First Trip to the Supermarché

The supermarket may have been small but I was in there a good hour….or two.  With no shopping list, no sense of what I wanted to eat for the next week and a poor appreciation of what French people actually eat, I found this particular shopping escapade to be rather adventurous.

My first thought: chicken.  I know that chicken translates as “poulet” in French but as I eyed up the fresh meat aisle I was inundated with breast of rabbit and a peculiar purple-ish meat which looked a little suspect.  Finally I found the chicken section but sadly there was nothing but an empty box and a ripped off price tag.  On the row above was the hugely expensive €5 a breast deal for a chicken reared in a 5* luxury chicken villa.  Or wherever they send them to make them cost so darn much.  I think it’d be cheaper to buy a live chicken and defluff it myself.  After killing it…obviously.

Cheese.  Yes, I have a particular appreciation of the stuff.  Especially cheddar.  Vintage cheddar from the Deli counter in Sainsbury’s is nothing short of beautiful; the way it crumbles onto the cheese board when you cut it.  C’est parfait.  To my disgrace, the French don’t really eat cheddar and instead their cheese of choice is Emmental.  All I can say to that is: bland, bland, bland.  Oh, and plastic.  It’s the cheese you give to mice, not humans.  So I spent about 30 minutes alone in the cheese aisle attempting to find my beloved cheddar, hoping, somewhere deep inside the crevices of a French cheesemaker’s soul, he may have had it in him to pasteurise some frickin’ cow’s milk into some frickin’ cheddar.  Alas, this was not the case.  So I had to give in and buy some pre-sliced orange cheese which was not Red Leicester.  They didn’t have that either. Boo to the hoo.

Next stop: Cereal.  The French aren’t as big on their cereal as they are in the UK but I can’t survive without my morning bowl of cereal (thanks Rebecca Black for turning this sentence into a song…forever indebted to you…).  To my dismay I found no cereal.  And I mean…no cereal.  I must have done at least 20 laps of the supermarket from all different directions until I came to the conclusion that there simply must be no cereal.  I was saddened by the thought that I might have to give in and eat bread for breakfast until suddenly, almost as if it had appeared out of thin air, a box of Weetabix caught my eye.  THERE’S ANOTHER FLOOR TO THIS SUPERMARKET.  Yes, in my naivety I’d completely missed the second floor, and the third one for that matter.  I’ll be putting that 450g pack of Special K into my shopping basket thank you very much!  *Sigh of relief*

Vegetables.  All I’m sayin’ is the red peppers in France are GIGANTIC.  The one I picked up was a funny shape, covered in dirt…and the size of my left bicep (i.e. massive…ish).  I need something that I can actually fit in the fridge…I’m not planning on growing a vegetable patch with this oversized specimen you call a red pepper….just want it in my stir-fry.  Is that too much to ask?

I also spent a tediously long amount of time staring into bottles of olive oil.  I know this sounds fun, so don’t get too excited.  The nice stuff was a little over-budget so in the end I decided to go for price over matter and chose something with an incomprehensible label - but the contents looked reasonably yellow.  I just hope it’s for cooking food and that it aint lighter fluid.  Guess I’ll find that out tonight when I’m retching over my chicken substitute.

I also splashed out on some baby yoghurts, grated emmental (wanted to see what all the fuss was about), honey, brown bread, salami, butter, milk, noodles, soy sauce, mayo, rocket, tuna, mushrooms, broccoli, garlic, pasta, tomato sauce, petits pois, camomile tea, tortelloni and orange juice.  I’m 50 euros down and I didn’t even buy caviar!!  This food better be darn tasty.

Watch this space.

Montana

Pricey Paris

You heard me.  Everything costs a bomb and a half out here. 

After prettifying myself, putting on a blazer and plaiting my hair, I decided it was time to face my biggest fear: sorting out a bank account.  In the UK I use Barclays and I even had my own mother come with me to set it up.  Here, in central Paris, I had no choice but to do it on my own.  I had seen a Barclays branch on my travels a day before so I managed to re-find it (kudos to me).  I soon learnt that it’s not one of those nice, friendly ones like you have in England where they smile and greet you as if you’re some sort of saint.  No.  Here, in perfect Paris, I had to press a buzzer and then wait before someone accepted me into the exclusive realms of fine banking.  There was only one desk, two chairs and a fake pot plant beside a marble staircase.  After waiting in the queue for five minutes, I introduced myself, explained my status and asked to open a bank account.  To which the man responded with a firm “No”.  Apparently they don’t accept people like me – they only want long-term customers.  That’s probably an excuse for “we hate the English”, but I didn’t want to argue.  He suggested I might try La Poste Bancaire, so I nodded and left.

La Poste Bancaire is basically a post office which also has a bank attached to it – sort of a 2 in 1 type thing.  Genius.  I proceeded to get out my papers and repeat what I’d explained to Mr. Barclays man.  But lo and behold, he wasn’t able to open the bank account for me; he was just the useless messenger and I’d have to book an appointment with the French equivalent of a personal banker (who was in fact in another building…talk about making me trek around an unknown city).  The next appointment wasn’t until next Tuesday.  Ahem.  Not good enough.  So I asked if I couldn’t get an appointment on a Saturday?  He said “yes, how about midday this Saturday?”  There’s me thinking “you just said your next appointment wasn’t until next Tuesday you moron”.  He then explained how I’d need to bring with me my passport, rent contract, and €150.  Wait, so you’re charging me €150 to start up a bank account?  I don’t think so matey.  “Au minimum €150” he replied.  Well that makes it a whole lot better doesn’t it...  When he asked for my mobile number it went something like this: “zero….errr…sept….er…neuf….errrr”.  He then threw a piece of paper at me to scribble it down on because I was being too slow.  Ouch.  

So that is my current bank situation.  I.e. pretty dismal.  All I know now is that someone, somewhere in Paris, is expecting me on Saturday 8^th September at midday with the prime purpose of stealing €150 euros off me.  I explained this to the mother who owns the apartment and she was horrified.  Apparently banks usually pay students to start up with them, so I clearly was unfortunate.  I also bought a monthly metro pass today which cost me a staggeringly expensive €81,50, so I was in no position to dole out even more cash.  Do I look like I’m made of money?  This blazer was from H&M, not Calvin Klein. Sheesh.  Know your labels!

I then went into what is known as “the cheapest pharmacy in Paris” and managed to spend €20 on shampoo, conditioner, shower gel and a new toothbrush.  Maybe I’m being stingy but €20 euros seems like an awful lot, especially for somewhere which is renowned for being cheap!  It was also slightly depressing that they didn’t sell any of my beloved Herbal Essences.  I scoured the shop for a good 15 minutes for a glimpse of it, but alas, it just wasn’t meant to be.  A lady who worked there asked what I was looking for and I explained how I needed conditioner.  She proceeded to ask if my hair tended to “malt” – took me a while to work out what she meant until she mimed pulling her hair out of her head.  I replied in the negative.  Nevertheless, she took me over to what appeared to be the most expensive aisle in the shop and handed me a 150ml bottle for €12 – some sort of specialist product for people with dry and damaged hair.  Was she trying to say something?  She practically forced it into my hand and I went off on the whole gratitude shebang, but when she wasn’t looking I ran away and hid it in on a random shelf before finding a cheaper alternative.  Crisis number one averted. 

Watch this space.

Montana

Wandering the streets of Paris

The streets in Paris seem so wide compared to those in London.  There don’t appear to be zebra crossings either.  I attempted to walk across something which looked like a zebra crossing, only to be almost run down by a car.  Lesson number one learnt: familiarise yourself with pedestrian crossings.  Cycling is also a popular activity but it’s one thing knowing how to ride a bike and it’s another knowing which side of the road to cycle on and whether it’s mandatory to obey road signs/traffic lights.  Cyclists have a tendency to believe they’re invincible, but I have a feeling this is not the case.  

 

I also splurged out on a “Paris Pratique” map for 7 euros to help acquaint me with my new home.  Apparently it’s the 2013 edition.  I know Paris is an hour ahead of London, but I didn’t know they were a year ahead of us as well…confused.com.  Paris is also a lot smaller than London which is possibly why the map is about a quarter of the size, and possibly why there’s approximately 30 seconds between each stop on the metro.  FACT.  

I then waltzed into the Jardin du Luxembourg, the second largest public park in Paris.  Thanks Wikipedia for that little gem of information.  I went around midday and it was buzzing with tennis players, sunbathers, men and women running loops of the park, kids floating boats in the central fountain and a cluster of ponies ready to be ridden.  Talk about exotic.  There were also cafés galore within the gardens and picturesque tables and chairs occupied by tourists and locals basking in the heat drinking copious amounts of lemonade.  And then I couldn’t help but notice the perfectly shaped hedges.

Next stop was Saint-Sulpice, a particularly grand church which also features in the Da Vinci Code (cultural bit of the day: check).  That’s one thing I’ve noticed since being here.  Everything seems so grand.  Whether it’s the large streets, the high flats or the magnificent architecture…it’s simply grand.  They call it a church but it looked more like a cathedral with its bold architecture, impressive paintings and abundant display of candles for that added sense of allure.  I also have a soft spot for pillars, so that was definitely a high point.

Watch this space.

Montana

The Day I met Paris

Tadah.  I’m here.  Thank you fairy godmother.  I finally made it to the City of Luurve.  After lugging 2 humungous suitcases across Landaaan town, along with a laptop and handbag (I went on the tube with them FYI…think I get a few brownie points for that) and then squeezing the guts out of them to fit them into the Eurostar baggage compartment, I think I’ve successfully prepared myself for women’s weightlifting at the next Olympics.

Passers-by stared confoundedly at the vastness of my belongings as beads of sweat trickled down all 5 foot 4 of me.  I proceeded to make huffing noises to reflect how heavy my bags were – just so they knew.  I then got in the queue for a taxi.  Only to get into one with a man wearing a wifebeater.  He was practically a French Danny Zuko but without the charm…and the thick streaks of hair gel were almost tangible in his neatly combed hair. I had written the address of the flat on a piece of paper and proceeded to read it out to him in my best French accent.  It was only then that I realised how I sound SO much better in my head than I do in real life.  So I gave up and handed him the piece of paper, only for him to stare at it quizzically for the next few minutes as if I’d given him the address for an urban brothel.  A taxi driver who has no idea where he’s going – that’s a great start.  Unfortunately there was nothing to drown out the tasteless French music playing on the radio but when he started talking to me, all I could think to respond with was “I’m an English student, and yes it’s my first time in Paris”.  He probably just asked if the temperature was OK.  But I didn’t give a monkeys.

First thoughts: Paris is amazing.  Yes, it is as beautiful as people say it is.  And yes, there are practically no road markings and cars seem to drive in zig-zag lines, ignoring all traffic lights.  It was like being in an Xbox game, only I had no control over the driver.  At one point in traffic I saw a woman petting her husky in a glamorous Parisian restaurant.  I just hope she wasn’t feeding it foie gras.  The roof of the taxi was clear glass so I spent almost the entirety of the journey staring up at the gorgeous flats and shops with their overhanging shrubs and intricately designed balconies.  And then we waltzed past a billboard of Julia Roberts.  Oh, she is a pretty woman.

So we’re driving along and then I realise something: I’m practically next-door neighbours with Prada.  I mean, seriously.  I’m used to living next to goats, not Prada!  Definitely a sort of country bumpkin to city slicker type thing going on here.  I’m still learning though; currently wearing brown leather boots and I look like I’m about to ride a pony.  Definitely need some fashion advice from Prada before I leave the house.

The flat is gorgeous.  Just perfect.  And I even get a double bed which means plenty of sprawling.  Only thing I’m going to miss (apart from all my friends) is an ensuite.  But living with a family is definitely the way forward, so ensuite or not, I made the right decision.  The mother who owns the apartment is incredibly lovely and she has a 19 year old son and 17 year old daughter who also live there and they’re equally charming.  I’ve already been invited out tonight for a drink with the son and his friends but I politely declined, in favour of a more relaxed evening unpacking and an earlyish night’s sleep.  Next time I will most certainly be throwing on my dancing shoes however.

I thought this would be the worst day of my life, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised.  My French is a little patchy and the pocket dictionary I brought with me dates back to 1974 so I’m foreseeing a bit of old-school French for the time-being, but all in all I am very content.  Paris - I'm impressed.

Watch this space.

Montana