Sex-Deprived Strangers in Paris

OK so I know this title is a little bit promiscuous, but I'm struggling to come up with another way to describe their irrational behaviour. I mean, maybe "strange" men on this side of the channel are just far more forward than their British frenemies, but despite spending nearly 12 months here (eek!), their unrequited desire to be my lover me still fuureeeaks me out. Let me explain.

There are a few places where I believe it is unacceptable, and I mean unacceptable to chat up a woman. This info is clearly not ingrained in some people.

1) Public transport. I've already decided that I won't be meeting my future husband on an underground train/metro/subway/tube...or whatever you call it where you come from. This is the actual antithesis of romantic and anyone who thinks they stand a chance is shooting themselves in the foot. It's obvious that all you're looking for is a quickie in the disabled toilet of a skanky tube station, so GET OUT of my face. Exactly the same with buses or night buses. Tapping someone on the knee to ask if they're day-dreaming (best chat-up line ever?) is a no-go too; and tapping someone on the knee to ask if they're Irish (more about this one later), is at the top of the cringe list.  Do you really think a sweaty metro journey against a graffited door and piss-stained seats is the time or place for idle flirting?! Yea, me neither.


2) In the street. You see it in the movies; two people glancing across at each other on a crowded street and they fall in love. Earth to mankind: this is fiction. So for Pete's sake, don't come up to me and ask if I prefer strawberries or raspberries and then proceed to ask me out for a drink at a smoothie bar. It's not going to happen. And don't you dare randomly get out of your car, only to run after me and tell me you like the spirit of my walk. Spirit? Really? It's not going to get you a coffee date, or a phone number. So 4get about it. And pulling your motorbike up to the curb to try to stroke my face and dribble on me is also out of the question. In case there were any doubts. And for the love of Bob, stop calling me "charmante". It's not going to happen.


3) When you're a waiter in a restaurant. Yes, I'm surprised as much as you are. From asking for my Facebook deets on a receipt, giving me overly-generous discounts, asking me out for salsa dancing, inviting me over for a free glass of Champagne, to following me out of the restaurant to my office...I've had it all.

And I wish I could say that the reason behind all "this" is because I look like a modern day Marilyn. Not quite. The truth of the matter is that I am female, and that seems to be a good enough reason to be bombarded with attention. Although I do seem to have particularly rotten luck with attracting the creeps of this world. So women of this world: when a strange man tries to coax you into a cup of coffee, tells you he can show you what a "real French kiss feels like", or starts silent orgasming in the corner while staring intensely at you… RUN AWAY. 

Putain! At War with French Women!

Gone are the days where I attempt to be polite on my blog.  Being polite is boring. (Disclaimer: If you're French and act like the women I'm about to mention below, you are exempt from this. You need politeness therapy. NOW!)

  

I'm one of the unlucky bunch who suffers from hay-fever and recently, the pollen count has been ridiculously high and I've been sneezing to hell and back.  My nostrils are flaming red after I practically devoured the toilet paper at work, while trying to avoid raised eyebrows from people who think I have an unfortunate bladder problem.  I'm sure my colleagues were appreciative of the lovely long strips of white loo roll I spent much of today wrestling with at my desk.  My annoying sniffs and continually running nose (if only I had as much stamina as my nose, I'd be an Olympic athlete) meant that I bucked up the courage to do something about it.  (Brownie points for initiative?!)

Big supermarkets in France are always useful; you can buy make-up, endless toiletries, medicine.....  All the things you can't buy at those trashy little supermarkets like Dia which attempt to sell cardboard in any form and pass it off as anything from pizza to crackers to soap.  No joke - I bought some crackers from Dia the other day to smear some cheese on.  I opened the packet and they looked like the sort of thing you'd put through a paper shredder and use for your hamster's foul pit.  *Trash*.  It's therefore nice to treat yourself to the more up-market places like Monoprix if you want to avoid eating paper sandwiches.  

When I was in there today, I waltzed over to the "mini-pharmacy" section to find some blister plasters for my feet.  I recognised at once the compede plasters I used for my Duke of Edinburgh Bronze Award but I still wanted professional advice before parting ways with my well-earned dosh.  I spoke to a lovely man who was very helpful and didn't mind that I didn't know the word for 'blister' in French and we managed to get a good conversation going before I decided to choose the compede.  I thanked him for his time and he continued with his work.  

I then sneezed and remembered I needed to pick up some hay-fever tablets.  The man had disappeared so I approached another woman in the vicinity and started speaking to her.  She looked at me with such a judging mixture of disgust and confusion that I thought for a moment I'd accidentally approached a customer.  I told her I didn't know the word for hay-fever in French but I tried to describe the symptoms and said it was an allergy to pollen.  She just stood there staring at my face with contempt.  I mean, it wasn't like I'd asked her how to cure vaginal warts.  Seriously. She then muttered something under her breath about going to a pharmacy before I did one of those fake smiles and thanked her for "wasting" my time.  When I waited in the queue to pay, I did that thing where you just stare and stare and stare at someone when they're not looking at you, hoping your eyes might just burn into the back of their head and cause them to keel over and choke on their own depressing existence.  Bit harsh maybe?

Last weekend I was in Normandy and found myself in a touristy shop which had a clothing department upstairs.  As I walked up the stairs, I noticed a gorgeous trench coat on one of the mannequins and simply fell in love.  I don't actually own a trench coat and despite it being summer, the weather's been so foul that I figured purchasing a trench coat might not be such a bad idea.  I walked over to the rail where the coats were hanging and slipped on the bright orange number after finding my size (yes, it did clash with my hair a little). Before I'd even had a chance to look in the mirror, a lady who worked there condescendingly shouted over to me "are you actually going to buy that?", as if I were some random tramp who'd come into the store.  I was so taken aback that she actually had the cheek to speak to me like that and make such a grotesque judgement.  In retrospect I should have said: "No, I'm not going to buy it.  I'm going to steal it and sell it on eBay."  I stormed off.  If my mouth hadn't been so dry I would have spat on her.

My one piece of advice for these women?  Do us all a favour and remove that massive rod you have so firmly stuck up your arse. It's giving you wrinkle lines and a soggy disposition.

The Red Light District and Other Tales

It was eight in the evening and the sun was still a peachy orange.  Armadas of vintage bicycles were resting on top of bridges above canals of slowly moving water, their handlebars glinting.  Picturesque houses on either side slanted forwards, their crooked façades giving them the appearance of reaching out towards the water below. The night was still young.

Walking down streets the distinctive smell of weed brought me back to my first year at university; the unforgettable stench would linger in the corridor of my student residence or waft in through my window in the early hours of the morning.  Walking into one coffee shop - the notorious name for a cannabis cafe - we were met by dazed faces.  A group of young men were sprawled out in one corner of space cake city, smoking joints and absentmindedly watching the peculiar music videos being aired on the different screens.  A druggy's paradise.

I watched my friends around me nibbling on their first hash brownies or sharing joints.  I didn't mind being there but I didn't want to try it.  I suppose part of me was scared I might have a bad reaction to it.  And then there was the money issue...I didn't want to spend well-earned money on weed.  Cheese, yes, but not weed. Yet the root of my decision was that despite it being one of those "When in Rome" moments, I just wasn't interested.

...

On first glance, it seemed like any other part of Amsterdam.  I searched for women in micro skirts and too much make-up but they were nowhere to be seen. We wondered if we weren't a bit early.  But then, looking to our left, we noticed alleyways lit up with red lights.  I thought red light was merely a phrase for "risqué", "naughty" or "dangerous" but it suddenly all made sense.  I was feeling nervous but intrigued and we decided to follow the flow of men and women who hounded the windows.  Beams of pinky red light infused the cramped passageways and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear as we ebbed deeper and deeper into the heart of Amsterdam's sex trade. I had been warned not to take photos; the pimps were protective of their ladies and wouldn't allow it.  I'd heard stories of cameras being taken and smashed to the ground. 

 

Walking past the windows, we saw slim, ample-breasted women wearing what looked like thin strips of elastic cloth, barely covering the essentials.  Some stared out at their voyeurs; others looked bored; some played on their mobile phones.  I don't know what was more upsetting; the women who actually looked like they wanted to be there, or the women who were conscious of their prison.  I felt a rush of guilt cloud over me.  They had been turned into dogs and these were their kennels. I saw a few men walking out of doorways, buttoning up shirts or doing up their flies. As we rushed back towards civilisation, seedy men eyed us up.  I couldn't help but ask my friends: "since when did prostitutes wear baggy jumpers and converse?"

Any woman who turns herself into a man’s whore knows no freedom.  

You know you're not French when...

...You start using meaningless abbreviations like 'pdp' because you think you're in with the cool kids.  Until you realise that no French person has a clue what you're going on about (even the teenagers think you're weird); in fact, the more you try to make 'pdp' happen, the more confused you'll make them.  You may think that 'pdp' means 'pas de probleme' but for a French person it means f@ck all (excuse my French...) 

...You have unbearably pale (synonym: translucent) skin, freckles and reddish hair.  They will assume right away that you are British, or, not of their country.  Note to self: try dying your hair and hitting a tanning booth. 

...You pronounce croissant like "cwoson" because you still can't manage to pronounce the French 'r' without sounding like you're choking on your own tongue or trying to impersonate Gollum.

...You ask for your hamburger to be served 'well done' in a restaurant.  The waiter will most certainly look at you like you made a mistake and the chef will serve it rare.  Expect blood to spill onto your plate because you'll be getting far from the lump of charcoal you initially requested.  If the idea of Steak tartare (raw minced beef on a plate) fills you with disgust, you're definitely not French.

...You apologise when someone bumps into you because you're British and it's the social norm to apologise to everyone, all of the time.  Must. Stop. Being. Overly. Polite.  Contrary to popular belief, old people aren't always nice either.  Feel free to scream at them once in a while when they're in your way.

...You offer up your seat to a pregnant woman on the metro.  That's far too nice.

...You continue to use sarcasm, and think it's hilarious.  French people don't get British humour.  Your attempt at being 'ironic' will go right over their heads and they'll either think you're being incredible mean, or incredibly nice.  Either way, it should be avoided at all costs if you want to make French friends.

...You start having panic attacks in a restaurant when they bring you the wrong flavoured ice-cream because you can't bring yourself to tell the waiter that instead of vanilla, he gave you coconut, which you LOATHE.  You feel guilty because you can't bear to cause an inconvenience and you stare at your food for a long period of time, swirling it around your plate, hoping it might miraculously turn into what you ordered if you frown at it for long enough.  Hint: it won't.

Where on earth is the Eiffel Tower?

...You say each digit individually in your mobile number instead of putting them in pairs.  

...Someone asks you where the closest tube station is and you get your Paris map out.

...You forget how to use the 24 hour clock.  If you say "8" instead of "20" for 8pm, a French person will look at you like you just asked them a complicated mathematical equation, before asking the person behind you.

...You give money to homeless people on the metro.  And then get your wallet stolen because you forgot to zip your bag up.

...You ask for extra ketchup.  On everything.  And then ask how much the free bread costs.

Paris Syndrome: Why I Hate Parisians

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Parisians aren't a particularly popular species.  And, I shall hasten to add, not unfoundedly.  The truth of the matter is that they're rude and, well, that sums them up quite nicely.

If I were to throw around some adjectives; words like cold, grumpy, unsympathetic, unforgiving, disengaged and unfriendly spring to mind.  It's interesting to note that many of these adjectives begin with "un".  They're all the things normal people aren't.  Is it bad genetics or a cultural thing? I'm worried too that this Paris attitude (not to be confused with the letting agency of the same name) is contagious. I've already noticed that I don't smile nearly as much.  Although on reflection, this could be attributed to four things: 1) You never receive a smile back, 2) They probably think you're hitting on them, 3) They think you're giving them the go ahead to harass you, 4) The notion of smiling is so confusing to them that you may cause them brain damage.  In a nutshell, smiling is risqué.

And apparently I am not the only one to think this.  There's this wonderful article I read in the Huffington Post about the Japanese experiencing something known as Paris Syndrome.  It is actually considered to be a real psychological disorder and even has its own Wikipedia page.  The cure?  Getting the hell out of Paris, probably with a counsellor sitting beside you, soothing you throughout the 12 hour plane journey home while you flood and possibly sink the plane with your tears of agony.  I kid you not when I speak of hallucinations, depersonalization, extensive sweating - all brought on by Paris and its toxic inhabitants.  Why do the Japanese react this way?  Because they read magazines wherein Paris is painted through rose-tinted glasses. They’ve essentially been sucked into the idealised depiction of Paris prevalent throughout Japanese advertising…and were oh-so disappointed by the apparent romantic illusion they’d conjured up in their naïve little brains.  This is by no means a criticism of Japanese people who suffer from Paris syndrome.  Rather, it is a dig at those who cause it.

Politeness and social graces?  Forget about it.  They’re harder to find than a needle in a haystack.  Want to give the exact change in a shop?  Don’t go there.  They’ll watch you count all your pennies and then refuse to accept them, taking your 20 euro note instead.  And then they’ll get pissed off that you don’t have 10 centimes to make a round figure.  Beats me.  In restaurants they tap frustratedly on their notepads while you place your order, then throw your food across the table, then have arguments about their wages in front of you, then put the bill on your table half way through your meal, then stare you out of your seat so that you feel uncomfortable and leave so their business can “thrive”.  In buses they refuse to answer your questions but instead stare out into the road, hoping you might just disappear like a fly stuck to the windshield.  In supermarkets they chat to their friends as they scan your purchases, refusing to look you in the eye.  

I was once in a café in the Jardin du Luxembourg with a friend when a waiter refused to serve us for nearly an hour.  He gave a typically Parisian, brute response of “j’arrive” whenever we tried to track him down, but he never did arrive.  After this considerably long wait, I huffed and puffed like one would on a cigar, and marched off, friend in tow.  It’s safe to say that they won’t be graced with my presence ever again.

One of my favourite experiences (I’m being unsarcastic for once) was in a US breakfast diner in Paris where they kept asking me if I wanted another refill on my "Cuppa Joe", checked the food was to our liking and made sure that we were happy little bunnies.  But in real Paris, you'll be lucky if the ketchup you ask for twenty times isn’t thrown across your table with a colossal splat.  Talking of ketchup, a waiter once dropped a tray next to me and “accidentally” flung ketchup and mayo onto me and my handbag.  Did he apologise?  Of course he didn't.  He just shrugged and went to clean up the floor as if nothing had happened.  

One time I was in Zara here and I went to the check-out.  I changed my mind last-minute but apparently it was "too late".  But I hadn't even paid yet so how could it be too late?  Are you telling me it's illegal to walk out of the shop empty handed just because you typed a few things into a till and tapped finish?  Not like I signed a contract on entry.  Just use the bloody backspace or start over again...the point is that you're supposed to give me an incentive to return, not a reason to never want to step foot in the store again.  Sheesh.

In the bank they refuse to serve you if you don't belong to that branch.  *Unless you kick up a fuss that is.*  But I'd watch yourself because you might get arrested if you don't stay on your guard.  I found it particularly amusing when a friend of mine recently went to her bank to take out some money - probably something short of 300 euros.  The bank genuinely told her this would not be possible.  The reason? "We don't have enough money to give you."  And you call yourself a bank?!  Point…defeated.

 

All in all, I am reminded of a scene from the Grinch where, shall we say, the Grinch expresses his contempt for the button-nosed Whos.  Trust me, I'd rather be shacked up with a bunch of Whos than Parisians.  But the sentiment is the same.

And the beautiful irony?  They think you're the rudest of all if you don't wish them "bon appetit" when they're eating a meal.

NB: For the nice Parisians out there (please come out of hiding and introduce yourselves!), I salute you! You're not all rotten :P But for pete's sake, please stop calling us Brits "les rosbifs"! Merci.

London Tube vs Paris Metro

When we're not talking perpetually about the weather or complaining about French mannerisms, there's something we British expats love to discuss more than anything else: travel.  And by travel I don't mean jetting off to the Canary Islands, sipping cocktails on the Beach in Malibu, CA or telling relentless tales of what we got up to on our Gap Yahs.  I mean that ceaselessly boring system called public transport which involves coexisting in a confined space for what seems like an eternity.  No-one likes it; in fact, we all loathe it.  But in short of splashing our student loans on limousines and chauffeurs, we don't have much choice.

Public transport in Paris has become the bane of my life.  Why? Well, mostly because I rely on it too religiously which can only end in disappointment.  However, if you are in the habit of arriving hopelessly late for rendez-vous' with your friends, it can provide the perfect excuse for being en retard (French word for late, not "retard" à  la "The Hangover") to a lunch date or evening drinks.  I.e.: "Soooo sorry daaahling, but the metro has been at a standstill for the past twenty minutes and it's taking an aaage" - a typical text message written whilst applying that last lick of lipgloss in front of the mirror in your very cosy Parisian apartment.  Not once in the message have you said you are actually on the metro so you can be (slightly) forgiven for lying through your teeth.

But it seems that my British friends in Paris are divided between the Paris Metro and the London Tube, which got me thinking: which one is better?  Or, should I say, which one is the least crap?  The winner is in red!

• The Tube has been operating since 1863 while the first metro line in Paris didn't open until 1900, with the core underground network completed by 1920.  Tube wins for its ripe old age.  It's so vintage it could pass as fashionable.

• The Metro serves 33 more stations than the Tube, with an eye-popping figure of 303.  The Metro is also the second busiest underground system in Europe, after Moscow.  Metro wins for quantity of stations but loses to the Tube for being so busy!

• Since last year, free wifi access has been available to customers on the Metro and using a mobile phone is quite the norm, while travellers in London are scraping the barrel for non-existent phone signal.  If you find yourself caught up in an underground strike or you are experiencing delays, the Tube is your worst enemy whereas the Metro phone coverage keeps you in the loop!  Metro wins for technology efficiency! 

• The underground passageways in Paris are wider and more spacious than in London which often feels overwhelmingly claustrophobic.  The train ceilings in the Metro are also much higher and there are more places to sit.  Metro wins for space and comfort!

• The Metro system is better connected and the trains tend to come more frequently (London's circle line via Liverpool Street must come about every 10-15 minutes which is shocking).  In Paris, you also don't get multiple trains heading in different directions on the same platform like you do in London (which can be confusing!)  Metro wins for efficiency and clarity!

• I know London is much bigger than Paris which might explain why the distance between each station is so much longer, but it seems to take a decade to get anywhere!  Metro wins for speed. 

• The closing of the Metro doors could lose you a leg if you're not careful because they're automatic and stop for nobody, and I mean nobody.  While they do give plenty of warnings about how quickly the doors shut through use of overhead tannoys and posters, I think the best solution would be to avoid overly violent door closure on the trains.  More than once have I seen someone almost get their head sliced in two and I've definitely had to haul my handbag through the gap on a number of occasions before the door squeezed the life out of it.  It may be irritating when the Tube doors open and close all the time but it definitely wins for passenger safety. 

• The Metro is always breaking down, whether due to an "unwell passenger" or "technical problems" and the delays always occur at the worst possible moments.  At least they actually warn you in advance with the Tube since more often than not it's "planned engineering works" rather than "uh-oh, Houston we have a problem".  In London it's always the same suspects - for example, between Paddington and Edgware Road - while taking the Paris Metro is always a spontaneous adventure.  I.e. you know the train will break down somewhere, but when and where remains a mystery.  Metro loses for being unreliable while the Tube loses for non-stop maintenance.

• The Metro stinks like crazy of urine and other foul matter and it's filled with homeless people asking for money, being sick, picking at their feet and rifling through bins.  It also seems to be the hide-out for perves and creeps whose hobbeys include staring at young women and attempting to feel them up or invite them for coffee.  We all know what that means.  Tube wins for classier clientele and cleanliness!

• The way out signs for each Metro station are numbered and named and there are always close-up maps to help advise you which exit to take, unlike in London where you can waste valuable time waiting around at the wrong exit because they're unnamed and they decided to put a Starbucks at both ends (#takingthepiss). Metro wins for simplicity. 

• The levels of pickpocketing are much higher on the Metro and bags are regularly getting slashed. Be careful of those little gypsy kids.  They'd make Oliver Twist's Fagan a happy man!  Tube wins for safety.  

• The Tube is less jerky and you don't need to hold onto a railing for support unlike the Metro where people are always falling into strangers' laps and tripping over.  The French are also much less forgiving of these accidental slip-ups unlike the English who apologise all the time, even when it's clearly not their fault. I was once called a "putain" by a middle-aged French woman for accidentally knocking into her.  This can be translated to mean either "Damn it!" or "Whore!"  I'm hoping it was the former. Tube wins for better train drivers and less bitchy people.

• To slightly follow on from my previous point, the French (or people in France) don't really understand the concept "personal space".  The Metro may be busy but that's no excuse for sticking your arm in someone's face, plunging your elbow into their back, stepping on their feet or wacking them in the face with your rucksack.  Being spatially aware is important; something a few people need to work on.  Tube wins for spatial awareness of clientele.

• The Metro is much noisier and often makes horrible high-pitched shrieks when it moves. It's also brimming with annoying musicians who can't sing to save their lives who then attempt to play their out-of-tune instruments which only succeeds in bursting your ear drums.  Tube wins for being quieter.

• Metro generally closes at 1.30am on weekdays and then an hour later at weekends while the Tube closes as early as midnight or 12.30am latest.  Metro wins for staying open for longer!

• London's Oyster cards are rubbish compared to the Navigo cards available in Paris.  Travel in Paris isn't dirt cheap, but it's a hell of a lot cheaper than London as you pay a standard weekly or monthly fare which will get you unlimited travel unlike Oyster cards which rack up a hefty sum.  It works out at about £13/week for unlimited travel in Paris with the Navigo card while you can spend the same amount in two days on an Oyster.  Metro wins for value for money!

Metro: 8, Tube: 8

Ground-breaker:  Which one do I least want to have a mental breakdown on?  This is a hard one, but probably the Tube because English people tend to annoy me less than French people.

Maybe if we combined the good qualities from each underground service we'd be able to get a result which wasn't half-bad and we could name it either The Tetro or the Mube.  On second thoughts, the former sounds like an alien aircraft and the latter like a saggy man boob. 

Let me know your thoughts!

French Bank Holidays in England

Exactly 4 months to go till I depart the belle city which is Paris for good and return to the Land of Eng!  While the majority of year abroad-ers have come to the end of their journey, I am in fact only 2/3 of the way through mine.  And how do I feel about this?  Not best pleased.  All my friends will have left by summer which will leave me with nothing but a broken heart.  I've contemplated various cures but they all seem to involve eating my body weight in sugary tarts and macaroons to get over this abhorrent loss.  But on the upside, I'll be able to epitomise the lone city-goer who has a penchant for visiting museums and art galleries with nothing but the clothes on her back, a map, and a worn rucksack. Cool, right?  And perhaps I'll meet Mr. Right somewhere, drooling over a few paintings of waterlilies.

So I'm currently in the UK because the leisure-loving French have given me quite a few mid-week bank holidays to while away my time!  So tadah!  My current whereabouts (i.e. slap bang in the middle of that notorious place better known as Essex) provides me with a paradoxical universe.  All I can see are fields and the only sounds blasting through my bedroom windows are that of birds chirping and the occasional distant lawn mower.  Sure makes a change from city life.

Earlier this week I went for a trip to the Suffolk coast with my friend Sam and we quite happily found ourselves sitting on a bench soaking up the serenity of our surroundings.  We then drove to a lake and the blissful peacefulness seemed incomparable.  The seething sun simmered the water as it gurgled on the mud banks. The gentle clap of a kayaker's paddles on the lake's surface gave a glorious swish as large ripples of water fell back into the vast body.  The essence of tranquility.  I'd never appreciated the countryside so much until that moment.

But it's not all countryside bliss: I've just come back from London.  The idea was to meet up with friends and soak up the sun in a park somewhere but this particular plan had to be readjusted because the only thing we'd be soaking up was the rain, and lots of it.   Instead we hit Caffe Nero for a panini and a hot drink, trying to perform masterclasses on our frizzing hair which was beyond hope.  So instead we squelched our way over to the British Museum to stare at some old books, Mexican pottery, Egyptian vases and Mummies.  To say I was having the time of my life would be an understatement.  And yes, I'm being sarcastic.  Another reason I was desperate to go to London was because I had to get my hair done.  I know that might seem a little excessive - to go to London for a haircut - but my hairdresser performs wonders and the very idea of trusting a French hairdresser is out of the question.  Wouldn't want to accidentally find myself with one of those risque side-shaves, dreadlocks or purple highlights.  Not that that is particularly common after walking into a French hairdressers, but you can never be so sure....

Watch this space.

Montana

Men, Music, Money and Made-Up Menstruation

So I recently spent, or rather endured, one of three clubbing experience in Paris.  I've been to the odd bar which has had a dance floor but Mix Club is the first place (apart from the awful boat party and Halloween disco) that I consider to be a proper club.

We arrived in a pack of six - three girls, three boys - assuming that the girls would get free entry because, let's face it, girls in Paris always get free entry.  But apparently not this time.  We paid a whopping €15 entry fee each, having shown our IDs to the rather hefty bouncers at the door.  I was already starting to regret my decision.

Once inside, we walked down the staircase onto the main floor, dotted with sweaty, scantily-clad individuals doing their sexy moves to horrendous European music.  The joys.  I was about to walk through the second entrance before I was pushed away by a bouncer who told me I had to put my bag and blazer in the cloakroom.  Perhaps I'd find this understandable if I were attempting to carry a large suitcase brimming with illegal drugs onto the dance floor, but quite the contrary - it was a little handbag which contained the usual suspects: phone, wallet, lipgloss, keys...nothing out of the ordinary.  Still, the man was adamant that I check my bag in.  I told him I didn't want to but this was irrelevant: he wasn't listening.  I got pretty frustrated so I went off on a rant and said in French "firstly, this jacket has no pockets so I'm hardly hiding anything.  Secondly: you expect a menstruating woman to leave her handbag in the cloakroom? Is this some sort of joke?"  Yes, I threw the word "menstruation" at a French bouncer because any politically correct person would smile and let me through without question.  Most men are wimps when it comes to periods so I thought he'd freak out and let me slip through.  He tried not to look awkward as I repeated "menstruation" about five times to prove the gravity of my point.  (nb: I was lying, but naively thought that making up an excuse about periods might work.  He's clearly never had a girlfriend.)

I was adamant that it was all a scam to turn us into penniless paupers.  They charged me €6 to use the obligatory cloakroom and to say I was infuriated would be an understatement.  I didn't have any money left in my purse to buy alcohol to desensitize myself from the emotional trauma.  I noticed that even those not carrying bags were also being ripped-off; forced to remove their jackets and pay the cloakroom fee.  I saw one guy having an argument with the bouncer after he told him to remove his waist-coat.  Apparently we're only allowed one layer of clothing; guess I'll be going braless then.  Netherless, I waltzed on through with my blazer firmly on before he could grab me and throw me back into the queue.  I saw him do a double take as he noticed me but just as he was about to open his mouth, he got distracted by some rather "chesty" women trying to complain left, right and centre.  Either way, I'd have told him I had a contagious skin disease and that I'd take him to court if he didn't let me keep it on.  Of course I soon took it off in front of him and smirked evilly at him as if to say "ha! gotcha!"

When I arrived at the bar I did my best girl-next-door impression and asked the bartender for a glass of water.  "That'll be €8" he replied.  €8?  €8?  You're telling me that after paying €21 for entry and the cloakroom that you have the cheek to charge €8 for a glass of water?  I complained that I had a headache and that I couldn't afford it.   Water is a right after all, not a luxury.  Aren't their laws about this?  He scowled and said "here's a cup then, and go get your water from the toilets".  "But can I drink the water in there?" I stammered, aghast.  He shrugged and served the next customer.  So I took my plastic cup, went to the bathroom and filled it up from the tap.  I downed a few glasses and it seemed OK.  Five minutes later I felt like retching over the toilet.

I danced with my friends despite not feeling so great (had to get a slither of my money's worth at any rate), but after two hours of being in the club I'd really had enough "fun" for one evening.   Looking around me I saw girls with microscopic shorts which could definitely have passed as underwear.  Short, greasy men who could have passed as convicts were grinding up to them.  Some of the girls were enjoying it, but I saw one girl slap a man before screaming "get off me!"  He then followed her off the stage and into the darkness.  I also noticed plenty of girls wearing tops with so many slits and cut-outs that there was more skin than material on show.  I didn't really see the point of this "fashion statement" but it seemed to be infectious. 

After collecting my belongings, I left with my friend Hannah and we went in hunt for a night bus. This was the second time I've ever been on a night bus and I wasn't thrilled about the prospect but it was either that or walk home.  I was not going to pay for a taxi after the amount of money I'd already had to part with that evening.  After teetering around in my humungous heels and failing to find a bus map which made any sense, I was on the verge of giving up and camping out in the bus shelter.  Various drunken morons had come up to me to ask if I wanted to join them but I told them to "jog on" in the politest way possible.

But all was not lost because I soon caught sight of an info booth with a friendly man sitting behind it. Thank God - someone who knows what they're talking about!  The man pointed over to the bus stop I'd need to wait at and told me to take the N12.  After waiting approximately 15-20mins, the bus arrived and I hopped on.  I asked the driver if the bus went to Dupleix but he said that I'd have to change at Chatelet.  This wasn't ideal but what was the alternative?  When I got to Chatelet I found another information booth and asked to be pointed in the right direction.  The man pointed to a bus stop and told me to get on the N12.  But I was just on the N12?  I soon found out that I'd originally been put on an N12 going in the wrong direction, and no-one had told me.

Whilst waiting at the second bus stop, I was accosted by a drunkard who was speaking to me in gibberish.  I shrugged and said "I'm English, and I don't understand the bus timetable so if you want my help...I can't give you any".  Another man waiting at the bus stop proved to be more helpful and told me the bus didn't stop at Dupleix (my stop) but how I should get off at Charles Michel which wasn't too far away.  I smiled and thanked him.  The drunkard then started making suggestive remarks about how me and this French guy would be getting on and off the bus at the same time.  He repeated it about four times until the other man said "je suis gay" and then walked away angrily, leaving the drunk man all to me. He was starting to get on my nerves so I said "look, I don't see why me taking the same bus as this other person is so interesting to you.  Your life must be so dull if this is all you have to think or talk about".  He paused and said "you're right" and then he shut up.

There was never a greater feeling than when I finally reached my front door and slammed it shut behind me.  I was safe.  And certain that I was never going clubbing in Paris, ever again.

Watch this space.

Montana

English Boys vs French Boys

Usually the first question I get asked is "so have you found yourself a French boyfriend yet?"  I respond with that awkward smile and shake of the head as I furrow my eyebrows and say something like "meh, not really a fan of French men.  I prefer English ones!"

French men too seem to be startled when I explain that I'm single (I'd like to take that as a compliment, but in reality that's not what they're aiming for!)  It's like I'm a new sort of species, like there must be something really wrong with me for being 'single' and they always seem to respond with "but why?", as if I need to justify myself.  The phrase "I just haven't met anyone I want to date yet" apparently isn't a good enough excuse.  As far as they're concerned, I should have a boyfriend, period.

I always thought having a boyfriend meant that you were 'exclusive'.  Anything 'extra' was considered grossly inappropriate and you would quite easily get the reputation of being a 'whore' or 'slag' if you were caught cheating, or in some cases flirting, with another man.  That was until I came to France.  "Married, you say?  Makes no difference to me!"

In the UK, girls are persuading men to make things 'official' or as I like to say - 'o-fish' - whereas here I've noticed that men are usually the ones desperate to tie the dating knot after a matter of seconds.  In my experience thus far, a simple drink in a bar for a Frenchman means "you need to meet my Mother".  OK, maybe that's a slight exaggeration but there's something very forward about French men when it comes to dating.  And lest you absentmindedly forget to reply to a Frenchman's text within about 3 hours...you better start coming up with some fabulous excuses because your little games of "playing hard to get", "the chase", and "play 'em mean, keep 'em keen" don't go down so well with the French.  It's all, or nothing.

British journalist Samantha Brick, who is married to a Frenchman, has this to say:

"If you are normally laid back about dating, prepare to change your ways. There is a reason that a 'crime of passion' was recognised as a legitimate form of defence in France's courts. The French thrive on jealously, passionate arguments, bold attestations of love. Even if that's not your style - you'd better get used to it. Sulking has zero impact and neither does 'the silent treatment' - if you have a point to make about a problem in your relationship then make it as loudly and as passionately as you can. Your French lover will worship you even more for it."

Duly noted.

I realise I’ve been rather critical of French men thus far.  I’m sure they’re not all so bad, but I enjoy telling tales so I will enlighten you:

An interesting encounter with a Frenchman on the night bus (first and last time I've ever taken it), resulted in him putting his slimey arm around me and 'accidentally' touching my breasts.  He then asked if I'd be his girlfriend.  Naturally, I said "no".  He said "is it because I'm Muslim?"  Actually, frog, it has something to do with the fact that you're perving on me in a night bus at 3am.  And accusing me of bigotry is hardly going to make me declare my undying love for you.

A few months later I was proposed marriage by another Frenchman after getting off the metro.  Let's just say that the conversation ended in him asking me when he'd be meeting my parents.  My response: Never.

Another encounter was with a French guy at an office party who didn't actually work with me so I have no idea how and why he was there.  He told me he was 25, that his mother was a French teacher and that he could help me with my French.  Of course I jumped at the opportunity because I’d been speaking literally zero French.  We met up a week later, and I noticed his hair was rather on the grey side.  After some coaxing, he admitted he was in fact 35 but he’d lied to me before because he was worried I’d refuse him if I knew his real age.  You bet your bottom dollar!

Anyway, he insisted on buying me lunch in a Thai restaurant which of course I accepted given that I was pissed off at him for lying about his age, and I never say no to free food.  Before long he was proposing trips to New York, taking me to film launches and entertaining me on the red carpet.  He kept trying to hold my arm and I kept pushing him away and gave him light slaps to ward him off.  He just wanted to cling to me and be intimate and I told him it was offensive and we didn't do that in England with strange men.  He was definitely strange.  

French waiters are a new species altogether.  The majority of them are cold and heartless, but you get the odd one who has nothing better to do than flirt outrageously.  And when I say outrageously, I mean outrageously.  There's definitely a difference between harmless flattery and creepy idolatry.  I was in a restaurant with a male friend the other day for Easter Sunday and when it came to paying the bill, we both got out our bank cards.  The waiter looked at my friend in horror when he realised that he wasn't paying for my meal.  Of course I had to explain that we were "just friends", but the waiter remained persistent that my friend paid for me too, before I had to spell out that we were both students which meant we weren’t exactly rolling in cash.  He was still flabbergasted so I said “well, if you’re really that concerned, why don’t YOU pay for my meal?”  He took it upon himself to invite me over for a glass of champagne and dinner that same evening.  I said I had to go to church.  He then attempted to fit 'going to mass' into our plans, before I said “thanks, but no thanks”.  Oh, and I’m not catholic either.

On Easter Monday, a girlfriend and I decided to spend all afternoon sitting in a café with a particularly ‘friendly’ waiter.  When we first arrived he asked whether we wanted to have coffee, wine, food…a massage?  And now you know why the French are known for their charm.  After a few hours (we were there a long time!), the waiter came over with a pen and asked me if I have Facebook.  He put the pen next to one of our many receipts and winked at me.  I nervously giggled and looked at my phone.

Where are all the nice French men that I'm supposed to be falling madly in love with?  Where's my Mr. Darcé?