parisianpicnic

[parisianpicnic]

Paris is but a dream.

It’s been 8 years since I was wandering through the streets of Paris, wide-eyed, awestruck that I’d made it. I sat up along the wall of Pont Neuf, my feet resting on the stone seat below as I traced the declaration of love that had been etched into it. It was yet another point in time that I caught myself saying, just remember this moment, because one day, this will feel like a dream.

Mornings in Paris were whimsical, although I have to admit, I experienced way fewer of them than I should’ve. It’s a real diabolical challenge getting me out of bed at the best of times, and that was true even in the most gorgeous city in the world. I could, however, occasionally be coaxed out of bed in the early hours of the morning by the very thing that was causing my downfall (aka undiagnosed coeliac disease): two freshly made pain au chocolat from the local bakery. I’d slip on my jeans and some ballet flats in between yawns, and as I made my way out of my apartment resisting the serious urge to go back to bed... it would take just one look down the street to know that this was not a moment to be missed. The sun would peak over the city in splashes of gold, the leaves in the grand parks gently whispering as they awaited the day’s visitors. If that wasn’t enough, then all it should take was a whiff from the local bakery. Nothing, and I mean nothing beats freshly made Parisian pastries (I’ve already cleaned my teeth for the evening, but I can seriously feel my mouth watering at the thought). The city was a stage that I had for myself, and it was in these glorious, wonder-filled moments that I told myself that I should do this every day. Of course, I didn’t (mornings were a diabolical challenge, remember?). I remember shifting the Stabilise gravel in the Tuileries with my feet early one morning and it being the only sound against the trickles of the fountain, broken up by bites of flaky pastry. The sunshine tried its best to gently lift up my heavy, sleepy eyes. I was tired. But I had that same voice in my head. Take it all in, because one day, this will feel like a dream.

So, was it? Because I sort of, in a way, feel like it never happened. Mornings now, well... they look a little bit less glamorous. I’ve swapped out jeans with ballet flats, a Louis Vuitton handbag, and strolls down cobblestoned streets with flecks of pastry around my mouth from those decadent chocolate croissants for a 5:30am alarm, medical scrubs, hastily made coffee, and gluten-free cereal and yoghurt thrown into a red Tupperware container. I love and loathe red traffic lights on my commute into the hospital. Love because I have a few moments to woof down a few scoops of my cereal (if I waited for a break, it would either turn soggy, or I wouldn’t get to eat it at all). Loathe because I’m often running late. The buildings have a grungy feel to them, a character of sorts, but couldn’t be further from Haussmann’s uniformed visions. I miss getting lost in the architecture and history on the way to my destination. Miss wondering what happened here.

No more boulevards, daily specials scribbled on chalkboards, charming mouldings on the ceiling, or chandeliers in waiting rooms. No more stopping to take photos to remind myself of this moment later, in case I forgot. Life at the moment is instead played out in front of a series of rotating walls—those of the emergency department, my office at home, or the university library. In two and a half years, I will (terrifyingly) officially be a doctor.  I furiously scribble down every offhand comment casually made by the registrar or consultant that bridges a gap in my knowledge (of which there are many). Often it’s in totally illegible handwriting that not even I can read (and I wrote the note!) so not only am I contributing to the stereotype, I’m also not even doing something useful with it. I only apply makeup to my eyes now, because my days are spent in N95 masks, although, this has its perks. Admittedly, only needing to do makeup for the top part of my face has saved me a lot of time, and money that would’ve been otherwise spent at MECCA (the Australian equivalent of Sephora, aka my happy place). I couldn’t stay in Paris being an au pair forever, but life now couldn’t feel further from what it used to be.

I won’t lie... my life in Paris feels like it was a dream. All those years ago, I was, let’s face it, totally clueless about what I wanted to do in life. I’d bled my bank account dry (but in Paris! How artsy!), was soul-crushingly heartbroken over the guy who I thought was going to be the great love of my life (but in Paris! How twisted and romantic!), and was living in a shoebox apartment sleeping on a foldout bed (but who cares, it’s in Paris!). No matter what was thrown my way, it didn’t matter because, it could always be justified by but I’m living in Paris! I adored the family I was an au pair for, had wonderful friends that I could count on at any time of day or night, and it was all set in the backdrop of dreams. Now, I’m a broke full-time med student still bruised from a recent devastating breakup. But none of it is in Paris. Same sh**, different city, hey? At least the bed situation has improved (I’m writing this nestled under my blankets). I guess this time I have the extra wildcard of an ongoing pandemic. No wonder Paris feels like it was a dream. It was gloriously, wildly carefree.

I love medicine, and I love how enriching it is and how there is always more to learn, and how I’m doing something to give back to my community. I know I’ll feel fulfilled, no matter the city or the stage. But some days as I’m driving into the hospital, I find myself wondering what’ll happen if I just turn right instead of left, and follow the exit signs towards the airport. I’d jump on a plane or into a time machine and go back to my old life in Paris... maybe it was all just a dream.

[parisianpicnic]

Partying with les pompiers of Paris (Bastille Day part 1)

Five months into my trip, I was feeling as Parisian as ever. I was proudly downing two pain au chocolat for breakfast each morning, I knew where to get the best coffee, and I could mostly get around without having to glance at a map on my phone. I was reminded of just how far I'd come when July—tourist season—struck. With each successive jump of mercury there was what seemed like an extra thousand tourists sprawled throughout the city. I, now a self-confessed local, felt totally justified in my dramatic eye rolls whenever getting stuck behind a conglomerate of slow-walking said tourists in the métro or in the street. Yes, I'd branded myself a true expat. What better way to show off how much of a local you are than by celebrating Bastille Day?

Bastille Day, also known as la fête nationale or le 14 juillet marks yet another of France's colourful (by which I mean violent and bloody) spots in history. ('Which one?' you ask. 'The prison-storming, social class upheavel one in the French revolution', I reply). It largely, however, acts as the country's national holiday, with a nod to the aforementioned revolution whilst celebrating the union of France. Meanwhile, my framework of what constituted a national holiday was only guided by my experiences growing up with Australia Day. As such, I was set for a fairly relaxed day of music, drinking, and a few snags on the barbecue (or whatever the French equivalent of a barbecue is). How wrong I was.

Turns out, there's another tradition that is celebrated—and with excellent reason—on Bastille Day. Friends, (single guys and gals out there in particular, pay attention), allow me to present what is perhaps one of the reasons why France is one of the greatest countries in the world: le bal des pompiers.

The bal des pompiers (or 'Fireman's Ball') is what I consider to be the ultimate way to 'get amongst the traditions of France'. For two (I repeat, two) nights only, the firemen of the local firestations of Paris open their doors to the public to throw what can only be described as a the richest cultural experience a little old foreigner like me could ask for. Flowing booze, an electrifying dance floor, and eye candy dressed in uniform that does not disappoint, plus... a four hour wait to get in to the best firestation. Unless, of course, you're one half of the Australian and American girl duo.

Introducing Brooke, my new all-American BFF. Just a month prior, I found Brooke wandering my workplace as a customer, and she left as my new favourite expat in Paris. We hit it off, swapping hilarious and somewhat cringeworthy dating stories and life as an expat over numerous coffee dates, and she's been the 'g'day' to my 'mate' ever since. She outright refuses any opportunity to eat Vegemite (a work in progress), has no problem befriending strangers (even when she shouldn't) and is the life of any party. Her heart and mind are both bright and genuine, and she's as California as they come. She makes her way through life with the beauty, confidence, and killer dance moves to make her the belle of any ball. Luckily, the bal des pompiers was no exception.

Not being brave enough to front the ball (or many events for that matter) on my own, I gladly took on the role of Brooke’s plus one. Before hitting the town, our first stop was at a friend of Vincent's (Brooke's boyfriend)—just a little soirée in Rue Blanche of the 9th arrondissement. Being a resident of the 9th myself, I was keen to meet some of my fellow neighbours. Turns out, Vincent has some seriously glamorous friends, and I am officially their very unglamorous neighbour.

The party was well and truly underway by the time I arrived. I stepped into a beautifully furnished apartment, with wooden floorboards sweeping out onto a terrace boasting views of Sacré Coeur. Across the balcony, seemingly painted onto the glass of the building opposite, was an iridescent reflection of the Eiffel Tower. Most of the guests were out in the presence of said view, seemingly oblivious to its magic (I guess they were real locals). Being a plus one (let alone a plus one's plus one) means that you can often quietly take in a few of these moments for yourself. Tonight was certainly going to be full of many ‘pinch me’ moments.

By the end of the night—despite being twenty years younger than the median age and way underdressed for the occasion—we'd mixed, mingled, and danced with Vincent's friends. I even scored some makeup tips from Stephane, a very glamorous and very Parisian man who worked in the fashion and makeup industry (and who even had his own makeup line!). The guests were all charming, sophisticated, and charismatic, and fortunately, the conversation steered well away from work (given the calibre of the guests, Brooke and I weren't that confident that 'au pair' would qualify us as being sufficiently cool to be there). It wasn't until just before we left that Vincent revealed just with whom we were mingling: the director of Dior, the man who discovered Alexander McQueen, Kate Moss's manager, and Stephane Marais, one of France's most highly regarded makeup artists (I was now seriously thankful that I asked him earlier in the night about his favourite foundation). No wonder the champagne was so good.

Not wanting to overstay our welcome, and being insatiably curious about the traditions around Bastille Day, Brooke and I decided to bid au revoir to our new high profile friends and check out the firestation down the street. We flew down the stairs and headed to the gate's of Sapeurs Pompiers, the firestation of the 9th arrondissement. Admittedly, we knew that on a night like this, we needed to play the foreigner card—and it worked. Before long, we'd befriended the pompier manning the gates, and were swiftly let through the entrance. We linked arms, determined not to get separated, and climbed over bottles and through crowds of people, eventually making it to the bar. At these parties, the firemen are partying hard but they're also working hard. They filled every role of the party: bartenders, security, dancers, and they’re still technically on call as firefighters. We honestly didn't know where to look. Our bartender was so hot could've started fires. Brooke and I raised our eyebrows at each other whilst he fetched us a drink each. Next thing I know, Brooke had handed him my phone and he was entering his number. Did I mention Brooke is also a fabulous wingwoman? It wasn't long before the crowds were clearing out of Sapeurs, so we decided to get to the real heart of the action. Rumour has it, the firemen Saint Paul in Le Marais throw the most outrageous, wild parties of them all. Of course, we had to check it out.

It was well after midnight by the time we arrived, and fortunately, the four-hour queue had turned into just a few minutes. We practically paraded through the entrance, bestowing the firemen at the entrance with a kiss on each cheek (they winked and told us that the kiss on the cheek and a gold coin donation were for charity). Despite the late hour, the place was absolutely booming, and we headed straight to the bar before hitting the dancefloor. Our exoticness was no secret: by the way we were loudly talking and obnxiously dancing, I don't think that there was any risk of being mistaken for two chic Parisian girls.

It seemed to work though, because before long, one of the chief firemen had taken a shining to Brooke. We got an 'off limits to the public' tour of the actual firestation which was actually super interesting, and finished the night having, in our posession, an extremely coveted invitation to return to the party the following night. Each fireman only gets two of these invitations (allowing the recipient to skip the monstrous queue) for close family and friends. And this delightful fireman had bestowed his rare, handwritten invitation, to Brooke, with yours truly scoring the role of her plus one.

Having locked in our spots for round two of the party, and eager to witness the full majesty that is the Bastille Day parade in the morning, we decided to call it a night... or so we thought. At the exit? A red-eyed, panicked Vincent was waiting for Brooke, simultaneously distressed and furious that he hadn't been able to get a hold of her. I won't spill the dirty details here (that's what Brooke's blog is for), but it's safe to say that one of those firemen would've come in real handy to put out the flames that was Vincent's temper and ability to jump to conclusions. Within minutes we were at his apartment, and grabbed what we could of her things (what hadn't been sprawled out across the floor in anger at least), and called an Uber back to mine. Paris is for the romantics, true, but even here, romance as a dark side, too.

[parisianpicnic]

Every pastry lover’s nightmare.

Ever played ‘would you rather’?  Like, would you rather spend a year without internet or a year without sweets (I still don’t know the answer to this one).  Or would you rather never eat cheese again, or never eat bread again.

Well, friends, I had ALWAYS answered that I would give up bread, but then... I tasted French bread.  Moving to France let me fill the cheese-sized hole in my life, and then I discovered that I had a bread-sized hole in my life too.  Before long, I was eating deux pain au chocolats for breakfast every day and justifying my purchases of une tradition (the traditional French baguette) by way of no one else wanting to share my jar of Vegemite with me. If I was going to have to polish a travel sized jar of Vegemite off myself, it was going to be done so with the finest, crustiest, most exquisite French bread (all at the bargain cost of 2 euros!). Bread and pastries in France are a delicacy in the form of a staple, and so I absolutely gorged on them (for my own ‘cultural appreciation’) every day; trust me, none were more surprised than yours truly at the fact that I could still fit through the door to my little chambre de bonne after a year of said eating habits.

The closest we can get to such euphoria back home is at the classic Aussie baker, ‘Baker’s Delight’. I can inform you now as a self-classified pastry snob that there is indeed, some baking, but sadly there is no delight. When I stepped off that plane onto the tarmac in Melbourne, I vowed to never again order a Vegemite Cheese Scroll or tiger bread loaf so long as I lived. How could I, now that I knew what real bread tasted like? My taste buds would simply have to wait until they returned to France.

It turns out, they will be waiting a lot, lot longer than that. I was officially diagnosed with Coeliac’s disease (in short: strictly no pastries, and definitely no bread).

I knew deep down that I wasn’t really French (no matter how much French food I ate and no matter how many berets I wore on my head at once), but being denied the ability to stroll around the streets with a baguette under my arm seemed like the ultimate cultural violation. How could my immune system betray me in such a way?!

So as I plan my return to the city of my dreams, I have been obsessively searching for gluten-free bakeries and places that are safe for coeliacs to eat. If you have any top picks for gluten-free anything in Paris, I am all ears: wine bars, restaurants, bakeries (seriously, 1st prize goes to someone who knows where I can find the equivalent of une tradition that is gluten free). Otherwise, it looks like I’ll be consuming my body weight in cheese the next few weeks!

[parisianpicnic]

The countdown begins.

I was going to write this in 2 days time (when the ‘10 day official countdown’ began), but I was TOO excited to wait an extra 2 days.  So, here we go. This is the 12 day countdown until I step on a plane and am back in my home away from home... I’m coming for you, Paris!

[parisianpicnic]

Bah, oui… It’s Sunday…

Want to know how to calm down a French person?

Easy.  Mention the word “Dimanche” (Sunday).

Synonymous with ‘brunch’, ‘family’, and ‘snoozing’, the moment the word “Dimanche” bounces off the ears of a beloved Frenchie, you can practically see every worry float out of their head.  Their posture eases, their muscles relax, and their mind wanders to the happy place that is a Sunday.

I call it, the ‘Sunday Bubble’.

The Sunday Bubble is, theoretically, meant to encapsulate all of these wonderful things: remaining gently tucked between the 1000-thread-count sheets in your finest silk pyjamas until late morning, only rising from your deep slumber to enjoy an over-indulgent champagne brunch with your nearest and dearest.

Dreamy, right?

Wrong.  The Sunday Bubble, in my eyes, is wildly inconvenient.

I know that by questioning their Sunday ritual, I have just insulted France in the worst way possible… and before I progress any further, I have to stress that I absolutely love this city.  And I totally get it.  I can see the cultural side of things: spending time with your family, reinvigorating the senses and so on…

But, I have no family here.  And my senses are just fine.  So what if I want to indulge in some shopping instead?  Or, dare I even say it, go to the supermarket after 4pm?

Hold on… Hear that?  That’s the sound of France shaking their head in disbelief.

Work on a Sunday?  MADNESS.

I was initially hoping that after a year in Paris, I would become slightly more at ease with the idea that the city absolutely shuts down on a Sunday.

I’m not.

I once called my local fromagerie (cheese shop) on a Sunday afternoon – it must’ve been around 3pm – to see what time they closed.  “It’s Sunday.” was their response, as if it were a perfectly legitimate justification.

Yes ma’am, I know what day it is.  But I want cheese.  And I want to know what until what time it is available for me to purchase today.

I was, again, promptly reminded of my ‘expat’ way of thinking this afternoon when I spontaneously decided to make a hair appointment (after all, it’s a new year, so a new hair cut is fitting, no?).

You can imagine my delight when I managed to get a hair appointment for a Sunday (!) all without having to ask the lady on the other end of the line to repeat herself multiple times.

I was absolutely tickled pink, that is, until:

“Okay, so that’s Tuesday at 12 o’clock.”

“Oh… Sorry, I thought the appointment was for tomorrow at 12?”

Silence.  (No doubt out of pure shock at the fact that I suggested that work be done after Saturday and before Monday.)

“…mademoiselle, tomorrow is Sunday.”

…last I checked, fabulous hair (like the right to consume cheese) did not stick to a schedule.

“Oh… oh right, I’m so sorry. Yes of course, I’ll see you Tuesday… Thanks.”

Click.

I love you France, but I feel like we still have some progress with this ‘Sunday’ thing 😂

[parisianpicnic]

You love WHAT? (Tales of a lost-in-translation Australian).

Well, it officially only took 10 days for me to make a complete and utter fool of myself.  Although to be fair, this is longer than I thought it would take.

You know when foreigners make an effort to speak English (which is awesome, I am all for learning a foreign language) but sometimes they say things which are just so wrong that it makes them so funny?  (My favourite memory is a man in Avignon offering my family and I “chocolate craps” for dessert.  15 year old me loved it.  He was so enthusiastic, it was so adorable, and I couldn’t help but giggle).

Anyway.  Today, I was that foreigner.

Tonight, I was out to meet my newest to-be-friend, Adam.  My ex-boyfriend’s sister’s best friend’s brother.  (I’ll let that sink in for a bit.)

I’d spent a bit of time with Adam’s sister, Tanya, a few months ago when she was living in Melbourne.  She’d traded Parisian life for a backpack and a one-way ticket out of Europe and I appreciated her smart wits and straight up ‘tell it like it is’ attitude.  Keen to return the favour of (apparently good) company, she sent me her brother’s number and promised he’d be happy to show me around.

His arrival didn’t disappoint.  After dinner, I wandered down to the metro to find Adam, leaning up against a motorcycle. “Hey! Adam?” I asked curiously.  He took off his helmet and smiled, greeting me with the classic French bisous on both cheeks. “Welcome to Paris!” he replied in an almost perfect accent.  Even though I’d never met Adam before, it was so nice having this feeling of familiarity in a place that was still largely unfamiliar to me. We quickly mapped out our plans for the evening and settled on a cool little local bar, complete with burgers, cocktails, and arcade-style video games.

Being a foreigner, it was easy to keep the chats going as I had heaps of questions about my new life and location.  But, of course, there is one thing that I cannot resist talking about: food.

Keen as mustard, when we’d wrapped up talking about who knows what, and a brief lull had made its way into the conversation, I thought it would be the perfect time to share with Adam this amazing, delicious thing that I had tried that day.

Take note: as I learned, it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it.

I asked Adam whether he had tried this delicious treat.  You could describe it as smelly, but God’s gift to Earth, something I’d be willing to eat it any time of day.  “I know a lot of people need it with extra condiments, but I loved it so much that I’d be willing to eat it by itself!” I gushed.  Curious to know what it was, I casually told him. “It’s ‘troo do coo’, have you tried it?”.

Adam’s eyes widened in disbelief before erupting into an absolutely roaring laughter. Oh God. What Christie just said, was very obviously, not what she thought she said. I didn’t know whether to be delighted at the fact that I was obviously very funny, or horrifically embarrassed at what I’d said.

So. What I thought I told Adam I loved? ‘Trou du cru’, a type of cheese. (Pronounced ‘troo doo croo’)

What I actually told Adam I loved?  Trou du cul (‘troo doo coo’)  which literally translates to... Asshole.  Yep, that’s right.  I told him that this delicious, ‘any time treat’ was the human body’s backdoor. What a way to make an impression.

Yep.  So, there’s that.  Once the laughter had subsided, he kindly said I need to stress the ‘rrrrrrr’ sound to distinguish between cheese and... well, ass.  I tried, but with little success, so safe to say that next time that I make a trip to the fromagerie, I will be showing them a piece of paper with the name of the cheese written down.  Or I’ll be making an ass out of myself instead 😂

[parisianpicnic]

Rappers and Sushi

Before moving to Paris, I had this impression that the streets would be laden with celebrities and the “who’s who” of everything and anything.

Well, a few weeks had passed since my arrival and I had not spotted a single A-lister, nor a B-lister, let alone a C-lister.  It’s not that I was becoming impatient, but considering it’s Paris (and fashion week!) I thought that I might have at least spotted someone in oversized sunglasses, complete with a bodyguard who walks just far enough behind so as to not draw too much attention.

Where were ‘the beautiful people’?  Where were the models, the stars, the press, and the paparazzi?  No where, apparently.  Or at least, everywhere that I wasn’t.

Until now.

Michael (Aussie 2, “Can you repeat all of that in English please?” from the job interview a few weeks back – see the “Valentine’s Day” post) asked if I wanted to tag along to a Japanese buffet à volonté (read: all-you-can-eat) place with some of his uni friends in Bastille.

If food is there, I’m there.

We’d organised to meet up at this Japanese restaurant in Rue de Lappe that afternoon; I was uncharacteristically on time, and Michael and his friends were running late.  With a bit of time to kill, I figured I’d explore the area which seemed to be pretty lively and energetic.

I hadn’t even made my way out of the street when I recognised the oversized sweatshirt, oversized jeans, and hairstyle of the guy a dozen meters away from me.  This was no tourist: it was a French rapper.

A bit of background – my French ex-boyfriend absolutely adored this rapper, and so whilst we were dating I was very quickly subjected to a lot of this guy’s music.  I’ll admit, I know a lot of the lyrics now. (Can officially add “can rap in French on demand” to my list of skills...)

So, here’s the thing: young, Australian, Taylor Swift-listening girls like myself do not typically listen to French rappers such as the one that had just walked through my line of sight.  And young, Australian, Taylor Swift-listening girls do not typically approach said French rappers and express their admiration for their music.

But, I wanted to say hi. I couldn’t let this slip by when there was the possibility that myself and French rapper could become buddies, and I could help make his lyrics more grammatically correct (and contain fewer ‘gros mots’ – swear words).

No, no. Young, Australian, Taylor Swift-listening girls dressed in pink certainly don’t approach French rappers and express their admiration for their music. I feel like it would almost be an insult for him.

What does she do instead?

Ask for directions.

NICE ONE.

Being way too intimidated to just introduce myself out of nowhere, “Hi! I’m from Australia and my ex boyfriend loved your music so I was forced to love it too and I know all of the words” didn’t seem even close to good enough to open a conversation, so I wandered around ‘looking lost’ for a moment before the good old “Uhhh, excusez-moi monsieur... can you tell me where I can find a map of the area? I’m lost...” opener.

What an ice-breaker.

Turns out French rapper (whose name, for those of you are curious, is ‘Joke’ or ‘Joke MTP’) is actually really nice.  And really good at directions.  He and his friend suggested I head towards the nearest metro, because that’s where you can always find a ‘plan du quartier’ (map of the area).

“Ah bon, merci beaucoup!” I say, and walk towards the metro (which I know very well where to find).

Waiting at the traffic lights, I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around to see none other than French rapper himself.  Was he going to offer me tickets for one of his shows tonight as a ‘welcome to Paris!’ gesture?  Maybe suggest a few touristy things to do in the area?

“C’est juste la!” (it’s just there!) he says, pointing across the street.

Well, no tickets, but nice of him to make sure the lost tourist wouldn’t be too lost for much longer.

I thank him, debating whether I should ‘suddenly recognise’ him or leave him be.  (I went with the latter).  In hindsight though, he may have found it pretty cool that an Australian knows his music.  Or, he might’ve been utterly insulted that a total girly-girl listens to his music and promptly call a meeting with his marketing team to explain that whatever strategy they’re using is reaching the wrong target audience...

Either way, next time I don’t think I’ll open with the directions line...

PS. The Japanese place was top.  And we ate way too much!

[parisianpicnic]

“There has got be more to life than being really, really ridiculously good looking.”

We’re going to kick today’s post off by trying a little facial exercise.  That’s right ladies and gentlemen, something for le visage.

Knit your eyebrows together, turn your head slightly to the left, pout your lips, and then open up your camera (or grab a mirror) and look sharply into it.  Give it your fiercest look yet.  Congratulations: this is your blue steel.  Feel ridiculous?  Yep, me too. But guess what? This is my new job.

I’m just gonna put it out there... Zoolander said it best, folks.

That’s right, this girl is officially a, wait for it... part-time model.

I know, I’d be cackling with laughter too. But hey!  I’m getting paid for it, even if it’s in what feels like peanuts, most of which are taxed by the French government.

And I know you’re asking yourself this one thing: how?!  Just how did this girl from the suburbs of Melbourne fall into the elusive world of modelling? (Yes, I will be milking this for all its worth.  I’ve gone international now 😂).  Well, like many of my adventures so far, they tie back to my ill-fated romance with the Parisian that brought me over here in the first place.  A story I’ll eventually get to, I promise, but that’s best kept for another time.  Not long after stepping off the plane and onto French soil, I was freshly broken-hearted, and I’ll admit it... in serious need of some eye-candy (I just wanted to be ABSOLUTELY sure that there were other fish, or poissons, in the sea) I made my way to the somewhat controversial store full of beautiful people: Abercrombie & Fitch.

I essentially expected it to look something like the image below.  And boy, it did not disappoint.

Two boys sporting thick oversized coats and perfect smiles stood by the gold-tipped gates that hugged the grounds.  Even the entrance looked immaculate.  Too shy to make eye contact or even manage a ‘bonjour!’, I quickly walked past them and down the long winding path to the front of the store.  The lawns were unnervingly trimmed to within a millimetre of perfection, the hedges immaculately even, and it was all uncharacteristically green for the middle of winter.  Turn right and, suddenly my eyes were... assaulted?  greeted?  by a giant painted mural of muscular men with barely an inch of clothes covering their crazily sculpted bodies.  A group of girls flocked around the front, waiting to take a picture with the male model who, by the way, was shirtless. In the middle of winter.  I clenched my teeth and pushed past the girls, curious to see the inside of the store.

Welcome to four storeys of crisply folded American clothing, complemented by floor-length mirrors, bronzed life-sized sculptures, and perfume so thick you could practically taste it, all under the guise of blaring music and dim lights.  And the models.  Did I mention the models?  Because, wow.   Anyone could appreciate some of these poster boys.  I’m pretty sure every one of my five senses had been launched into complete overdrive.  And within the first 10 seconds, I’d spotted at least 10 guys that I would so totally say ‘oui’ to if they asked me out for a coffee.  Even for super burnt coffee that Paris totally seems to be obsessed with.  (Trust me, as an Australian, finding good coffee has been on the top of my ‘to do’ list!).

I was just there for a window shop (so to speak).  But after a bit of a wander in store (and accepting that 100% of the guys working there were way out of my league), I got approached asking if I’d be interesting in maybe applying for a job here.  Hanging out with people my own age?  Getting to stare at cute boys all day?  Getting paid for it?  Uh, yes.  Where do I sign?!

So fast forward: I have officially been hired as a ‘model’ at the somewhat infamous American Abercrombie & Fitch flagship store on the Champs-Élysées.  Translation: I’m a glorified shop-assistant.  Although tempting, it is safe to say that I will not be announcing to the world that I am a model in Paris.  I’d like to think that being hired was more to do with my bubbly, customer service-oriented personality and ability to speak multiple languages, but I guess I’ll never know.  At least I get to admire the Arc de Triomphe on the way to work (pinch me!).

So is there more to life than being really, really ridiculously good looking? I’ll keep you posted.  But for now, this girl needs to seriously work on her fake tan if she is even going to remotely fit in! 😂 Wish me luck!  I’ll be over here practicing my blue steel 😉

[parisianpicnic]

Pain au choco-what, wow

Had my very first, very French, pain au chocolat yesterday.  Oh, my goodness.  So good that I didn't manage to take a photo before eating the whole thing.  French bakeries, am I right?

Confident I will never readjust to Australian bakeries. Ever. 😂

[parisianpicnic]

Week 1 highlights & challenges

Highlights from this week include...

• demolishing an entire cheese board after dinner (because that's just how dinner is done in France)

• being greeted with a very loud "G'DAY MATE!!!" by the 5 year old, who we’ll call “Petit Monsieur”, at school (the 'Australian word a day' is paying off)

• meeting another Aussie and instantly becoming friends (complete with macarons, a visit to the Madeleine, and a walk through Les Jardines des Tuileries)

• spending Wednesday morning making giant paper planes Challenges include...

• getting French children to listen to you. (Despite learning French for over 10 years I must have missed the "How to tell off French children, in French" unit...)

• too much enthusiasm at bath time... 3 of us ended up taking a bath instead of 2. (That would be me, with water splashed all over my head and all over my pants!)

So now, a week of holidays and I am free to roam the city as I please :-)

[parisianpicnic]

Valentine’s Day... in Paris.

There is probably nothing quite as unromantic as being dumped in the most romantic city in the world.

Ask me how I know.

Whilst undoubtedly a story that is best kept for another time, the fact that this had happened fairly recently meant that I was on a dedicated mission to avoid most (if not all) even remotely romantic things in the city.  A true challenge in the city of love.  Especially around Valentine’s Day.

You can imagine me walking around the city a little bit like this...

And, considering that a LOT of people flock to Paris around Valentine’s Day to celebrate their everlasting love, it’s probably fair to say that I was sporting that expression a lot. I might not have hidden it very well.

Lucky for me, I had things to focus on this fine Saturday afternoon: namely, a job interview!

Being new to the city and freshly single, I had spent most of my free time armed with unstoppable determination to both explore the city and meet new people.  As fate would have it, some shopping on the Champs-Elysées one afternoon somehow ended up with me being approached about a job.

Fast forward to now, and here I was at the interview, silently rehearsing my sentences in French so that I wouldn’t make a complete fool of myself in front of not just one, but about 15 other people (group interview, got to love it).

Despite my “you can do it!” mindset I found myself very quickly losing track of what was being said.  There were forms to fill out, specific little details to add in specific corners of the page, and considering my French listening comprehension skills are still not even close to being on par with the rest of the country, I was feeling a little bit like a deer in headlights.

Imagine my relief when, thank GOODNESS, the guy in the row in front of me pipes up and asks (in an Australian accent!) for everything to repeated in English.

An absolute legend.  This guy was definitely going to be my friend.

Before long, the interview and it’s “Name one weakness about yourself!” (where they stressed that “too organised” and “perfectionist” were not appropriate responses, only for the first candidate to answer “I’m a perfectionist”.  I think “poor listening skills” might have been a more suitable answer...) was over and Aussie 1 (myself) and Aussie 2 (”can you repeat all of that in English please?”) proceeded to launch into the “Where are you from?” and “What are you doing here?” formalities.  Being the spontaneous lot that we are, we decided we should hang out.

The afternoon was spent with me introducing Aussie 2 (whose real name is actually Michael) to Laduree’s macarons (which we ate on the steps of the Madeleine) before wandering down to the Jardin des Tuileries to grab some mulled wine. We spent a few hours perched in front of the fountain overlooking the buildings on Rue de Rivoli exchanging life stories and ‘Aussie abroad in Paris’ life advice.

So, this day was turning out to be not so disastrous after all.

Admittedly, it only got better.  I spent the evening with a really good friend from home, who also happens to be in Paris – we grabbed a scrumptious dinner at my favourite restaurant (Le Pré aux Clercs in Saint-Germain des Prés, which is my ‘go to’ place whenever I come here).  Obviously when I called and made a reservation for two, they were expecting it to be a romantic dinner for a super loved up couple.  Cue a quick grin and a giggle when we got to our table and saw it covered in rose petals (hey, Leslie Knope was onto something when she did ‘Galentine’s Day’ 😂)

Look! ROMANCE!!!

Top off the evening with some dancing at Café Oz (which to my complete and utter surprise, did NOT have any Australians that apart from myself and Jemima) and Valentine’s Day was suddenly over.

I survived!

This single gal’s Valentine’s Day wasn’t so disastrous after all. ☺️

[parisianpicnic]

Montmartre stole my heart.

This afternoon, I decided to meander up to Montmartre as part of reigniting my "Parisian spark". Although I was happy to be back in Paris, the grey skies and icy chill made it slightly more challenging to be excited about every little detail. I was more focused on keeping my body temperature at a level of 'functioning' than I was my surroundings.

But then I made it up to Montmartre, and let me tell you, the views from this place are spec-tac-u-lar.

Honestly. I know Montmartre is considered slightly touristy but, I'll admit, I love it. There are cosy little restaurants, there are side streets with stories begging to be told and there are views that will leave you breathless. A bit more how I imagined Paris to be. I clutched my bag (apparently this is a super hotspot for pickpockets) and gradually let my guard down as I followed my feet through the winding paths. Crepes, canvases, coffee... now we're talking. I'll make this brief, but a highlight was watching these twins (complete with matching outfits) playing an accordion and singing "La Vie en Rose" in front of Sacré Coeur. I KNOW, it's touristy. And so cliché. But hey! I'm in PARIS!

[parisianpicnic]

Vendredi soir

Some would say that I have not quite adapted to the super trendy, mega chic Parisian nightlife.

I could be out in some bar where the second cousin of a tragically almost famous French poet once left his beret, but instead I'm eating a block of Rustique (think the smelliest French brie imaginable) and drinking tea.  In bed.  On a Friday night.

I think we know who the real winner here is.

[parisianpicnic]

Chateau de Fontainebleau

When you have a friend from home in the same city as the one to which you’ve just moved, it makes sense to tick off some cultural activities together.

Jemima and I had decided we’d trek out to the Chateau de Fontainebleau, which is only a quick train ride out of Paris.

I think this is considered a more ‘modest’ chateau here.

...seriously, it’s phenomenal.

The library was the coolest room and I am captivated by the thought of how long those books have been sitting there untouched and by the thought of who may have read them last.

The gardens are meant to be gorgeous as well. They were closed by the time we got there so it’ll have to go on the list for Summer!

[parisianpicnic]

BONJOUR, PARIS!

Dare I say it... I'm here.

Most people had swiftly left the luggage collection area after picking up their one suitcase.  These people had packed light.  These people had packed sensibly.  Cue the foreigner (aka me) standing next to the conveyor belt with my four pieces of handheld luggage, and one oversized suitcase — so far, blending in was not my forte.  Doing my best to avoid eye contact (which was challenging, considering it felt like half of the airport was staring in pure amazement -- or disdain and judgement -- that this one girl was waiting for even more luggage), I let out a sigh of relief as I spotted my giant suitcase ride around the cart like a kid on a merry-go-round.  With, count ‘em—not one, not three, not five, but six bags—I sheepishly smiled and shrugged at the man with raised eyebrows across from me with, who I imagine was both entertained at my attempt to bring half of Melbourne in my suitcase and thankful that he was not my companion on this trip.  Yes, monsieur, I did need to bring the Vegemite.  And the hair straightener.  And the dresses.  No, it probably didn’t help that I started to pack at 3am the morning of my departure (thanks for helping with that, mum!).

Suddenly, I found myself promenading (yes, promenading, because it’s French), through Charles de Gaulle airport.

I made it through customs (where I don't think they even cared about/noticed my visa!) after a very lost-in-translation with the customs guy.  I was so excited about the fact that I'm moving here (with the visa to prove it) that I announced it to the customs guy who met my 'way too excited' 7am self with his absolute best 'not very excited' self at 7am (this, as it turns out, is très Parisian).

See above: it is a very accurate depiction of his expression.

I will admit, there was a fleeting moment where I feared my cheeriness was going to deny me entry into the country (French people? Happy?!) but... I was in. SUCCESS.

Driving through the streets of Paris, it was — I'll admit —not how I remembered it.  I'd spent 6 blissful weeks here over this past October/November – sunshine, flowers, romance, you name it.  But this time, the skies had been painted grey, and the trees had shed their colourful coats of leaves.  The trees’ skeletons were the only evidence that Autumn had ever been.  If that weren’t enough of a change, I thought the 22 degrees I left behind in Melbourne was cold. HA! It was -2ºC here.  THAT is cold.  Before I could contemplate my transition to a snowman any further, my driver pulled into a street that looked vaguely familiar. My excellent and somewhat obsessive stalking on Google Street View prior to my arrival gave me a few clues as to what my surroundings would be like... and, suddenly, here I was.

Six bags in tow, my feet clicked and clacked across the cobblestones towards the apartments hidden at the back of the courtyard.  I nervously picked my phone out of my pocket and dialled my new host mum.  “Bonjour?”, I managed, “It’s Christie.  I’m here.”

[parisianpicnic]

PAREEEEE

Well, this isn't something that I thought I'd be writing any time soon...

Anyone that knows me has always said that I would end up in Paris.   "There's just something French about you!" or, "You would most definitely suit Parisian life."  I won't deny it, these were some of my favourite compliments (French? Moi?) and each time they hit my ears I would quickly begin to gush about how Paris is the dream.  I'd assure the kind soul (who I imagine was swiftly regretting their choice of compliment given the giant spiel it sent me on) that I would absolutely end up living in Paris one day.

I just didn't think it would happen at 22.

So imagine my surprise when I'm standing at the airport, with far too much luggage (yes I may have only packed the night before. Keep in mind, moving... not holiday, moving.  Packing. Is. Hard.) when I start to question exactly what I'm doing.

I'd said goodbye to my family (complete with some classic photos for the family blog) and was suddenly very, very alone in the airport.  With, did I mention, a lot of luggage.

BOOM. Panic mode.

"WHAT ON EARTH AM I DOING" was practically every outgoing message on my phone whilst making my way through customs.

Really, it was a good question.  (And surprisingly, no one else had asked me in the same slightly overwhelming tone complete with panicked emoticons).

On paper, I'll admit it might not look that savvy.  Leaving my family (and pets!), friends, jobs (all five of them), and essentially the life I've known for the past 22 years to live in a foreign country (complete with foreign language) with a family I have never met before. You can call me crazy.  Yet, somehow, I made my way onto the plane without losing a single item (mum told me I have to keep thinking "four!" and count my bags/handheld things every few minutes. I've built up quite the reputation in the family for losing things...) so I was already feeling slightly accomplished.  And a swig of champagne on the plane didn't hurt either!

So... it’s official.  I'm out of the country and off to gallivant through the streets of Paris (sporting a baguette under my arm and a beret on my head at all times).  And this will, I suppose, be the place to keep track of my adventures, trials, and tribulations.  Stay tuned for the lost in translations, the miscommunications, and everything in between.  This girl is moving to PAREE!

WISH ME LUCK!