Dispelling the myths and confirming the clichés

Ah, the French. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, you’ve no doubt formed your opinion based on the numerous stereotypes that are bandied about. Indeed, the ‘cheese-eaters’ are arguably the most typecast nationality in the world—a hardship that they really should have foreseen prior to inventing the word ‘cliché’, but I digress.  After spending almost six months in France, I thought it time to dispel a few of these myths as false (faux), and confirm others as true (vrai)...

• “The French are rude.” FAUX
  This criticism will live on as long as visitors continue to judge an entire nation based on the attitude of one demographic... the Parisian waiter. I admit that some sour-faced and impatient members of this group leave little to be desired in the customer service stakes, but please don’t assume all 60-plus million French residents have the same pomme frite on their shoulder. You’ll generally only find this level of service in tourist area restaurants and, whilst I don’t condone the attitude, I can certainly understand the frustration. You try spending your days and nights serving people who come to your country and demand food in a foreign language and see how patient you become. But if it makes you feel better, these waiters (and sometimes waitresses) serve their own countrymen with that very same level of gusto, so just shut up and eat your food, because it is the best in the world even if it is served with a snarl (and a snail, depending on your order).
  
  Overall, as a people, the French are among the politest I’ve come across. In every shop, I’m be greeted with ‘Bonjour Madame’ (Mademoiselle on a good day) and farewelled with an ‘Au revoir’ or ‘Bonne journée’. The courtesy continues on public transport where I am guaranteed a ‘pardon’ if someone even slightly brushes past me. However, on a packed train at peak hour, this cacophony of apologies can sometimes be a little much.
  
  After spending a staggered half a year in Paris, I have made friends with locals at many a restaurant, bar, café, and even a department store (a tad too much shopping perhaps?). Like in all countries, there are some amazing people in France who love meeting people from all over the world and trading stories in Franglais. So, please, don’t allow history to repeat itself and let the French front line bring down the entire nation.
  
  
• “They just pretend that they can’t speak English.” FAUX
  Trust me on this one. It is a lot easier for a French salesperson to admit that they speak your native tongue than to participate in an awkward game of charades simply to determine whether you’d like sparkling or still water with your Bœuf Bourguignon. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard an Anglophone lose their patience because their French server couldn’t understand their order (no matter how loudly they repeated it). And, yes, I’m sorry, but I am singling you out on this one, Americans. You’re in France, so if you don’t speak French, either learn the basics, point, or head across the Channel where you’re (partly) understood.
  
  Sure, English is taught at schools in France. Just like foreign languages are taught in Australian schools. So, if a French person moved to Great Britain or the United States to study or work after high school, then they’re able to speak English. If not, consider them to be like me, an Australian who studied Indonesian for two years and can now only remember that ‘lima’ means ‘five’.
  
  Why do we expect the French to speak our language anyway? French is the official language of 29 countries and all United Nations agencies. In fact, 26 percent of European Union residents speak French—that’s 129 million people. What’s more, demographic projections predict that 67 per cent of the world’s population will speak French by year the 2050. I plan to be one of them (but God help me if it takes 40 years).
  
  I love that the French are so fiercely protective of their language. The country even boasts a government Minister charged with the responsibility of protecting French, principally from the ‘invasion of English’ (the language, not the people but give them time). In 1993, this Minister of Culture, Jacques (surprise, surprise) Toubon, introduced laws mandating the use of the French language in all publications, advertisements, workplaces and on restaurant menus and product packaging. English may appear, but only as a means of translating (to tourists) the French words used, not to present any additional information.
  
  

  

  'Jaws' is 'The Teeth of the Sea' to the French

  

  McDonalds' bilingual packaging.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  And it will come as no surprise to you that the French adhere to these ‘Toubon Laws’ more stringently than they do their wedding vows. Disobey these laws and, while you won’t get the guillotine (let’s not lose our heads here), the punishment is severe. Schools refusing to adopt French as the medium of instruction are ineligible for government funding, and, in 2006, a French subsidiary of a US medical supplies company was fined 500,000€, plus an ongoing 20,000€ per day, for non-compliance. Ah, now if only these laws could be applied to the ignorant morons who yell their dinner orders in English, France would be an even better place.
  
  Alas, despite their best efforts, the French are losing yet another battle. Certain English words have crept into the language in recent times. So, Australians all let us rejoice, because if you’re planning a visit to France you can now comfortably rely on at least five English words to communicate with the locals: ‘week-end’ (yes, they’ve added a hyphen), ‘cool’, ‘email’, ‘marketing’ and ‘chewing gum’. Profound contributions indeed. Be proud, Anglophones!
  
  
  
   

• “Paris is expensive.” FAUX
  Context dependent of course. I mean, sure, Paris is more expensive than Thailand, Bali and (taking an ignorantly wild stab in the dark here) Somalia, but when it comes to value for money, the French capital knocks Australia out of the water that it’s girt by.
  
  I present to you Exhibit A, a 34€ bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne. This converts to $47 at today’s exchange rate—almost half the price we’re charged in Australia. I’m ignoring your cries of ‘Hey, no fair, it’s a French product’ and moving on to bottled water. Now I know water is more of a rarity in Australia, but the down under price of $2 for a 600ml bottle is becoming ridiculously close to the price of petrol. In Paris, I pay €0.50 (AU$0.70) for a one litre bottle. Of course, I didn’t buy said bottle of water within 200 metres of a famous monument (and I concede, there are many), because then I would have paid 2€ to enjoy the refreshing taste of an illegal immigrant’s tap water packaged, ever-so-thoughtfully, in a re-used Evian bottle.
  
  
  The moral of this story? If you think the prices are excessive, you’re in a tourist area (the grilled cheese baguette hotdogs on display in the front glass casing are a dead giveaway), so keep walking to the backstreets and save yourself 30 per cent.
  
  
• “Ooh la la?” VRAI
  Yes, they say it, but not in the saucy way that we all imagine. Instead, the expression is used by the French to communicate how impressed they are in much the same way that we use ‘wow’ and ‘awesome’, or ‘golly gosh’ if we were in an Enid Blyton novel. 
  
  
• “The streets of Paris are littered with dog merde.” FAUX
  I am sure it was no coincidence that I first stepped on Parisian soil on the turd of October 2001. Nor, at the time, did I consider it coincidental that every intersection housed an enormous and majestic fountain. I quickly determined that these were clearly grand shoe baths merely disguised as ancient monuments. So I am the first to admit that this was no myth 10 years ago. Back then, the streets of Paris were so chequered with dog doo that you daren’t look around at the beauty of the city, because you were too busy, eyes-down, strategising your next step. And believe it or not, doo-related slips in Paris were responsible for the hospitalisation of at least two people every day.
  
  However, I am pleased to report that there have been some changes about the place. In 2002, the Mayor enforced fines of up to 450€ for dog walkers not picking up after their pooch. And my, what a difference it’s made. I’m not saying that every dog doesn’t still have its day once in a while in Paris, but it’s a vast improvement on the toilet I visited 10 years ago. I only wish I could say the same for
  Toulouse, a French city so-named (I think) because the bowels of the local dogs are also just that: too loose.
  
  But dog-gone, if there isn’t another problem that needs to be flushed out of Paris... and that, my friends, is the abundance of men (of any age) urinating on the streets wherever and whenever they please. Ah yes, if you’ve visited Paris, you know that waft of wee that I’m talking about. You would be forgiven for blaming this smell on the dogs also, but unfortunately, this is not the case. Nor should you point your finger (or any other appendage) at the drunk or homeless. More often than not, the stream of ‘water’ that you’re (hopefully) stepping over in the street is the product of a middle-aged businessman, still clearly lamenting the 1980s removal of all-but-one of Paris’ vespasiennes, or open-air urinals. The last of these (pictured below) is incongruously located on the corner of Rue le Santé, translated into English as Health Street. Taking the piss? I think so.

  

   

• “The men: masters of seduction.” VRAI
  I'm sure they would prefer to be described as ‘romantic’, but as I’m leaning closer to ‘sleazy’, I've drawn a compromise at ‘seductive’. Yes, seduction remains alive and well in France, but is an art form that makes me a lot more uncomfortable than Van Gogh's bandaged ear portrait.
  
  I’ll start with the staring... French men like to stare. Not in that puzzled ‘Do I know you?’ kind of way. No, it’s more along the lines of, ‘I am imagining tearing your clothes off right now and then I’m going to-’, well you get the picture. This look is impenetrable and exudes from men (and women, but that’s another story) of all ages. From 20-something Algerians on the train to 75-year-olds sucking down their 52nd cigarette for the day on café terraces. Shudder. Married or unmarried, it doesn’t matter. Whether you’re alongside your boyfriend or not, it doesn’t matter. In fact, a French friend told me that it pleases him to see men looking at his girlfriend this way, because he regards it as quite complimentary. I explained to my friend that an Australian guy would return such a ‘compliment’ with a swift punch in the face for the blatant disrespect shown to him and, more importantly, his girlfriend. My friend just couldn’t understand this. Because like most native French men, he was taught from a very young age to admire and adore women and make it obvious to them that you’re doing both.
  

  

  The ever-so-smooth
  French President, Nicolas Sarkozy,
  makes a young lady's acquaintance.

  
  As I understand it in France, a woman is to be adorned with Chanel and Christian Dior, principally, it seems, to attract the admiration of men. Hmmm... makes for quite an insecure (not to mention expensive) existence, and one in stringent opposition to the ‘make yourself happy’ mentality that I’ll be impressing upon my daughter.
  
  In some ways, though, women do have it made in France. They NEVER ask a man out on a date. [Insert David Attenborough voiceover here]. Instead, women traditionally entwine their pursuer in a game of cat and mouse, giving no clues as to whether she’s interested or not. A guy can give chase for weeks or months like this, before he captures his prey (if he’s lucky). French women believe that, by embarking on such a risky process, the man has then demonstrated the utmost devotion and romanticism. Conveniently, this process also ensures that the woman will never be regarded as ‘easy’. [Aussie guys, I hope you realise how apparently ‘easy’ you have it.]
  
  Another friend confessed that he knew I wasn’t French the moment he saw me. Not because I looked particularly foreign, but simply because I smiled at him. “French women don’t smile,” he told me. Cue montage of Victorian Beckham-esque faces of all the impeccably-dressed women I’d passed on the streets in the days prior. And as these images flashed before my eyes I realised how right he was. And, I wondered why women living in the most beautiful city in the world couldn’t manage a smile, and then... cue light bulb. French women don’t need to smile. They’ve been brought up with the knowledge that they’ll get what they want without having to lift a (cheek) muscle for it. So with this realisation, and a very big smile, I told my French friend: “You’ve made your bed, so lie in it.” (Which is probably why so many choose to lie in someone else’s.) 

Whilst I think I’ve covered the most common clichés, there are some other pearlers that deserve to be addressed:

• They really don’t wear stripes that often.
• They do always carry baguettes, and so do I, because the bread is just so damned good here.
• They do ride bikes a lot, but not often while wearing a beret and even less often while carrying a baguette.
• French women don’t like body hair as much as we think they do (and, no, I do not write from personal experience – sorry boys).
• They don’t get fat because, unlike the rest of us greedy b*stards, they have learned the art of moderation (despite the bread and the wine and the cheese and the pastries!). 
• They never surrender—well, they don't back down in an argument anyway. The French are always right, and the sooner you (pretend that you) understand that, the happier you'll be (because the conversation will be over).
• They really aren’t arrogant; they're just content in the knowledge that they live in one of the two best countries in the world and you, unless you're French or Australian, don't. 

Now who's arrogant?
Bek x

Down the rabbit hole...

It takes courage to push yourself to places that you have never been before... to test your limits... to break through barriers. And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.― Anaïs Nin, French (of course) poet.

One of my best friends read the above quote to me earlier this year. No doubt she did so in response to my repeated question of ‘Who the hell does this?’, after quitting my job, selling my house, billeting out my furniture, and storing the remaining tangibles of my life (just Tupperware really) in a friend's garage... all in pursuit of my quest to live and learn a foreign language on the other side of the world. This decision, while frightening, was an easy one to make. Because, as Anaïs Nin so profoundly declared, any apprehension I had about embarking on this solo journey 15,000 kilometres away from my loved ones simply could not outweigh my fear of not going.

Besides, playing it safe has never really been my thing. Give me the choice and I'll follow the White Rabbit over the Yellow Brick Road any day. Simply because the road less travelled holds more surprises. And I do like the unexpected. I know that those yellow bricks will lead me to Oz, but who knows what kind of madness I'll find down the rabbit hole.

The craziness of this life-changing decision was never more apparent than on my first day of language school in France. I arrived at 8.30am to sit a placement test to verify my level and was slotted into a class on the third floor. Thirty minutes late, I entered the classroom, muttered a 'Bonjour' to the professor, apologised for my tardiness, and snuck into the only empty seat in the room. But, Madame Héléne wasn't letting me off that easily...

S'il vous plaît, introduce yourself to the class and explain where you are from and why you are in Paris.

Merde. Why must all teachers indulge in this mortifying form of class bonding? I hated this exercise at the start of university courses back home, but at least then a response was permitted in English. I quickly managed to present myself to my professor's satisfaction, and we moved on. It was during the proceeding painstaking 30 minutes that I was struck by two sobering (no Dad, I wasn't drunk) realisations:

1. I could only understand about 25 per cent of what Madame Héléne was saying (quite problematic when she's asking you a question and all you can understand is your name); and
2. No-one was going to help me understand by translating words into my mother tongue, because every one of my classmates hailed from non-English speaking countries.

My school in Paris.

It was at this point that I started berating myself with thoughts of, 'Didn't really think this one through, did you Bek?' and 'You're in France, you idiot, what did you expect?' Now, I am aware that I am indeed in France and the French speak French (profound, I know), but I was completely ill-prepared to have to discard any reliance on the English language. I cannot recall ever feeling more overwhelmed the moment that I realised I had to farewell what was left of my comfort zone and try to understand what this 70-year-old Parisienne was rabbiting on about in French. And so I spent the first day of class feeling no less than 75 per cent lost, a stat that was not assisted by my unfortunate grouping with two Vietnamese classmates for a joint oral presentation exercise. Their French sounded to me like, well, Vietnamese.

Now, I have never been the dumb kid in class; a fortuitous existence that I modestly attribute to clever study choices more-so than sheer cleverness. Yep, I avoided Physics at high school as swiftly as I withdrew from Economics at University, because there are some topics that I am never going to understand and I'm really okay with that. But, let me tell you, I ate a very large piece of humble pie (tarte aux humble?) during my first few days of French school. And what kept me going was not only the wise words of Anaïs Nin, but the belief that that sickening 'Oh my God, I'm stupid' feeling is called learning a language in a foreign country. You put yourself out there; you realise that you're going to sound like an idiot when you speak; you accept that you aren't going to understand everything right away; and you're aware that you don't know all the words. But, to try is to learn. And so, by the end of my first week at school, I understood 80 per cent of Madame Héléne's words (still zero from my Vietnamese friends) and progressed to the next level. So, I guess the old adage is true... more often than not, the greatest rewards come from doing the things that scare you the most.

And so my journey through Wonderland continues, a little less scary for two reasons. One, because I'm in Week 4 at school (I'm a big girl now) and, two, because I have discovered that I am being shielded from any craziness in France by the Mad Hatters themselves, French lawmakers. Ladies and gentleman, I give you what are allegedly just some of the laws protecting me in France...

1. You are considered guilty until proven innocent. Seems fair. Just stick to the right place at the right time and you've got nothing to worry about. So let's move on, because number two is a doozy...
2. No pig may be addressed as 'Napoleon' by its owner. Excuse me? Firstly, who, except for Kermit the Frog, is on a first-name basis with a pig? Secondly, how obviously bullied on the playground was this Napoleon guy (the Harry High-Pants wouldn't have helped). While I'm unsure whether this law remains valid today, its prior existence seemed reason enough for me to visit the guy's tomb at Les Invalides just to tell him to toughen up. And given the size (1.2 metres) of his tomb (pictured below), is it any wonder that Monsieur Bonaparte had a (Napoleon) complex. In all seriousness, Porky's remains have been divided up into six coffins that lay inside this grand, yet tiny, tomb, which is surrounded by 12 pillars of victory (and no mention of Waterloo).
3. Between the hours of 8am and 8pm, 70 per cent of the music played on the radio must be from French artists. This one I know to be true, and I kinda like it. Let's keep globalisation to a minimum while Kanye West and Bruno Mars are still getting about the place. 
4. It is illegal to kiss on railways. If this is true, then there's not a great deal of policing going on in this, the city of romance. Public displays of affection (the romantic kind, not the 3am in a nightclub variety) are all around you in France. Perhaps this law applies to kissing on the actual railway tracks and, if that's the case, surely this kind of stupidity is punishable by death?  
5. It is illegal to take photos of police officers or police vehicles, even if they are just in the background. I can confirm, from personal experience (see previous Blog post), that this one is true. And while the presence of this law in Australia would indeed be a travesty (I'm biased, I know), I don't really consider it to be a problem in France. But I'll fly in the face of this ridiculous law and let you be the judge...



6. An ashtray is considered to be a deadly weapon. But clearly cigarettes are the safest things going around, if the number of French smokers is anything to go by. But, no, no, don't come near me with that ashtray. It might kill me. 

Ah yes, the bizarre lives on every day in Paris and I love it. Surely nothing other than sheer absurdity could explain why:

• no government official has considered that the testing of the air raid siren every month for the past 65 years may be a practice that is now just a little antiquated;
• a homeless man made the decision to stand in the road and 'oui' on someone's van in the face of oncoming traffic, rather than urinate from the sidewalk;
• the shops are closed on Sundays and often on Mondays too;
• there are four supermarket aisles dedicated to yoghurt;
• the previous left-wing government legislated a fixed working week of 35 hours;
• it's très chic to eat cheese that makes your fridge smell like a dead rat for weeks, because 'it's one of 365 varieties manufactured in France';
• children have a school-free day every Wednesday, but some schools hold mandatory classes on Saturday mornings; and
• from the age of four, school children have a two-hour lunch break during which they are served an entrée, main and dessert EVERY day (sure beats our canteen selection of meat pies and hotdogs).

Amidst the madness every day, I meet a new classmate with an inspirational story on what led them to Paris to learn French with a bunch of strangers. There's Leticia, a divorced, 50-something, Brazilian mother-of-four, who wanted to do something for herself after dedicating most of her life to her now-adult children. And 23-year-old Nicola, from Berlin, who chose to spend her week-long vacation in Paris learning French each morning and sightseeing alone in the afternoons. And Louis, who moved to France nine months ago in search of a life better than Columbia could ever offer him. And with every new person I meet and every story I hear, I am increasingly inspired by the strength of people. My classmates are from different worlds, age groups and walks of life, but share one thing a common (two if you count poorly-pronounced French): the courage to throw caution to the wind and follow the White Rabbit, because I guess sometimes in order to find yourself, you must first lose yourself.

Every day, I bear witness to less-inspiring stories that remind me that life is no fairy tale. These stories are told on placards that read 'pour manger' (to eat) or 'j'ai faim' (I am hungry) or are shouted out on the métro in the hope of securing a Euro or two from commuters on a packed train. Sadly, the homeless of Paris are scattered from the most popular of monuments to the quietest suburban métro stations. And as I listen to a man share his tale of woe, I can't help but wonder how he got so lost. I can only imagine that he went so far down the rabbit hole that he couldn't find his way back home. And that, too, is madness.

Bek x

France vs Australia

Yes, it's a competition. One founded by my closest Australian friends who share a major dislike for the French if only out of sheer bitterness at the prospect of permanently losing a friend to the ‘Frogs’. In my mind? No contest. I had given Australia 33 good years, yet still I was searching for something more... something that would stop me searching for something more.

Therefore, moving to France to learn the most beautiful language in the world was a challenge too enticing to refuse. Undoubtedly, France has the upper hand in the categories of food, history and architecture. So, to me, France had already won. But I like a bit of healthy competition as much as the next person (Napoléon aside) so, in the interests of fair play, I’ve kept a scorecard of my key experiences abroad so far. And I think even my most anti-French friends (you know who you are) will find the scoring to be more than balanced.

Round 1 – The Bank Account

I now realise that my previous post citing my ease at getting a French bank account was rather ambitious. True, I do have a French bank account (into which I’ve transferred a lot of Euros). The problem stems from my desire to withdraw funds from the account (outrageous, I know).

This tale of woe and no-dough started after I received advice that my Visa card and cheque book had arrived for my collection at my bank. So, I promptly presented myself to the local branch, eager to collect the tools that would allow me to withdraw the two months’ rent I needed to secure my new apartment that day. I feel it important to note at this point, that the following conversation was conducted in French (1 point to Australia) and it went a little something like this…

"I’m sorry Mademoiselle, but after keeping you waiting for 10 minutes while I pretend to search for your Visa card and cheque book in every drawer of my bureau, I have now built up the courage to tell you that I do have them, I just can't give them to you." (Okay so, yes, I'm paraphrasing.) 

"Pourquoi?" I ask, only to be bewildered by the girl's response of, "I don't know."

"You don't know?" I repeat (yep, getting really good at this French thing).

"No, I don't know. But when my screen shows the letters 'ERN', I can't give you your card."

Oooooh, thanks for clarifying, that makes perfect sense. ‘ERN’ must be an abbreviation for Euros Returned to No-one. Well, not today, Frenchie. I politely teller (heehee) that I have transferred a lot of money into that account and I need to withdraw some of it today to pay a deposit for an apartment.

"I'm sorry, you can't." 

Now, as much as I was enjoying this informative tête a tête, the end of my tether had arrived. I reverted to English (1 point to France, dammit), demanding to see the manager and saying that I wouldn't be leaving without my money. Friends, it may surprise and disappoint you to learn that I didn't see the manager and I left the bank without any of my money (2 points to France)—an outcome that would never happen in Australia. 

[While in the bank, I called my Peruvian friend Carlos and he contacted the bank manager who explained that the 59 utility bills which Carlos had already provided to confirm his address (under which my bank account is listed) were not sufficient for a bank that he's been with for ten years. No, they need another electricity bill. When I ask why, Carlos simply says, "Because they are French, Bek." And I guess that's another point to France.]

And so the bank retains my money for another day. But, don't for a second think that I am not prepared to name and shame this financial institution (1 point Australia): BNP Paribas, je l'adore. I've included this picture if only to demonstrate why they need my money so badly... I can only imagine how awful it must be to service clientèle from such hideous branch offices.

And after this altercation with the French, I was relieved to call Westpac, who immediately increased my daily withdrawal limit to enable me to pay my bond. (1 point Australia.) There's no place like home.

Round 1 score: France 4, Australia 3

Round 2 – The Apartment

Surely the world's smallest elevator?

In my last post, I reported finding the perfect apartment. All I had to do was move in. No stranger to moving, I was up for the challenge but, my God, how I now appreciate the value of a car. Even having a wheelbarrow would have been an improvement on two petite femmes wrestling to transport a toaster, a doona, three suitcases, 26 pairs of shoes (yes, I'm an addict, back off), six shopping bags and a partridge in a pear tree down the world's smallest elevator (pictured right), into a taxi, then up three spiral flights of stairs to my new apartment. At this point, I want to give a special shout-out to my friend, April from Perth, who I am sure never dreamed that befriending me on a Trek America tour throughout North-Eastern US would render her liable to help me move across central Paris in a taxi some seven months later. Thanks April, you've earned your country a point! 

With my worldly-belongings packed into as many shopping bags as we could find, I ordered the taxi and listened intently to the automated French answering service. I hung up and proudly announced to April that,

"I think I've ordered a taxi to this address. I think it will be here in 50 minutes and I think it will cost 60 euros."

One out of three ain't bad... I had ordered a taxi, but it arrived in 12 minutes (panic stations) and cost 32 euros. Pas de problème. 1 point Australia.

My apartment is incredible (France, 2 points), see photographic evidence below. However, a good policeman 'friend' of mine has advised me to refrain from publicising too much info on my apartment and location, so I'll reveal no more. Although it needs to be said that the very same policeman subjected me to such movies as Taken (girls abducted in Paris) and Irreversible (girl raped in Paris) before I left Australia, so consider me now suitably scared and cautious of this French capital in which I reside. I suspect that an ulterior motive may have guided the movie selections of this friend of 13 years, but more on that later.
Round 2 score: France 2, Australia 2

Ma Chambre

The Kitchen

Bathroom 1

Lounge Room

Round 3 – The Airport Pick-Up
As it was difficult to pack my life (all right, the shoes, it was the shoes!) into one 23 kilogram suitcase, I decided to freight another bag over to Paris. My ever-patient Polish friend, Lara, seemed the best person for this job, and I can attest first-hand to just how much she loved every minute of managing this task for me. Collecting the bag at the Paris end rivalled in difficulty to Lara's three separate trips to the freight office in Adelaide.

When the 20kg bag arrived, I was asked to report to Charles de Gaulle Airport, where I soon learned that I needed to catch a bus for 30 minutes, and then walk for two kilometres to locate the international freight delivery office. I reported to the office only to receive paperwork that needed to be stamped by French Customs (one kilometre back) and returned to the freight office (are you counting the kms?) before I could collect my bag.

By the time I'd finished this return journey to Customs, you can imagine how pleased I was to be engaged in a ten-minute conversation with the forklift operator about whether I was married or had a boyfriend; clearly information that was going to determine whether I was getting only my bag, or a French-Algerian husband as well. Ahh, the French - they never miss an opportunity.

As this overall exercise represented 4.5 hours of my life that I'm never getting back, the French won this Round of the battle hands down.
Round 3 score: France 4, Australia 0

Round 4 – New York 

Since many have likened me to Carrie Bradshaw for writing this Blog, it would have been incomplete without a token trip to New York City. So, from an apartment in downtown New York I write the summary of this Round. I am here to visit my policeman 'friend' (okay, you got me, he's my boyfriend) who is representing Australia in baseball for the World Police and Fire Games. 

The Aussie baseball team at the World Police and Fire Games

Luckily, my Air France flight arrived just 20 hours prior to the shutdown of JFK Airport due to 'Hurricane' Irene. And, yes, the use of inverted commas is intended to mock, denoting that some wind and rain does not a hurricane make. But tell this to CNN and you'll surely be placed on the terrorist list. I would like to say that bigger gusts of wind came from my hairdryer but, because of the voltage difference between the US and the rest of the western world, this really wasn't the case.

The Games attracted 17,000 worldwide competitors, whose sporting prowess was only temporarily hampered by the force of Hurricane Irene. And not the force of the hurricane, mind you, but more-so the force of Mayor Bloomberg who ordered the cancellation of public transport and sporting matches in all five boroughs of New York because of Irene.

   

Clearly concerned about the hurricane

Now, because this Blog is about life in Paris, I'm going to skim over what were probably the ten best days of my life and give you these most pertinent highlights of my trip to New York City: 

1. I didn't miss Paris (1 point Australia); 
2. I didn't miss the French language (another to Aus); and 
3. the only French I spoke was an ecstatic "oui" when my boyfriend asked me to marry him on our last night together in New York (100 points to Australia—infinite points really, but I promised a fair fight)—and even then he demanded a response in English (another point for the tenacious Australian). 

How about them (big) apples for highlights?
Round 4 score: France 0, Australia 103 

It is one week later and I have returned to Paris to continue my studies—engaged and ridiculously happy—when suddenly, during a Skype call with a friend, the piercing sound of an air-raid siren fills the air. We both panic. I peer out my window and notice the streets are empty. Of course, at this point I suspect that World World 3 has commenced and that a neighbouring country (wouldn’t dare point a finger in any particular direction) has declared war on France. Seriously, this could happen and I would be none the wiser, given the speed at which French newsreaders deliver the news over here. I like to just look at the pictures. ;-)

I quickly contact my Northern Hemisphere bestie, Nicola, who confirms that Paris tests its air-raid sirens at midday on the first Wednesday of every month—a practice that has been in effect since the end of World War 2 in 1945. With a sigh of relief, I end my Skype call and go and change my underpants. But it does leave me wondering... with such a rigid testing regime, surely any would-be invader worth his (or her, Julia?) salt would plan their Paris attack around midday on say, oooh I dunno, the first Wednesday of the month? Then, by the time the city realises it's not a drill, it would all be over for France (without the need for white flags). Just sayin'.

Yes, the French are arrogant, but justifiably so... In my opinion (and theirs), their country has the best language, the greatest-tasting food, and unrivalled architectural beauty. But Australia, well Australia has my heart.

Game over.

And be sure to enjoy the irony that is me moving to the other side of the world only to realise that what I was searching for had been in front of me at home for the past 13 years. 

I will remain in Paris to continue my studies as planned and return to Adelaide in 2012. And thus, this Frog Blog will continue. 

So, as prepared for war as they may be, the French have lost again. But, they’ll always have pétanque (1 point to France? Why not). 

FINAL SCORE: France 8, Australia 108. 

I was right. No contest ;-)

Bx 

My first two weeks...

Two weeks in Paris and I'm sorted with a French bank account and a permanent place to live. I had a meeting with the bank, where one flash of my student visa resulted in a visa card, complete with overdraw facility (have I mentioned how much I love this country?); and I move into my new apartment in the 12th arrondissement in two days.

Celebrating with Carlos and Nicola.

If it all seemed too easy that's probably because it was, solely due to the efforts of two friends, neither of whom I had met a year ago. Carlos, a Peruvian product manager who has called Paris home for 10 years, and Nicola, a French-speaking Londoner whose 22 years on the planet have by far and away eclipsed my 34. That's really just my literary way of saying that she's much more mature than I. Just ask all the waiters who pour the first sip of wine into her glass for her go-ahead to pour it into mine. A nightly eating-out ritual that I love and she, understandably, doesn't.

My first two weeks were also spent... well, spending. And believe it or not, my first purchase wasn't a pair of Christian Louboutin heels (although those are definitely on the list), but a run-of-the-mill household toaster. It came as a surprise to me that a 'grille-pain' was not found in most French kitchens. I decided to invest in one after spending my first morning suspending a piece of bread on a knife over a gas hot plate in attempt to soothe my craving for Vegemite on toast. A doona (duvet, quilt, couette, whatever) to ease the chill of -5 degree winters was my next purchase, and then, yes, I simply had to compensate for all those clothes (and shoes) that were left behind. There were numerous items that couldn't be squeezed into my 28 kilogram suitcase (or subsequent 22 kilogram backpack), so of course had to be replaced. As you can imagine, in Paris, this can be quite the chore.

Luckily, I have found the most incredible apartment in which to house my new possessions. The hunt for an apartment in Paris is the subject of many a horror story. A friend is living in 12m2 apartment and paying a fortune for it. Others paid two months' rent to secure what they thought to be the perfect apartment, only to turn up on moving day to discover that the place was in fact a holiday rental and the people they paid were long-gone. Such stories were keeping me up at night, long after the jet lag had subsided. The hunt sounded hard enough without factoring my Franglais into the communications mix. After checking out many listings online, I contacted a couple of people to ask if I could view their advertised rooms. One guy turned out to be somewhat of a stalker who, to this day, continues to call and email me for a date (discount on the room perhaps?). The other guy was quite happy for me to see the room after I had transferred a 800€ deposit into 'his mother's' bank account. Not today, my dodgy friend, not today.

My new apartment building - third floor is me.

Alas, I started to panic until I found Philippe. A 40-something Parisian with the most impressive apartment I have seen in Paris (I haven't yet been invited to dinner at Nicolas Sarkozy's apartment, but I'm working on it). If you've ever been to Paris, you'll appreciate that there's not a lot of space. Most hotel room doors open into the beds, kitchens can be in bathrooms - that kinda thing. But my new apartment has two bathrooms, two bedrooms and a whopping great lounge room in which you can swing several cats (a past-time I've been meaning to start up again). My university is just a leisurely 10-minute walk across the Seine (woe is me), so student life probably doesn't get much better really. (The blue dots on the below map denote the location of my apartment, on the right bank of the river, and my university, on the left bank.) And whilst the rent is slightly more than I had budgeted (Mum and Dad, send money), I have a weekly cleaner and a housemate, or colocataire, who speaks only French. Parfait! My fear of living in France to learn the language was that I'd spend all my time speaking English. Problem solved. Merci Philippe.

And so with a refreshed wardrobe, a new address, and some household necessities, my adventures in Paris are set to continue and will be reported in this, my Frog Blog.

But before I sign off, I want to wrap up with a summary of, so far, what I love the most and the least about life in Paris:

J'aime:

• Children speaking in French... there is no better sound. Actually, this applies to the French language in general really. Yesterday, I witnessed a road rage incident between two guys on scooters, who (unless you understand some French expletives) sounded more like they were professing their undying love for each other than having a fight. I once asked my French-Moroccan friend, Younes, to tell me in French that he needed to do his laundry and then go to the drycleaners. Nothing sounded sexier. 
• Leaving the tap running while washing the dishes (no plugs) and while brushing my teeth... très liberating. 
• The bread, my God the bread. It comes complimentary with every meal in a big basket that is refilled if knead be. And it is the best bread that I've ever tasted. I have heard that this bread is leftover from previous diners, but I just don't care. French bread is the best thing since, well... sliced bread.
• You can park anywhere (as demonstrated below). Okay, so I no longer have a car, but if I did, I'd be taking the liberty of parking in the intersection also. And I'd probably drive a car just like this too.

• Buying wine in a supermarket along with the rest of my daily staples ;-)
• Buying wine in a service station. Again, I don't have a car, but you've got to love a country that provides a convenient way to grab wine on the way home from a hard day at the office. And, presumably, the cork keeps you from cracking it open on the way home... presumably ;-).
• The food. Avoid the tourist places (hot dogs and burgers are not French) and you will find the best food in the world. I don't know why, but everything tastes better in France. Yes, even the snails and frogs legs (and don't knock 'em until you've tried them).
• Oh, and have I mentioned this...? 

Je n'aime pas:

• The garbage truck that cleans my street no less than four times a day, every day. I don't want to hear anyone ever say that Paris is dirty - I eat dinner off the sidewalk outside my building every night. 

• Tourists. Yes, I may sound arrogantly French, but hear me out... The population of France is 67 million. The number of tourists visiting France each year? Also 67 million. So you can imagine how many annoying idiots with bumbags or 'fannypacks' and huge maps are in your way when you're trying to get somewhere. My guess is that 60 million of these tourists choose to visit Paris in July and August, which is when most of the French abandon their posts and holiday abroad or in the South. Those left behind charge the earth, presumably out of sheer bitterness and to punish tourists for being in their face, like all the time. For this reason, the Avenue des Champs-Élysées is to be avoided at all costs. I heard about a bar along there that charges 30€ for a vodka and orange. Now that's a screwdriver.
• The street vendors, who congregate around monuments to sell ridiculous items with no link to said monument. If you can tell me what a flying disc with a crappy light has to do with the Eiffel Tower, I'll take the guy up on his offer to buy 10 for 20€. 

Photographer unknown. 

• The number of French resources dedicated to protecting the US Embassy. What a waste of French funds. Walk past the Australian embassy (next to the Eiffel Tower) and there's not one guard. 1) Because we Aussies can look after ourselves; and 2) We haven't yet managed to piss off the entire world (although surely Nicole Kidman can't be helping our cause). But brave a walk down Rue Gabriel (parallel to the Champs-Élysées), home to the US Embassy, and you'll see a circus of Gendarmerie Officers, the French military police, lining the street that is blocked off to any traffic not holding a security clearance. I sincerely hope you appreciate the photographic evidence (to the right), because soon after it was taken, I was reprimanded and interrogated by one of the 30+ officers who demanded (in French) to know where I was from. While the word 'Afghanistan' played on my lips, I didn't fancy being deported so soon, so I meekly responded with 'Je suis Australienne' and he let me pass. Yes, yes, some might say he gave up, surrendered, etc, etc. Make all the war-related jibes you like, but I can tell you that after this altercation I wasn't game enough to touch my iPhone for another four blocks.
• The métro station Châtelet, fondly renamed Shitelet by Nicola and me. Clutch your possessions with all your might when you're around Shitelet, the busiest metro station in Paris. For it was here a year ago that we lost two phones in a matter of minutes. Ignore any cute looking children who approach your table with a survey, because they'll nick your phone in five seconds and you won't even see it coming (or going). They are good. One approached me the other day and I nearly punched her in the face. She might only be 9 years old, but she owes me an iPhone.

Bek x

Bienvenue à Paris

Breakfast in Paris

After six months of selling everything I owned in Australia (and billeting out the rest) and studying my derriere off to get my French to an intermediate (and Paris University-acceptable) level, I today passed through Customs at Charles de Gaulle with nothing more interrogative than a 'Bonjour' from the Guard and, voila, I was home.

The hours from 8am to 3pm were spent eating and drinking the finest of everything with my Peruvian-Parisian friend, Carlos, until we went to collect the keys to my apartment on rue Henri Poincaré in the 20th arrondissement...

The balcony view.

Enter Faina from stage left-of-centre: a German-Russian lesbian who was lovely (no boys, not that lovely), but proceeded to tell me EVERYTHING I needed to know to live in her apartment for the next seven weeks. And I mean everything. Go on, ask me which way to insert the key in the front door lock. For I have been informed of such things. (And for those of you playing at home, it might not surprise you to learn that keys in France open doors just like they do in Australia).

The street view

Oui, Faina was a character alright. I especially liked it when she, the staunch vegetarian, announced that she had removed all but one of her pots from the kitchen in fear that one might be used to (insert suspenseful horror music here) cook meat. Oh my lord, imagine using a pan to cook meat. I didn't have the heart or courage (she's German AND Russian remember) to explain to her that, whilst we Australians don't have a lot of water, we do use some of it to wash dishes on the odd occasion.

Alors, after the comprehensive briefing, I was given the keys and a Certificate IV in Housekeeping. After staying protectively fierce by my side throughout the hour-long induction, I think Carlos was secretly hoping to be given the Lesbian Erotica book that sat on Faina's suitcase, but alas, it was not to be. Let's just say, I'm glad I'm sleeping on the fold-out sofa and not in the master bedroom, a room off to the side of the lounge that is locked, no doubt  because it contains even more interesting 'bedtime' reads enjoyed by my landladies.

In an attempt to stave off jet lag, I went for a run to Buttes Chaumont at 8pm. A beautiful park, largely unknown to tourists, with stunning views of Paris, Buttes Chaumont is about 1km from my apartment.

As I weaved through the smokers standing alongside the table-lined streets of the quarter, I realised I was a world away from the quiet neighbourhoods of Adelaide. I had been running for about two streets when I crossed the street and looked left for oncoming traffic. And that was when I saw it... Down a street flanked by cafés, boulangeries and fromageries loomed the Eiffel Tower. Now, I've seen this structure probably 100 times before, but I am never prepared for the sight of its magnificence. My heart skips a beat every time, and a smile of 'I could die happy right now' dances on my lips. Nothing is more amazing in this world to me than the sight of that tower. It is beautiful. It is majestic. It is Paris.

It was at this exact moment that I realised how far I had come. All the planning, all the selling, all the studying, and all the goodbyes had led me here--the most beautiful city in the world (sorry Melbourne). Now, I don't know how long I'll feel this way or how long I'll be allowed the privilege of living in Paris, but try wiping the smile off my face right now. C'est impossible!

A dedication... 
I am writing this blog for me, because I want to remember every day of my new foreign life. But, I also write to share this experience with the people who made me the person I am today. Those who loved me, put their confidence in me, dried my tears, eased my fears, put a roof over my head, and supported my every step towards Paris. You know who you are and I couldn't have done it without you, so this dream belongs to you. My amazing friends back home in Australia, you are my family and this is for you, with so much love, Fraussie Bek. xx