America's Obesity & France's Fast-Food Addiction

This past year in Paris, I've been surrounded by slim women, in fact, slim people in general. I don't know how they do it - good genes perhaps? But the image of the slender, elegant Parisian woman holds a lot of truth. And when I'm out there working up a sweat as I jog around the Eiffel Tower, I'm stunned to see that it's mainly men who are exercising, not women. Maybe the women exercise within the comfort of their own home, but I have a feeling that a combination of chain smoking, small portions and good genes are the real reason behind their slim physiques.  And maybe the fact that on every advert there's a health warning. If there's anyone telling you to eat your five portions of fruit and veg a day or not to snack, it's the French.

My first stop this summer on my American adventure was a six hour layover in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Since the layover was so long, we decided to pass the time in the largest mall in America with its very own indoor theme park. And I'll tell you now - it was something else. Or, as I like to say, sumfin' else.

As we wandered around the mall, the sheer size of the people we came across was worrying. Maybe malls are social hubs for overweight people, but I couldn't get my head around it. Fat kids licking ice-creams larger than their heads or people so overweight that they had to be pushed around in wheelchairs because they couldn't walk. At one point, I saw a man sitting on a bench with his XXXXL t-shirt which still didn't fit him and I noticed his leg was purple and swollen. When he got up to move, I felt pain come over me as I saw the large globules of fat bursting out of the back of his knees. Surely that cannot be comfortable. His head looked so small in proportion to the rest of his body that if I'd have seen a photograph of him, I'd have thought he'd been photoshopped.

From beer bellies to muffin tops, I kid you not when I say that 90% of the people we saw were overweight, and many of them clinically obese. In that moment I envisaged a world where everyone was fat; really fat. Where fitness died out and the average person didn't move from their couch because they had everything they needed within their reach. Fridges walked towards them with the click of a remote; people ate and slept in the same seat because they couldn't lift themselves out of it. Automated cranes heaved people from one location to the next.

And another shocking discovery in this mall was the fashion, or lack of it. I know this wasn't Beverley Hills but where the hell is Gok Wan when you need him. Neon trainers and oversized basketball shorts are never a good look. Neither are tight tops which cling painfully over heaving guts, butt cracks on display and cankles: the lack of calf/ankle definition where the two seem to merge.

The root of it? Oh where to begin. Free soda refills in every restaurant, the continual fast-food frenzy, the HUGE portions. I remember on our trip to Alaska a few years ago when I ordered a cooked breakfast. My plate arrived and on it I had about 3 fried eggs, 6 rashers of bacon, 4 sausages....and to top it all off, a stack of four large pancakes on the side covered in lashings of butter and Canadian maple syrup. If that doesn't clog your arteries just thinking about it, then I don't know what will. I think it's safe to say that I didn't even manage a third of it. And even just a few days ago when I went for a single scoop of ice-cream in a cafe, the scoop was so large that it could have easily passed for a triple scoop in the UK where in comparison, the portions seem stingy.

And I'm not kidding when I say that being fat costs you, and not just because of the amount of food you're getting through. Samoa Air for example charges passengers per kilo. Thus, a 60kg person will be paying a much lighter airfare than the 120kg person sitting across the aisle.  Fancy a future where along with baggage, passengers also have to hit the scales to determine their airfare. And before people start getting sensitive over the issue, "Every extra kilogram means more expensive jet fuel must be burned, which leads to CO2 emissions and financial cost" according to Dr Ian Yeoman.  

The sad reality is that the fast-food frenzy has made its way to France, too. A recent survey showed that more French people go out for fast-food than to your typical French cafe or bistro. The shocking discovery shows that 54% of all restaurant sales in France comes from fast-food chains. Part of me is not surprised at all; many (male) colleagues at work spend 4 out of 5 lunches a week at McDonalds, and don't bat an eyelid. For the country which gave the world "gastronomie", things aren't looking too great. In fact, reports have shown that after the U.S., France is the largest consumer of fast-food. But the pressing question is: How do the French stay so slim?

I appreciate that certain medical conditions mean that being overweight is not a choice. But I'd be very surprised to hear that all 75% of overweight individuals in the U.S. suffer from medical conditions which mean that being overweight is uncontrollable.

Now, would someone please go get me a corn dog with extra mayo, a side of fries and a large soda.  I'm starving. 

Giverny and Monet's Water Lilies

So a few weekends ago (yes, I'm a little *en retard in writing this), I went to Giverny, the former home of French Impressionist painter Claude Monet.  I could have just called him Monet but after a colleague in Paris asked me who exactly this Monet was, I felt that I should be a little more lucid, in case any of you confused him with the 21st century child rapper Chi Chi Monet. FYI, no relation.

Giverny is located 50 miles outside of Paris in Haute-Normandy and is accessible by train to Vernon followed by a one hour trail walk or 3€ shuttle bus. We picked up some treats from the bakery for lunch before making our way. It was boiling that day which called for factor 50+ suncream and a hat but I don't own the latter so had to make do with rubbing suncream into my scalp. A greasy affair.

The trail was nice in the sunshine, albeit a little long and monotonous, and after an hour we were entering the picturesque village of Giverny. The whole village was blooming with brightly coloured flowers and green; so much green. Quaint houses were hidden by charming gates and mini stone facades. It all seemed so mystical and I cherished the sweet chirping of birds and fragrant scent of roses. So much beauty in one place.

We couldn't have come at a better time of year.  It was none other than breathtaking as we walked down the rows of flowers of every colour imaginable. I drew my camera up to the buds but the end result could not even begin to capture what I beheld.

We followed the garden down into a small underpass which opened up into the pond. THE pond, with water lilies galore and an abandoned wooden boat which must have been used once upon a time when its owner came out to paint the ladies amongst the water lilies. We crossed a bridge and tiptoed through the gorgeous melange of forest green and vibrant purples, pinks and oranges. Delicate petals, as white as they were pure, clouded together to create a hanging bouquet over the water's surface. Large fish swam lazily through the murky water, just clear enough to see their dark shapes easing through the pond.  

  

We sidled up to Le Pont Japonais. It really was picture perfect with the branches hanging like a veil of green over the painted green bridge. A large weeping willow stood imposingly on the opposite side of the pond, its gallant arms sulking towards the water. I could see so easily the inspiration this place evoked.

We then entered Monet's house.  I was initially surprised by his obsession with Japanese art - the endless engravings; the walls were covered.  I had felt an immense curiosity to go inside and explore the world of such a renowned artist; to feel an essence of his being which he has undoubtedly left behind. It had such a magical air about it, as if living there would be like living on the pages of a storybook, much like the village itself which seemed so bite-sized; so mignon. I suppose I was charmed by its winding streets and sweeping landscape views, its sereneness and its ability to let your imagination paddle with the water lilies and never look back.

A definite must.

*late in French, not retarded

Katie Hopkins: The Snob Who'd Hate Me

It's not often that I stare at my laptop and actually scream in outrage (apart from during an overly tense episode of some trashy TV series).  That said, I'm known for being a tad dramatic - scrap that - highly dramatic when it comes to crossing the road without looking (I do this a lot), being tickled or watching Rafael Nadal play tennis.

It may come as no surprise therefore that whilst watching the hugely hyped interview on ITV's This Morning between controversial social commentator and journalist Katie Hopkins and Holly Willoughby, I was choking on my own saliva. On more than one occasion I had to pause the youtube video and divert my thoughts to a slightly mundane Facebook newsfeed to shake away the contempt towards this woman which was mounting inside of me.

Let's get to the crux of the issue: Hopkins bases who her children are allowed to play with solely on the child's name.  Why?  Because apparently the Tylers, Brandons, Ashlees, Charmains and Chardonnays of this world are working class children who aren't fit to wine and dine with her own league-above-the-rest offspring.  And not only that - a boy with a name like Tyler never does his homework, spends class-time being disruptive and beats up children in the playground.  Such is the way in Hopkins' shallow universe. In a nutshell, her remarks are so unfounded, so excessive and so ignorant that I can't even take offense.

One of the "name categories" she sneered at and labeled unfit for playdates was geograpahical locations (ironic that her own daughter is called India).  Being called Montana then, I guess I'm screwed.  Although maybe I'd beg at my knees and insist that rather than the American state, I was actually named after the New Zealand wine company (then again, she hates the Chardonnays of this world, so I suppose being named after wine wouldn't improve my situation!)  Or perhaps I'd go for the the protagonist from the 1983 film Scarface, or, God forbid it, Hannah Montana (despite her being a year my junior.)   Oh wait, she hates celebrity names too.  That includes Gwyneth Paltrow's daughter's name: Apple.  So I suppose that also cancels out "food" names.  There's a chocolate bar called Montana and I recently discovered a Montana bagel in a cafe too.  I'm really not doing too well at this game. Oh, and why not hate on the gingers too: "Ginger babies. Like a baby. Just so much harder to love." I really am doomed for failure in the Katie Hopkins survival-of-the-fittest guide.  And does the fact that my Dad is American make it all the more worse?  She's clearly scared of anything mildly exotic.

Wait, just wait! Her daughter is called Poppy and there's a Clematis called Montana - a vigorous climbing plant. *Dances around wildly*.  There is hope!

On a slightly different note; one thing being abroad in Paris has reminded me is that socialising with people from other backgrounds, nationalities, classes, cultures, religions - however you want to divide them - is one of the most fuelling and enriching things you can experience.  Katie insists that fast-tracking  - culling people with certain names from your social circles - is a quick way to avoid spending time with people who will be detrimental to your environment and success.  But why the desperate need to take a (what I would argue counterproductive) short cut? Life is short which is why young people should make the most of enriching rather than limiting their social circles.  After all, no-one comes in or leaves the world less equal to the next. Whether they're called Chardonnay or Matilda.

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.

Bridal Fever and Marrying Animals

The last thing on my mind right now should be marriage and children.  I'm 21, sans potential husband, and I still haven't reached the perfect pre-baby figure.  But this doesn't stop me endlessly pinning wedding dresses onto a board I've called "My style".  Don't ask.

Furthermore, when I hear wedding bells ringing on my Facebook timeline, coupled with my colleagues sending me pictures of their dream wedding dresses and sparkling white Jimmy Choos over the office IM, it's hard to ignore the matter altogether.  I think I can therefore be forgiven for occasionally daydreaming about ivory, lace, fruit cake and fondant icing shaped like doves.  And dropping into conversation the fact that I want aquamarines and diamonds in my engagement ring too.  I mean, I'm obviously not going to accept a freebie from a cereal box so I might as well state the real deal before it's too late and my husband to be buys me a sickly Canary diamond ring à la Kelly Clarkson.  I kid you not when I say that poor taste in engagement rings could make it or break it for a potential suitor of mine.  And that includes buying it online.  Apart from that, I'm not too fussy.  Although I might as well mention that I also want a horse-drawn carriage on my way to the church and a reception of 2,000 and four dozen white roses in crystal vases for every square metre.  That's all.

Even if I have to dress up my dog as the groom in the process, I am determined at some point in my life to walk down the aisle.  You know, marrying your pet isn't actually frowned upon in all cultures.  I'm kidding.  Human-animal marriage, as my source acutely puts it, is not recognised in law by any country.  Sadly this doesn't include men with animalistic tendencies.  Sigh.

Interestingly enough however, in 2003 a 9 year old tribal girl in eastern India married a dog because she believed it would ward off bad omens. Fact.  And this wasn't some beloved pet she'd been caring for - it was a stray dog.  According to the BBC article, the girl had a tooth rooted to her upper gum (a sign of bad things to come), hence her tribe's insistence that she either marry a dog, or face the bad omen.  Luckily for the girl, the tribal elders confirmed that this marriage would not affect her ability to marry again, and neither would she have to go through divorce proceedings.  I wouldn't be surprised however if she was found citing "irreconcilable differences".

And then in 2006, a Sudanese man was forced to marry a goat after being caught having sex with it. The culprit, Mr Tombe, was ordered by a council of elders to pay 15,000 Sudanese dinars (£37) to the goat's owner before taking it home to be his wife.  The goat, who was later nicknamed Rose, became the best-known goat in Sudan.  Sadly for Mr. Tombe however, Rose died a few months following the wedding after choking.  On a plastic bag, I hasten to add.  Gone, but not forgoaten.  (And she left a 'kid' in her legacy too. I'm thinking someone wasn't a very faithful wife!)

2006 was a popular year in terms of human-animal weddings after an Indian woman supposedly, and I quote, 'fell in love with a snake' - yes, that is right.  She married the reptile in a traditional Hindu ceremony with 2,000 guests in attendance.  The Press Trust of India exaplined how Priests chanted mantras to 'seal' the union, but the cobra failed to come out of a nearby ant hill where it lived.  Instead, a brass replica of the snake stood in for the hesitant groom.  Sneaky.  Or should I say snakey?

So, dear readers, if you had to marry any animal, which would you choose?  A dog, a goat, a snake?  Or maybe you'd go a little closer to home and wed an orangutan?  The possibilities are endless...

P.s. I'd just like to point out that contrary to popular belief, I am in no desperate rush to get married.  Quite the opposite.  I am almost determined not to tie the knot until I'm at least 27.  So in the meantime, I'll satisfy myself by Googling wedding venues instead.. ;)

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