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.