It's not goodbye, it's au revoir

Perhaps I'm being premature in writing this farewell post, but I think it's an illustration of how far I have mentally checked out of Paris, even though I am still physically here for another three months.

But things are now official. I've handed in my notice at work and on my flat. I've started to get quotes for removals. I'm counting down the days until I leave Paris for my new life in Brighton on the south coast of England.

How will I feel when I sit on that beach and look across the English Channel to where I know France is lying on the other side? I don't know. Nostalgic, perhaps. Sad, it's possible. Proud, without a doubt.

Living in Paris was one of those dreams that I never thought would come true, but somehow it did. Partly it was luck and circumstance. Partly it was me taking the risk to give it a go. It was honestly one of the best decisions I've ever made in my entire life. Both for the experience of living in this amazing and infuriating city, and for the pride I've felt from achieving such a goal.

I know there are things about Paris that I will miss, I probably won't even realise what half of them are until I'm back in the UK. But right now I'm just excited about the future and my new life in Brighton. Back home to a country and city I love, and near the people I love.

I'm excited for my six month creative sabbatical that I'm planning on taking in 2015. I'll be learning hand embroidery and working on crochet designs and trying to learn how to dressmake. And I'll be blogging about it all from my new blog: lizzystitchyfingers.blogspot.com. 

And although it will become considerably harder to find decent croissants, at least when I'm sitting on that cold and stoney beach in Brighton a few months from now and look across the Channel I'll be able to say to myself, "I did it. And it was amazing."

Two legs good, two wheels better

At the end of April, my team was relocated to offices far far far from civilisation. To a location beyond the Boulevard Peripherique. I can almost hear your gasps of horror from here.

My journey to work changed from half an hour to just under one hour. I tortured myself by constantly calculating how many extra hours I was spending on public transport (4.17 hours a week, 83.33 hours a week, 3749.85 hours a year), and I spent half the journey to work tutting and huffing and sighing about how much I hated my commute.

I was turning into one of ‘those’ people you see on the metro. Something had to give.

After trying all possible routes of getting to and from work, I started to think that maybe I’d cycle, at least part of the way. I’ve long wanted to make use of the Velib bike share system in Paris, but have always been put off by all the cars and buses and vans that are just itching to mow me down as I wobble along the side of the road.

But desperate times call for desperate measures, and with the reassurance that a large part of the journey is along a safe and calm bike path next to the Bois de Boulogne, I paid my €29, bought a (far from) s*xy helmet, and prepared to take to the roads.

The first morning was a bit of a disaster. I didn’t check the bike before I removed it from the holder and it turns out it was without a chain, a rather essential part of any bike journey. Having already checked a bike out I wasn’t allowed to take another one for fifteen minutes. I didn’t realise this at the time and thought my card was blocked, so I resumed my huffing and puffing and tutting and caught the bus instead.

Note to self. Always check the bike has a chain, both pedals, pumped tyres, functional seat, and functional brakes before setting off.

Since then, I’ve taken a grand total of five Velib journeys, and this morning was the first morning that I didn’t get lost of my way to work. Hurrah!

It’s true, that my legs do ache a little bit from the 25ish minute journey (I still have to get the metro part of the way), and my hair looks even dodgier than usual after sweating under a helmet. But this morning I arrived into work feeling alive and happy after my little cycle work-out. These are not feelings that work generally inspires, so all I can say, is vive la Velib!

How Parisienne are you?

I have lived in Paris for three years now and it's hard not to spot certain Parisian stereotypes play out on the metro or in bars and restaurants. And although living here has changed me a little, I don't class myself in anyway as a "Parisienne".

The question is, though, how Parisienne are you? Take the quiz to find out.*

A tale from the Loire Valley

In February, when my family booked our Easter trip to the Loire Valley, we pictured flowers blooming as we strolled through idyllic chateau estates.

“Spring.” We sighed. A hazy, perfume advert glow to our imaginations. Little did we know that Spring 2013 would turn out to be the coldest since 1987 and that tears of freezing cold would cause a hazy glow.

But we are British! And stoic against the cold (or biting winds).

So, on a Friday evening in April, we gathered at Gare d’Austerlitz. Bags packed with 48 pairs of socks, 14 jumpers, 10 gloves, and a balaclava. One hour and a half later we arrived in Blois, base camp for our arctic, sorry, antique exploration.

A vegetarian in Paris

Cartoon from: www.happycow.net

Because I like to make life complicated for myself, I’m a non-fish eating vegetarian and I live in Paris. As you’d expect, getting a good meal here is not very straightforward.

For me, French cuisine is a bit, “meh”, because actually, there’s nothing I can eat. French pudding, yes, bring on as much of that as you can, but raw cow? I’ll pass on that, thanks anyway.

The dedicated vegetarian restaurants in Paris that I’ve visited I’ve really not enjoyed at all. I’ve found the food really old fashioned with a kind of tie die dreadlock vibe that feels oh so 1994. Nothing like the excellent Mildreds (www.mildreds.co.uk) in London, where even my dedicated carnivore of a brother will happily go.

However, after two and a half years of living in Paris, I’ve found a few places I can rely on for a delicious, veggie friendly meal. And seeing as they also serve meat, I don’t have to go alone!

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 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.

How to make friends in Paris

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.

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.

My attempts to learn French

I have no idea how many hours of French lessons I've taken. However I can tell you that I started learning French at school when I was 11 years old and carried on right up to include it as one of my botched up A levels. I then did a module at University, followed by evening classes after University, and I've now done two terms of classes in France. That's plenty to get you fluent you may say, well you'd probably be right. But unfortunately I still stumble through French with the eloquence and accuracy of a...well I can't think of an example but something that sounds bumbley and stupid. Oh I know, Boris Johnson!

Bonjour monsieur!

Table service in Paris

For anyone not familiar with Parisian bars and cafés, table service is pretty much everywhere. The majority of places you visit will be swarming with smiling waiters ready and eager to take your order and cater to your every whim. Oh hang on, this is Paris, isn’t it.

Let me just go back a bit….The majority of places you visit will be swarming with scowling waiters ready to ignore your most simple request.

But I jest, of course. In my experience of waiters in Paris they are just as friendly, or rather just as ambivalent, as anywhere else. But I don’t want to talk about whether or not Parisian waiters are friendly today, I want to know whether you agree with A or B below when I say, Table Service...

Paris' dirty pavements

Paris is a beautiful city, or so I believe. Despite having lived here for over a year I’ve not actually had chance to look yet as I’m too busy with my head down hopping over and dodging the masses upon masses of dog turds that cover the pavements and streets.

Sometimes I wonder what I look like with my random steps like something out of the Ministry of Silly Walks. 

But then I remember that no one’s looking at me, they’re all dodging the dog poo too.