I've moved flat!

Good news, I have moved flat! I am so happy to have an extra 12 metre square to live in it's untrue, but I have been so busy and still have so much to do that I've not had time to blog.

I have, however, written a little piece for My French Life about moving flat in Paris.

And soon, I will update my blog with more details about my move. That's assuming my blooming freebox ever arrives and I can properly get online chez moi!

PP

A picnic in the Bois de Boulogne

In the UK, the sun can be a little shy. It's like a timid quivering deer, peeping out cautiously from around clouds and then scooting away again as if afraid of the pasty, eager looking little Brits yelling "come on you bugger where are you!?".

This has it's downsides, ruined BBQs, summer holidays at the beach spent huddled up in coats etc. But, on the plus side, us Brits really know how to make the most of the sun when it appears.

Which is why, on the first sunny weekend of 2012 I was bouncing up and down in my apartment almost ready to pop with joy at the prospect of a couple days of actual real bona fide only need to wear a t-shirt and shorts sunshine.

And which is why, at 10.30am on a Sunday in MARCH I was shivering a little as I shopped for Pimms (you can take the girl out of middle England...) and fruit to take to a picnic in the Bois de Boulogne.

The Bois de Boulogne is one of the two woods that can be found on the edge of Paris. It's famous, mainly, for prostitutes. Say you're going to the Bois de Boulogne and it's possible you'll be met with a Carry On style "ooohhh".

And this is true at night (apparently), but during the day it is a picnickers paradise. Minus a functioning toilet block but hey, this is Paris.

Having summoned my friends with a war cry over the rooftops of Paris (and a message on Facebook), we met at Porte Dauphine metro laden with baguettes, crisps, more baguettes and more crisps, some booze, a few old bed sheets and...la pièce de resistance...a whopping great strawberry tarte from the bakery. There aint no picnic like a Parisian picnic.

Happily installed on a grassy area next to one of the boating lakes, we lay back, chatted and surveyed the scene around us.

Joggers clad in frankly ugly lycra sweated as they stumbled past, cyclists swerved to avoid ambling pedestrians, couples rowed boats on the lake (I sincerely hope that poetry was being quoted) and children ran around shrieking at the sheer pleasure of being outside and having space to play in.

The hours ticked past and my shoulders started to relax after months of being hunched up against the cold.

Spring really is my favourite time of year. The first little samples of warm weather and the hope and anticipation of more to come.

And a picnic in the Bois de Boulogne is definitely on my list of things to do again (and again and again).

PP

The French lunch (hour and a half)

If you were to ask me my favourite things about living in France, the French approach to lunchtime at work would definitely make it into my top three. Just after fresh croissants and just before brioche. (And behold the reason my skinny jeans don't fit anymore.)

I don't know how it works in other countries, but lunchtime in the UK (in offices at least) is mainly defined by a quick dash to the caff downstairs and a sandwich inhaled in front of the computer. Not exactly restful or conducive to team building.

In France, predictably, things are a little different. Taking a lunch hour here isn't seen as "taking the mickey" it's just what everyone does and what everyone thinks is sensible to do. They take their food seriously and they respect it by giving it the time and attention it deserves.

I've only ever worked in one organisation in Paris, but the lunchtime routine goes something like this:

11.30 - discussion of where to go to lunch commences
12.00 - discussion continues - having progressed to who will go where
12.30 - lunch delegation leaves office to gather supplies
1.00 - lunch delegation returns and everyone eats together at the table
1.30 - coffees bought from vending machines, chatting continues
2.00 - back to work with a full belly and a rested soul. Those with their own offices take a little nap (I suspect)

I have colleagues who regularly take two hours for lunch and no one bats an eyelid. I have one who sometimes goes to the cinema. The CINEMA! I'm fairly sure in London I would have received a disciplinary for going to catch a film in the middle of the working day.

The downside, unfortunately, to this lovely long lunch hour is that people tend to work later than really they need to. Or at least, they're supposed to...

PP

How to make friends in Paris (according to me)

For some reason I have launched myself into 2012 with a sense of excitement, energy and optimism. I am waiting for the crash. For the (inevitable?) time when I say, "nahh, actually I can't be bothered." But so far, it hasn't happened. And until it does I am embracing my willingness to get out and about, meet new people and do new things.

So I have set myself a challenge: every week I need to either try somewhere different, whether it be a cafe, bar, museum, park etc., or I need to do something that involves meeting new people.

Now, the trying somewhere different part of my challenge is not too difficult. (Although saying that if you've read my post on table service in Paris you'd know that actually going somewhere on my own is immensely stressful!) However, the meeting new people part could be tricky, especially with the famous Parisian friendliness. I'm not about to start striking up conversations with people on the metro now, am I.

But there is another way, and it comes via the saviour of all mankind's problems, the internet.

All hail Meetup! (I realise that I am now going to sound like I'm sponsored by Meetup, if only that were true.)

Meetup is a network of local groups that organise themselves through the meetup website. In Paris there are hundreds to join, many whose main language is English. I'm part of several meetup groups on varying themes from sewing to reading to just downright partying. And I've met some lovely (and some really annoying, of course) people at each one.

When I first arrived in Paris I knew literally no one, but luckily a friend of a friend had told me about the meetup events and on my first Friday night in Paris I took myself off to my first Brit meetup. I was so nervous it was untrue but I just kept telling myself that staying at home, alone on a Friday night was surely much scarier!

And now, over one year later, all of my current friends in Paris, bar one, are as a result of a Meetup that I've attended. In my experience, they are really the best way to meet people and make friends. Some of them can be duds (the meetups that is, not the people) but it only takes that one person you feel a connection with to make all the difference.

Because at the end of the day, exploring new cafes, museums, parks and bars is only half the fun without friends to share them with. Right?

PP

Hungry in Paris

It's the summer of 1988, I'm 8 years old and walking to the local shops with my Dad. "Dad," I say, "if I could only eat Yorkshire Pudding for the rest of my life, I think I would be happy."

Ohhh how the times of changed. Not that I don't still love Yorkshire Pudding, because believe me, I do. The problem is that I now love any other kind of foodstuff too.

“It’s fuel for the cold weather”. I say as I cram chocolate, bread, crisps, cake and occasionally a banana and a few bites of an apple into my mouth.

I feel possessed, food is all I think about. It's the spur to get me out of bed in the morning when all I want to do is sleep. It's my comforter when I'm feeling sad and my celebration when I'm feeling happy.

Have I always been like this? I'm sure not. Is it the influence of living in France where food is so much more of a big deal than in the UK? Maybe.

But come on, whose head wouldn't be turned by the windows of the boulangeries and patisseries in France? What right minded person could walk past the colourful displays filled with macarons, croissants, and endless types of patisserie and not run inside straight away? No one human, surely.

Sometimes I imagine myself as a hippo so desperate to get to water it will trample anything or anyone in it's path. I spot a boulangerie in the distance. Pause. Sniff. And then thunder inelegantly down narrow Parisian streets, eyes never leaving my target, not stopping until I'm ramming a tarte au framboise into my face.

The one benefit to my new found love is that I've started to give a toss about cooking. No longer do I consider pasta and (shop bought) pesto a gourmet treat to serve up to dinner guests. I now have an account on the BBC Good Food website and a cook book that I keep next to my bed because I love reading it so much.

I'm not saying my skills have improved, my meal success rate is probably about 50%, but I'm learning and I'm interested and I'm hoping that my ability is increasing...ideally not in proportion to my waistline.

But anyway. All this talk of food has made me hungry. Macaron, anyone?

PP

A rant about internet dating

Ok I am going to say something and it’s quite shocking so are you sitting down? Comfy? Good. Here goes.

I am in my thirties, female, and single.

I’ll just give you a few moments to gather yourselves.

I know I know. I’m a freak, spinster, whatever whatever. Get over that because if I wasn’t single, I wouldn’t be able to tell you my "hilarious" impressions of the internet dating site I’ve recently signed up to. So you see it’s swings and roundabouts, right?

Where to begin? There are so many things that wind me up and make me laugh I am going to make a list. Aren’t lists great? Maybe that should be one of my dating criteria -  “must like lists”. 

Anyway, here is said list of things that make me bang my head on my desk in despair. If you’ve ever done internet dating I’m sure you’ll sympathise with some of this at least.

People who use mug shots as profile photos. This isn't Crimewatch, it's a dating site, the idea is to make yourself appealing. I think I actually prefer the people that obviously use vague photos with dimmed lighting to hide their monstrous faces than those that go for the portrait with white background where you can see every blackhead. Yak.

People who go on about how adventurous they are. “Yah so I’ve just come back from trekking in the Himalayas. Amazing. All I want to do with my life is travel. Yah.” Groan. I don’t CARE about how many bloody countries you’ve visited and how many dangerous sports you’re obsessed with. That doesn’t make you more interesting, ok? It just makes me think that you have to leave the country in order to have something to talk about. Not a good sign. 

The poxy chat function. Whoever invented the dating site chat function needs a serious talking to. It is so distracting to have those little messages pop up and nothing is ever really said anyway so it’s just a waste of bloody time for everyone concerned. Here’s how it normally goes:

“Hey!”

“Hey!”

“How are you?”

“Not bad, just chilling, you?”

“Oh same. Had a busy week :(.”

“Oh right, what do you do?”

Have you died of boredom yet? Because I do, every time.

People who want to be facebook/msn/skype friends. Some of these people really need to take a crash course in privacy. A two minute chat exchange does not mean that I want to add you as a friend on facebook. I have 93 friends on facebook, most of whom I think of as actual friends and others I just like to stalk. I don’t want to be friends with a complete randomer. Why would anyone? Is that normal these days? Am I totally behind the times?

People who share too much. No word of a lie, as I am writing this some bloke has started chatting with me and has told me he has no friends is single and a virgin. He’s not joking, bless him, but boy is he oversharing. Some things are best left unsaid.

Poncey intellectuals/musos. The minute I see a quote from Nietzsche, a tear of despair rolls down my cheek. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with quoting philosophers, it just implies rather a lack of charisma. As does saying that music is your life. Can I suggest you get a life?

People who send OTT messages. This is an actual message a friend of mine received. “My name is PAUL and currently living in Glasgow. I am here looking for that special one to start a relationship with leading to marriage. I have seen your profile and you seems like that special person I am looking for. I am so so much attracted to you. I will tell you about myself but I can't wait to hear from you.” Not really much to add to that, is there.

Perverts. “If you log onto video chat I’ll show you my bum.” was one delightful message I had from someone. Another guy asked if I was feeling hot. It was winter so I assume he wasn’t referring to my actual body temperature. If you want to be a pervert and chat rude things and meet for sex, fine, there are plenty of sites for that (so I hear) so bugger off and use them and leave the normal people to polite small talk.

Men with their tops off. Just put it away for goodness sake. 

People who write really long profiles. Kind of like this blog post, some people just go on and on and on and on. My favourite was one I saw where he said: “It says I need to use 5000 characters, so here goes.” Short is sweet, fellas, short is sweet.

And breathe. Wow that was a bit of good therapy. And I’m guessing that if you haven’t done internet dating yet you are now thoroughly put off. But don’t be. Once you’ve sorted the wheat from the chaff there are some nice, even normal people on there. Or at least, that's what I'm told...

PP

The Hammam at the Mosquée de Paris

When my friend said she was coming over for a visit from England recently I wanted to line up something special. "I know!" I said to myself one afternoon at work as I ignored our policy on internet usage. "We can go to the Hammam at la Mosquée de Paris for a few hours of pampering and relaxing."

Sometimes I wonder if I know myself at all. I tense up when my own Mother hugs me, massages really aren't my thing.

My first thought when we walked into the Hammam (once we'd actually found the entrance door which is cleverly hidden behind a sweet counter) was that I'd clearly had no idea of what a Hammam actually was. I was expecting hot baths to lounge lazily about in, but no, it's actually the setting of a teenage boy's wet dream.

Through a series of three rooms, essentially naked women idly wandered, looking like they'd walked straight out of a pre-raphelite painting. Cowbags.

The only dress regulation was that bikini bottoms had to be worn, which for some girls meant thongs (as in g-strings for any Australian readers who think I might be getting prudish about revealing footwear.)

For the first few minutes my friend and I stood, in our modest one piece swimming costumes, and just stared at the small groups of girls lying around in pairs on the various tiled seating/lying areas, slowly, nay, sensually rubbing each others' naked flesh.

"Mate" I said, turning to my friend. "I love you, but I'm not going to massage you, just so you know."
"Damn right you won't be." She replied.

Stiff and awkward, we whispered to each other about what we were supposed to do. We'd put our names down for a massage and body scrub but it hadn't specified what time. Were we going to be called? Should we wait in the massage area? What is even the whole point of a Hamamm? What in whoever's name was going on?

So far, it wasn't exactly turning into the relaxing girly morning we'd had planned.

But, being the kind of girls we are, and spurred on by the 40+ euros we'd paid for our package, we soon rallied and figured out how we would approach the rest of the morning.

First, we tested all of the hot rooms to sit and sweat in. Comfortably propped up against the wall in a corner of the hottest room, and most definitely not rubbing each others' bodies like the other girls were, we quietly chatted and tried not to obviously stare and talk about all the naked massaging going on. Happy we were in our own perspiration.

Next, we had a body scrub, which, by the way, takes place in full view of anyone who happens to be walking past. The lady doing my scrub pulled the top half of my swimming costume down before I had chance to protest on behalf of my modesty, and buffed the living daylights out of my skin, including my boobs! I certainly felt like a new, and slightly raw, woman afterwards.

We then moved onto the massage area, and as my wrinkled body was rubbed and kneaded under the beautiful ceiling of the Hammam, I found I didn't care that in full view of everyone else, a complete stranger was massaging me, pups an' all.

Maybe I'm a new woman now? Less prudish and more open to physical contact. Hell, maybe I'll even start doing the French bises rather than thrusting my hand out at everyone to pre-empt their faces coming too close to mine. The next time I'll see my Mum maybe I'll pull her close to me for a big hug rather than just giving her a brief pat on the shoulder.

Or maybe not. Rome wasn't built in a day.

We finished the morning off with a cup of mint tea and a couple of snacks in the gorgeous garden of the Hammam cafe. Chuckling over how shy we'd been when we first walked in, we decided that overall, the morning had been a success. However, if we were ever to go again we'd prepare ourselves better, and that's how I will leave you, with our tips for a successful Hammam experience...

1. Take flip flops or some kind of footwear that you can wear in the Hammam.
2. Take two towels, one for lying on and one for drying yourself with afterwards.
3. Don't worry about the timings for the gommage and the massage, just turn up when you're ready and give them your ticket.
4. Prepare yourself for an incredible array of breast.
5. Leave your modesty at the door, your boobs will be exposed and massaged. By a stranger. 

If you go, have a great time, and let me know how you found it...

For a review of the other Hammams in Paris check out this blog post from the Girls Guide to Paris.

PP