Two months into my year abroad in Paris and time is flying by. I’m spending five months here interning at an international property company before studying at the world-renowned University of Athens. So world-renowned in fact that my Erasmus coordinator wouldn’t give me official term dates when I met her at the end of Trinity “because we decide when to start the term depending on the strikes.” Awesome.
I have moved in with a twenty four year old French girl, which has not only allowed me to avoid the notoriously difficult Parisian landlords, but has also meant that I have some readymade friends in the city – or rather, I spend my days plying her friends with “British” things like Victoria sponge cake and scones, and last week I got the big invitation: an evening watching the rugby at the Stade de France next weekend. Progress, albeit slow.
As a Londoner, the transition to Paris has not been too difficult. Yes, the French are totally obsessed with all things administrative, but once the first few weeks of endless form-filling were over, I settled into Parisian life with relative ease. Highlights have included being interviewed for French television, winning big bucks at the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe races and using “I’m only in Paris for five months!” as an excuse to buy my local patisserie out of macaroons.
A slight hindrance did occur one week into my time here when the news reached me that the University of Athens had shut after a planned two-day strike just kept going. Panicking that half my year abroad might be in jeopardy, I decided to throw myself even more into Parisian life. I bought a stripy top and went for drinks with a few Parisians whom I’d met in a bar the night before. We talked about what the French think of the English and vice versa. While I was throwing around words such as “chic” and “sophisticated,” I was faced with a barrage of “binge drinking”, “sluts” and “pizza with pineapple on top”. I asked what the French word for “binge drinking” is. They don’t have one. Forced to admit that I come from a failed nation, I apologized on behalf of the other 63 million alcoholics, scuttled home and pondered on the truth behind these negative stereotypes (gin and tonic in hand).
Starting work wasn’t too troublesome; my colleagues are used to dealing with confused English people as they always have a British intern, however my lack of experience in the French workplace was pretty clear from the outset. The main problem was the big question, to vous or not to vous? The vouvoyer/tutoyer (formal/informal register) debate is complex, and to be honest it seems like even the French don’t know the rules, but here’s what I’ve gathered so far – vouvoyer a child and it’s about as ridiculous as communicating through interpretive dance, tutoyer your new boss and expect a glare so harsh that you might have to break into interpretive dance just to lighten the mood. I tend to avoid this one altogether by occupying an awkward middle-ground alternating between the two – I imagine the English equivalent must be something like “It’s terribly nice to meet you” followed by a fist bump.
Working at a property company when my knowledge of real estate was about as extensive as “pretty building”, “ugly building” was I’m now shameless when it comes to asking for help and spend most of my time with one hand in the air, hollering at my nearest colleague. Luckily the perks of working for a French company are numerous; every day I receive an €8 lunch voucher, the working day ends at 6.30pm for everyone from me, the lowly intern, right up to the MD, and the commute to work each morning is a joy. Boris Johnson take note – the metro is to the tube what the limo is to the skateboard: infinitely superior. Trains every two minutes, a stop every ten metres, no one eating the inevitable egg sandwich (or even worse, the Cornish pasty), but rather a group of well-dressed Parisians reading books!
All that’s left to say is the stereotypes are, for the most part, true; the food is good, the waiters rude, the culture rich, the women slim and the men bearded. Happy as I am, I haven’t quite cracked the Erasmus code yet, and there is one thing that still baffles me: How does one ever actually spend single centimes? Answers on a post card s’il vous plaît.
Love,
Theo xxxx
