking copious amounts of local wine to get us through the week, such a trial! Although the children are more excited about the dog than the castles, they are also enjoying having a house with a garden and a pool, even if they don’t get to swim in it.


A castle visit to Chateau Chenonceau, the most famous of the Loire Valley, even held the children's attention for some time. A ‘floating castle’, it is built as a bridge over the water, with beautiful gardens on either side. One can only imagine the types of parties that went on here. Built in the 16th century much of its original décor remains, and it is decadence beyond extravagant. The French King Henri II owned the chateau and gave it to his mistress. When he was killed his widow ordered the mistress to give it back to her, though she very graciously offered her another chateau down the road, how very diplomatic of her! Could you ever imagine Posh offering Madame Loos Beckinghim Palace following Becks demise after doing too many lines in LA.???

Transport Terrors

Did I actually say I felt lucky to live in Paris last blog??? I've had serious amnesia whilst the kids have been off school and was rudely woken up this week with our return to the dreaded commute. Taking public transport with children should be outlawed, banned, 'interdit!' What starts off as fun and exciting adventure on the bus or train soon becomes a nightmare ritual of choosing specific seats (high enough to see out the window but not next to their sibling preferably), ticket insertion battles, food and drink demands, and mind numbing games of 'I Spy' which always ends in tears as the bigger one corrects the little one over minor misdemeanors.

Today I was rudely reminded of this ritual of our daily life as my children once again humiliated me on the No. 80 bus. I've been humiliated before of course, my little girl's pole dancing on the metro raises many an eye, especially when she licks the pole for good measure. And my older son's orca impressions on the bus always fail to impress the commuting Parisians. My husband's regular jerky jig on the bus as he juggles the pram, backpacks and briefcases is always entertaining as I sit quietly laughing to myself with the children, pretending not to know the clumsy oaf.

Today’s humiliation was of a different breed. When your child threatens to poo his pants right then and there, loudly in front of everyone, accusing you like his toiletry needs are your responsibility, in your control, and what are you going to do about it.

I've become immune to all the stares we receive now. I've got two loud, english-speaking children who rarely sit quietly on the bus, so what? Most people taking the bus are bored and they watch us, so what? I used to hush the children’s enthusiastic questions, my daughter’s lovely singing, my son’s eerie whale impressions (but excellent pisstake of the French accent), begging them to please use their ‘quiet voice’. But when I realized that not even the most beautiful, blonde haired, blue eyed happy child could crack a smile on their stone faces, I gave up.

People refusing to budge so you can squeeze your pram on the bus, bus doors closing on the pram when you’re halfway on nearly driving away with your child hanging out, rude Parisians telling me or my children off for being too loud sometimes swatting them with a rolled up newspaper, children doing somersaults off high seats as the bus driver slams on his brakes….

Today I long for the all too convenient 5 minute walk to school through a leafy trail amidst English speaking compatriots we used to do.

Saving Grace: He didn’t poo his pants after all.

Six Months Ago....

Six months ago I would never have barged my way onto a busy, foreign bus with two children shouting ‘Excuse-et-moi, ma poussette ici s’il vous plait’, forcing people to move before I ran over their toes with my pram.

Six months ago I would never have attempted to drive around the grid locked, aggressive driver-filled, motorbike weaving ruled, pedestrian aimlessly wandered roads that consumes Paris.

Six months ago I would never have chatted in French to the local ‘boucher’ about how to make an authentic beef bourguignon, and then actually cook it with his invaluable advice.

Six months ago I would never have sat alone in a café sipping café crèmes whilst tapping away on my laptop only to have one of the potential future French Presidents come and shake my hand with a semi-flirtatious ‘Bonjour Madame’ (even old politicians are sexy in France).

Six months ago I did jump on the metro with no idea where I was going just to escape the suffocation of the flat and the children, ending up at a brasserie on Rue du Bac smoking a cigarette (I don’t smoke) with two glasses of Sancerre to save my sanity.

Six months ago my husband did leave me in the gardens at the Rodin Museum because I was frozen to the bench at an inexplicable, overwhelming breaking point that he didn’t want our children to witness.

Paris is a stunningly beautiful city. I almost envy all the tourists who I see daily looking around in wonderment, wishing I was them experiencing it fresh again for the first time. Then I realize how lucky I am to live here, when they only have two or three days to cram it all in, I can see all these wonderful places at my leisure, yet I am already panicking that I’m not getting enough in, running out of time. I feel any time is wasted that isn’t spent absorbing the city.

I wish I could have felt just a glimmer of this when I first arrived. Knee deep in unfamiliarity, it was like a blanket had been thrown over all the beautiful buildings, the Eiffel Tower had become invisible, the unique ambience of French life muffled by my children’s whinges and fears.

Confidence is empowering, liberating stuff. If only we could bottle it up and sell it in the shops instead of uprooting a whole family to attain it.

Today I feel extremely lucky to live in Paris. This week I have been vintage clothes shopping with my eccentric French teacher Muriel, picnicking in the Champ De Mars with friends, visiting the Armenian exhibit at the Musee de Montmartre, and shaking hands with famous politicians. When you start to like Paris it starts to like you, I feel there’s a lot of potential to this relationship….

Saving Grace - Naked Man and Sancerre

Do Dogs Bark in French?

This was the first question my six year old son asked me when we arrived in Paris. Desperate for a dog before we left the UK, we have to postpone getting one for at least another two years as we are downsizing to a flat which won’t accommodate one. Adding insult to injury, he was also still in mourning about leaving his stuffed dog at the airport. How was he going to survive without his treasured companion since birth, in a foreign city in a strange bed whilst all his other cuddlies were in a box on their way across the chunnel??

I indulged his naivety for these reasons, feeling that somehow bridging the ‘Band of Brothers’ in dogworld so to speak, would help alleviate his fears of living in another country. ‘No,’ I replied ‘they all bark in the same language, they can all understand each other’. Then of course the next question was why do people speak different languages, why did he have to learn French, etc. etc.

Maybe I should have been honest about these differences in language and culture from the start. Maybe I should have said, yes dogs in Paris bark in French, they are louder and more rude than English dogs and poo everywhere just to spite the world.

Maybe if I would have laid it all out on the line then and there, with dogs as my scapegoat for generalizing all Parisians, just maybe he would have felt a bit more prepared for the changes he has struggled so hard with over the past few months.

As we play our daily game of ‘Spot the Chien’ on our way to school, I am glad he still views these furry creatures in a universal way, for if he really thought they were French the game would be ‘Spot another bloody chien with piles of merde everywhere around it’.

Saving grace – have not stepped in ‘merde du chien’ as of yet, and beloved Dogger was found at the airport and flew unaccompanied to Paris to reunite with his anxious owner.

Naked Man

Our first weekend in Paris was memorable. As I opened the shutters in my bedroom one sunny Sunday morning, my bleary gaze locked on a toned lower torso teasingly positioned behind a sink in the flat across the way. I had to put on my glasses for further inspection. Yes, it was male, only slightly hairy, very toned, and it was doing the dishes!!
I was unabashedly staring as he was casually scrubbing, seemingly oblivious to me. Whether he was just refreshingly uninhibited or a bit of a show off, it did not matter, I couldn’t tear myself away. I won’t deny I was waiting for the full frontal view which he soon graciously supplied, followed by a brazen bottom view as he turned around to put his dishes away.

My personal Parisian Diet Coke moment…oh la la, I could get used to this.

Please Defrost Me.....Let Me Go

Seven months ago I moved to Paris. It happened seamlessly; husband’s dream job offer was more than too good to turn down, our four bedroom Victorian terrace house was rented immediately, it was the beginning of a new school year for the kids, a fresh start for everyone in September. It just made sense.

For me it was more of a ‘frozen’ start than a ‘fresh’ one, and it was going to take a long time to defrost. I was frozen with fear, worry and anxiety; how would the children adjust, how will I cope with the language barrier, how dangerous is city life, these were just a few of my hundreds of thoughts. Confident me was shouting, ‘embrace change, embrace all that is French!!' Pathetic me was physically sick with worry.

These worries were however, laced with a little bit of dreamy excitement for my French adventure. Of course I laughed with my girlfriends over how we envisioned I would spend my days, gazing at gorgeous French men over café crèmes, numerous visits to Musee D’Orsay viewing impressionist exhibitions, strolls down Champs Elysee and through Jardin du Luxembourg, buying fresh fruit and vegetables at the charming French markets on every streetcorner…little did I know what really lay ahead.