paris in sepia

I am back from the city of lights.

Balls.

Flew on that double decker massive Air France airbus. One wonders how the dickens it gets into the sky. And yet it was the smoothest long distance flight I’ve ever experienced.

You hardly feel it even touch the runway, it’s like, ‘I say, did a bird fly into the turbines? Oh wait, we’re on par with a house in Jet Park.’

So, Paris.

Paris reminds me of Buenos Aires. An upmarket version of its South American sister if you will. The architecture is the same, as are the big boulevards and tiny cobbled streets.

I don’t know which is more romantic, Paris or Rome. I was working on this trip, and although my Brit was around, both cities go hand in hand on the romance. Maybe a touch more fountains and moving water in Rome.

Café culture. All the chairs face outwards onto the street so that you can people watch. And you wanna people watch. Between the poodles, fashion that you drool over, every third person wearing a variation of stripes, and people snogging each other.

Or old French men in seersucker jackets.

The French eat a lot of veal. Never noticed this before. Usually the world focuses on the whole snail and frog leg thing. Baby cows not so much.
The French had an obligatory strike on Saturday. Over pension funds. The gendarmarie, fire brigade, the whole armed forces were out and traffic stopped. It isn’t a cliché; it’s what they do.

People aren’t that unfriendly there. Granted, I spoke French most of the time.

I love my Brit. And I can’t wait to be with him again soon.

little slice of

Doing French classes is the best thing I’ve done for myself since living in this place.

That, and remembering to put a teaspoon in the champagne bottle, before retiring it lovingly and tipsily to the fridge last night after dinner. It really works! The stuff is as crisp and as bubbly – if not more – than the night before.

Honestly though, escaping to a little world of Europeaness once a week really does wonders for my general disposition.

It’s like a slice of fuckberry pie without the fucking.

I missed three lessons since I’ve been away, and I realised last night how much I should’ve done this yearsago.

Fuck. Wasted time.

People have definitely become more animated as we’ve got to know each other.
In that we’re not scared to sound like jibbering non-sensical idiots when we open our mouths, and people’s personalities are definitely starting to come through.


Through the word of spoken French, that is. Which is always fuck off animated in itself.

It’s hysterical.

The Belgian from Bedfordview has taken to finger shaking when he’s trying to make a point, which is again, worth any money in entertainment, even if I am absorbing nothing else.

My French teacher doesn’t so much as dictate a story as she does acting it out, just because that’s what French people do. Arm gesticulations, facial malleability and general movement is how one tells a story Mediterranean-style.

We also have three poms in my class, which is entertainment on a stick right there.

A lovely German girl.

There’s a haute couture designer who owns her own boutique-like label who is always impeccably groomed and dressed, and although older than us, is a gas in her own right.

Last night we were talking about sexiest accents ever.

Of course, most people voted for the generic Irish accent, some went for Italian and Spanish accents as rated most sexy.

Peas: ‘Les accents ANGLAISE.’

Chic designer lady: ‘Cockney?’

Peas: Non non……un petit….Dorset.

Pom: ‘Bish bosh bash - I’m from Dorset, my father’s a fisherman.’

Peas: Is that right.

[pause]

‘Hang on. Did you just say bish bosh bash? Fucking. Classic.’

So anyway, good times.

Except for one disturbing moment. She made us watch a scene out of Paris Je T’aime.. Where this non-descript senior American woman learns French and goes to Paris for a holiday, on her own.

French teacher thought the scene was beautiful, some of us – me – thought it was so sad. As she sat there in the Jardin de Luxembourg, munching on a sandwich, tears in her eyes, alone, on a bench.

I thought. ‘Me? In 30 years time?’

Except she wore a moonbag/fanny pack. And I’ll never do that.