Naughty

Oooh I am a bad blogger.

I just can't seem to get the hang of it. I don't know what to write about, or how to write. There is lots to write about, of course, from me finally sort of nearly getting the hang of 'grown up' life via a slightyl worrying addiction to amazon and diet books, to loving Paris, finally discovering 'Merci' and quartiers other than the Marais, the development of my style along with my sense of self (seeshhh, american/superficial much?) to how I feel about events, both big and small - from the funding slashed across university (i simply must win the euromillions and put the world to rights) to my best friends all graduating this year (when did we get so old?how come I still feel 18 most of the time?What is this?)

Paris. How have I not properly talked about Paris yet? Its gloomy, icy cold and snowing, and yet it is still beautiful. Every cliché rings true, every superlative seems inadequate. Its just so pretty, chic, stylish, rude, french, and brilliant. My favourite thing about it is the reaction from people when I say I live there 'Really? In Paris? Lucky you!'. Lucky indeed. It is the first real city I feel at home in, and I never want to leave. My Paris, according to my lovely pretentious moleskine notebook, consists thus far of the bridges over the Seine, Falafel from l'as de Falafel on Rue des Rosiers, reading turn-of-the-century women's novels in my tiny flat, Sex and the City in my tiny flat, Chez Camille, the friperies, Merci, Place des Vosges, glimpsing the Eiffel Tower from unexpected places and feeling ridiculously excited, crepes, and small dogs, notably pugs.

One of the things that msot fascinates me about the franco-english divide is the retention of stereotypes of the other party. In my office, my colleagues frequently ask me whether I go out in a skirt and strappy top in the snow (never ever ever,never mind the snow) and whether I drink deliberately (Not since moving here..). Similarly, when I go home, all people ask me is whether I can get drunk here (not without feeling like a complete twat) and whether everyone is as rude and snobby as rumours say. The rude and snobby thing gets me every time. On the one hand, yes, compared to the standard awkward default setting of polite neediness of any english exchange, the brusque honesty of any french exchange, with a casual acquaintance or in a shop, is a bit rude and arrogant, but on the other, I think it marks a real respect for the person you are interacting with. The completely shameless superfical door policies of most clubs is awful, and being rejected never ceases to infuriate, but if you do get in, at least you know you'll be in good company. That smacks of double standards, but the whole Parisian attitude smacks of them. Smack smack smack, from the waiter who is rude when you speak english to your friend, but suddenly becomes charming when you both order in well pronounced french, to the Zadig and Voltaire shop girl who tells you not to try on one of their shrunken cashmere strappy things, gesturing with disdain to your large chest, but points you in the direction of the perfect cashmere scarf, and spends 15 minutes helping you decide a colour. As a foreigner you have to prove something to Parisians - that you can speak french, that you can dress, that you can eat, and therefore that you deserve their respect. Yes, its snobby, but it really does make you pull your socks up. I have only made the mistake of wearing tracksuit bottoms in public once, and I was actively tutted and told off by three different women in the space of 10 minutes. Never, ever again. People here bring it. You should too. And once you do, you'll never stop. I swear its helped me work out where I'm going and how I'm getting there.

XxX

p.s. RIP Mcqueen.How sad and oddly affecting. Tragic.