Les vitrines de Noël

It is barely December, but you can bet that each and every remotely important city of the world has already adorned its streets and avenues with Christmas lights. You there in New York, or in London, or even in Paris, are you starting to feel the long and painful countdown to winter festivities, even if mince pies and turkey are not yet on the calendar and you still have to plough through that dreary beginning of December? Looking for an immediate uplift? Gorge yourself on the displayed opulence of the Parisian ‘vitrines de Noël’, along with all the other not-impressed-by-December people – and millions of kiddies.

Don’t get me wrong – winter festivities are just that: fun. I look forward as much as anyone to the warm meals and snowy evenings, wrapped gifts and roaring fires, and so on and so forth. But I have barely got over Halloween! November is not even over yet that the Champs Elysées are being all lit up – and get this, this year they are using solar lighting. Well I can understand, as I read that the Champs Elysées Christmas lights alone use as much energy as eight Parisian flats, each occupied by four people during a year… Shocker.

Be it on Oxford Street or the Boulevard Haussmann, the real festive attractions are the vitrines. A true ritual for all accomplished citizens. But whereas Selfridges, when I went to London at the end of October (yes, for Halloween, hence my décalage) was decorated in a minimalistic, arty-farty way (basically: just white. White everything. Some sort of statement?), the Grands Magasins – namely the two titans, the Printemps and the Galeries Lafayette – become full-on, heavily adorned, music-blaring gateways to festive heaven. Couture-clad puppets, winter wonderlands, animal kingdoms… None of the subtle stuff. This year, the vitrines are paying a tribute to megalomania, namely housing Karl Lagerfeld’s massive Chanel delirium, a multiplication of strictly tuxedoed mini-mes, a camellia in the buttonhole, and Vanessa Paradis at the inauguration. Yes, you read correctly, an INAUGURATION. For CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS. Nevertheless, the world and its very well-dressed friend attended it massively, and the event was a front-pager.

All this makes us think about the everlasting role of traditions. An example: I am going to see Twilight tonight, and I do not particularly care for Twilight. I am meeting a friend at Starbucks after school, and I shall inevitably order the ‘seasonal’ version of my usual skinny latte, only to throw it away after a few sips because it is too sweet. But those are just the sort of things you do come winter. They just announce the advent calendars and foie gras overdoses to come. So even if I am tired and fed up of wading through the ever-crowded boulevard Haussman every time I visit my good friend H&M (hum), even if I am never going to buy anything displayed, even if I shall have to fight against runny-nosed, heavily scarved and completely hyped up children, you’ll be sure to see me, nose pressed against the fingerprint-stained glass, counting the mini Karls. 

Le Tour du monde en 14 métros

Ah, Paris. The breathtaking monuments, the lively streets, the well-dressed women, the hell-hole that is Chatelêt-les-Halles.

Have you even taken the Parisian métro? If so, are you still alive? At my first internship this summer, I met  a guy who had moved from the Nice area to Paris a couple of years ago. He said that taking the métro was a somewhat traumatic experience. Coming from a village where there is only one train every hour, he could not understand why people would push their way through the closing, buzzing doors of a departing métro, when another one would arrive three minutes later. Or why everyone would race to the seats in order not to be standing up for a 10-minute journey. And why they would shout at him, push past him, hurl abuse at him for not getting in - and therefore, for 'blocking' the way to the closing doors. Said collegue now has a scooter.

I'll admit it is mainly a case of Parisian rudeness - the aforementioned collegue also got shouted at for 'walking too slowly'. Everyone thinks they are too important to take their time, they are always rushing to go somewhere. Me included - you just find yourself adapting to the racy pace and end up going with the flow.

When I went to Rome, I marvelled at the fact that the tube there only had two different lines. Here, there are fourteen. And most métro stations are barely 50 meters away from each other. Yes, we are lazy. I remember I used to do three changements so I could arrive bang in front of my prépa. As a result, you can get to just about anywhere in Paris by juggling with numbers : line 10 then 4 then 1 for the Marais. Line 8 for the Bastille. Line 10 then 13 for Saint-Lazare. Bingo!

In a recent survey, I read that breathing in the 'métro air' was as bad for you as smoking ten cigarettes at the same time. Another study showed that on one metro seat, many different kinds of urine and semen were found, as well as rat and human excrements, fleas and cockroaches. Gross. When you think of the London tube, which I find so clean and safe, or even the Korean tube, which my best friend says it is so clean that you could probably eat a meal off the floor, this is just shameful.

Yet take line 6 one evening, and look at the amazing view. That line is a métro aérien, meaning that the tracks run through the city above ground - and above people. That is how I really fell in love with Paris, sighing at the clichéed view of the illuminated Eiffel Tower while crossing the Seine. Admittedly, I was not using a seat. I left the others to rush for them and chuckled to myself when I thought of what they were actually sitting on. 

Here we go again

No English word is able to convey the bustling, rustling atmosphere which surrounds the rentrée des classes. This particular event has become a concept in itself, neigh, a complete way of life, requiring much planning and plotting - as well as a distinct publicity stunt. Fail to make the right impression on D-day, and resolve to hang your head in shame the whole year round. Exaggeration? I am sorry to say that it is not.

Of course, when the regular imperatives are coupled with extensive homework and holiday reads, as it is the case in prépa, be warned not to take it all too seriously. French people like to start things du bon pied, and when we know how important education is in the French system, this also applies to the school year. Resolutions, workplans, alarmingly stern first-day-of-school pep talks (in which one can often detect a slight political reference, cliché, anyone?), the works. If you are the type of student who enjoys sizing up the competition on the first day of term (in opposition to sizing up the guys, the normal thing to do - understand, what my friends and I do - when you are a 'summer is over' teenager who is already bored to death by the endless talk of 'discipline', 'punctuality' and 'efficiency'), then good for you. But you probably need a(nother) holiday.

So what, you're thinking, same thing whatever the country. Not exactly. I just think that we have come to an age where we are perfectly capable of pressuring ourselves, thank you very much, and do not need teachers to drill their doctrines into our already half-full skulls. I'll admit it is nice of them to care, really, and some give rather pertinent advice. But no one should leave the classroom trembling after the teacher has boomed, 'If you feel out of place, then you are not meant to be here. Go home.' Admittedly, no one did. But should personal determination be acquired through intimidation? This sort of treatment creates competitive, I-am-going-to-crush-them-all student-types. Very healthy. 

Yes, the French school system is efficient. The country produces well-read, cultured and media-savvy beings. Some of my closest friends belong to that group. But believe me, it ain't easy in day-to-day life. 'You haven't read Dante?' What, are you going to tell me to go home too?!

Gingerbread men and lobster sushi

Long time no blog.

I'll admit I've been a bit busy actually 'living'. My English work experience was a dream, I published at least an article a day and even got to write a piece about fashion. 'The Differences between French and English Fashion', nonetheless. I went to court, reviewed an art exhibition, interviewed a film director, covered a murder and did a vox pop.

Incidentally, the vox pop was on 'how Bradford women are the worst dressed in the UK'. They actually came last in a survey done by Facebook. How embarrassing. So the newspaper was more than pleased to publish my own article, titled 'I live in Paris but I buy all my clothes in Bradford'.

In between discovering Gregg's gingerbread men on my lunch break, I managed to get a lot of shopping done. I just love English shops, they are so superior to the French thing. I went crazy in New Look and Primark, and also had brilliant time charity shopping. English retailing is sans égale, Paris should take note.

Although I have discovered a brilliant shop in Paris, called Hema. I literally dévalised the store for my lovely lovely flat. I am having such fun living in Paris, it's like a dream come true. I went to my aunt's last week, and we ordered sushi. I just had to have the 'Flower Power' one, made with real flowers and stuffed with fresh lobster! It was delicious and ever so civilized.

I am thinking of starting a personal blog, as I cannot really give this out as a professionnal website if I am warbling about shopping and sushi. But with school looming closer (er, tomorrow) and other activities to plan (various housewarming parties, salsa and yoga classes, learning to cook with Jamie O's books), I might be a bit short for time. Like all of us at the beginning of September..

Oh and I also got verbally attacked by a tramp when I was out celebrating my friend's 20th birthday. But I was very well-dressed so I think I managed to pull it off.. with an ear-piercing scream as he lunged at me followed by serious hair-tossing. To be pissed off in style, that's what you learn to do in France!

Bonne rentrée!

English Augusts and home-made tarts

How hard is it to come back from sunny, steamy, sexy Rome to dreary old France? Very. Because this month we Frogs are having to endure what is commonly called an été anglais, i.e. bad weather during summer. When I stepped of the plane at Charles-de-Gaulle airport in my shorts and spartiates* and was met by icy wind doubled with a cloudy sky, I felt as though it was already September.

Luckily my mother came to the rescue, and whipped me off to her house in the country. I spent a few rejuvenating days reading and baking, sipping a glass of iced rosé in between. Her plum tree was absolutely heaving with fruit, so we made plum tart, plum crumble, plum stew et al. Cue cliché of steaming home-made pie in a warm country house. 

What else? Happily shopping for the new flat. Went to the Chinese quarter in Paris and bought some china bowls and stuff, brought back a Miffy calendar and Hello Kitty egg cup from Rome. I now have a little pile of 'leaving home' stuff, in which none of the essentials figure. And obviously, even though I have been begging for one for years, my dad gets a cat just as I am moving out. And, of course, she is the cutest thing on earth. A replacement daughter, anyone?!

*gladiator sandals

The Franglaise at work - part two

Here it is, the much awaited second work experience. Back behind a desk again, after a brief interlude packed with attending the Fête de la musique, the Gay pride and the Japan expo (lots of teenage-y things!). This is now my last day working at a local business magazine attached to the region's chamber of commerce, and I have published my first signed article today! Turns out I got lucky : the week that I have spent here has been jam-packed with interesting events. I was sent to cover a filming taking place at the office, and had to interview the director. With my little writing pad, I felt like Lois Lane. 

I am slowly starting to realize how important getting work experience is. I have heard countless tales of people spending a week doing the job of their dreams, and absolutely hating it. I was lucky to experience the reverse phenomenon : I loved every minute of it. My boss is pleased with my work, and I feel as though I am really made to be a journalist. It was just so thrilling, you know, the whole "saying my-name-shaking his hand-can I ask you a few questions" thing. And I just love, love, love to write (as if you had not guessed). I take such pleasure in the minute things, like making sure I use resonating words and that my sentences seem eloquent. Basically, just putting into practice everything I have learned in prépa. 

On the whole, this has been such a pleasant experience. I learnt all the journalistic jargon and tips, and published about a dozen short articles on the magazine's website. I really got to understand how a magazine takes form, and felt as if I was completely part of the team. Rendez-vous at the end of August, for the third and final edition of this year's The Franglaise at work : the decisive internship at an English local newspaper.

What the beginning of my week looked like

Trip back down memory lane : I ventured in a Claire's Accessories near where I am doing my internship. Hadn't been there in AGES, and was quite surprised. They do all the stuff the quaint Parisian shops do, only at a fraction of the price. Hence the rabbit necklace, another addition to my ever-growing collection (of rabbits AND necklaces) that I just had to have. Isn't it the cutest?

I finally found the time to frame my gorgeous Yves Saint Laurent posters that I got from the Fondation Pierre Bergé-Yves Saint Laurent in avenue Marceau. I hunted the blue one down after seeing it in Mademoiselle Figaro, and I finally triumphed. Didn't that sound Parisian, eh? That's because I have FOUND A FLAT and will be MOVING TO PARIS IN AUGUST! Another chapter of the Franglaise's life. Will tell more about my appartement and second work experience soon. Bisous!

What my Sunday looked like

Between flat-hunting and holiday-preparing (the girls are going to ROME!), I enjoyed lounging on my sunny terrasse in these cool hues, sipping a mint iced tea. Life is hard.

About the book : my Geography programme next year is about South America, so instead of perusing boring atlases and books about economics, I am studying the beauty of the continent my OWN way..

scarf and flats - H&M

Souffrir pour être belle*

During my daily Facebook browse, a link posted by one of my classmates caught my eye. It was an advertisement for an event taking place in a well-known brand's shop on the Champs Elysées, where you could come and have an expert pick a shade of lipstick supposed to be suited to your skin tone. I am not a huge make-up fan, but the concept was alluring, so I decided to go and have a look with my aunt during our lunch break.

 

I was expecting to find a huge queue but no, it was just us and an elderly woman sitting on a make-up chair, grumbling. Wondering what was going to happen next, I barely had time to sit down before a tall, tanned (nearly orange), 'glossy' guy flounces in. Not only was I dreading sitting on a plastic chair in front of a flaw-exposing mirror having my face picked at by some random salesgirl, now I was going to be made up by a GUY. Surreal. Anyway, 'Call me David' wears sunglasses inside, reeks of expensive perfume, and moans about the difficulty of finding a decent boyfriend. And looks surprised when my aunt tells him she is (heavily) pregnant. Not that you can see it at all, it's only due in two months.. 

 

After having her face fussed about with, said woman goes off to purchase 150euros worth of make-up. Well, she did look pretty fantastic for her age, after David dabbled about her face. But remember, I am only here for LIPSTICK, so keep it short and sweet please mister. Ahhh, David gushes, but with the deal is included a full makeover, and even when I protest he pins me down on my chair and nearly suffocates me with his scent. Here we go then.

 

First step : the eyes. The guy lines them with a special wax pencil. 'But I already have liquid eyeliner on my top lid, won't it be too much?' Cue David to reply : 'Chérie, c'est moche**. I don't like it, I am taking it off. It makes your eyes droop.' Right. I mentally throw out my beloved Topshop liquid eyeliner. I'll admit what he does is pretty impressive. Bronze eyeshadow, and brown mascara, because apparently black mascara is too dramatic for blue eyes. Well, that's a first. Is this guy planning on busting my whole make-up bag's credibility? 'Vous avez des yeux magnifiques, alors MONTREZ-LES!'***, he screams in my ear.

 

As he fusses around with my face, David lets out a sigh. 'You have a beautiful face, and you are lucky to still be so young. Look, no wrinkles!' At 19, already having wrinkles would be very scary. He then says that he is 40. I gasp. He looks about 20! He is tanned and lean and tight-skinned! And he is 6 years younger than my mum! I start thinking that he must be a serious beauty fairy (no pun intended) to be able to look so young by only using cosmetics. So I take a renewed interest in this impromptu makeover.

 

And voilà, the magic works. As he smoothes in the brand's signature foundation, I glow. Not in a tacky J-Lo way, more in a 'I have just come back from a holiday on the Riviera with my lover' one. Needless to say, a very good look. I am astonished, and so is my aunt. I then act on one of my Yorkshire impulses : I ask the price, then nearly faint when I hear it. Oh well, I'll just have to achieve that sort of glow myself. But SuperAunt steps in and treats me, and I am so so so so grateful. It may be petty, but a good beauty product, that makes you feel beautiful every day, is essential in a quest for a happy life : it's just a little morning gesture, but it goes a long way mood-wise.

 

I saunter out of the shop, clutching my swanky, emblazoned paper bag. In addition to my super foundation, David put in a free lipstick. I open it, full of hope. Bright fuschia. Not exactly my sort of look. A bit too 'Trianon Trollop'. Ah well, it's reassuring in a way, David isn't a complete beauty queen, he can't really be an expert on lipstick, can he? Unless..

 

*Suffer to be beautiful

**Darling, it looks ugly.

***You have magnificent eyes, so SHOW THEM!

Breton tops and the Retail Queen

I do not want to write anything along the lines of 'how French style is superior to all others'. I have read countless articles on how 'French girls do it better', and loads of 'how-to's that I do not particularly agree on. French girls do not all follow the 'breton top-skinny jeans-messy bun' trend, just as Brit girls do not all wear minis with orange legs. Even if there are still many who do, it is a gross generalization to say that all French girls have style.

French style is celebrated as being effortless and elegant. At least it was before the opening of the Abercrombie store on the Champs-Elysées. But what people seem to forget is that UGG boots are considered 'cool' here, because they are English. How many times have I heard 'I'm going to London for the day, just for Topshop'. It is a fact, Cool Britannia is the retail queen. Even I think Primark is heaven, because I go there twice a year, stock up on fast-fashion and impress all my French friends. But then I come back to England and we are all carrying the same bag.. I was discussing it with a collegue recently : French style is certainly not affordable. Parisiennes believe in quality articles, but I cannot afford to blow all my money on one bag and wait till next year for a pair of jeans. I do more shopping than my French friends, not because I have more money, but because I keep searching for bargains. I have a friend who has just spent 150euros on a jacket - from a well-known marque du Marais, but it will probably be out of season before you can even say its name - whereas I have bought three pairs of ballets pumps in a month, at 10e each, that I coordinate with my 'workwear' (get me! words I am not used to writing!). But then I have a shoe fetish.. and I have a bought a reasonable, easy-to-wear pair of black ones, a gorgeous pair of gold ones, and a pair of.. mustard-coloured ones. Mustard! But they are too cute! With little bows on! And they are certainly eye-catching. Not that I would know, as I have not managed to wear them yet. But I call them mes petites moutardes (as I call another -red- pair of shoes mes petites cerises) and I am in LOVE.

Despite these recent acquisitions, I cannot WAIT to come back to England in August to get some serious shopping done, and I am already writing a list of what I 'need'. Including more ballet pumps.

The Franglaise at work, part one

When exam results are in June and the torture only starts in September again, one has to find a way to occupy one's summer. And what is better than spending your days in an office, unpaid, and ignored by most of the staff? You got it, the Franglaise is on work experience.

After unsuccessfully trying to get a job as a waitress and salesgirl, I decided that as everyone was asking for previous experience, I would give them experience. Because France is difficult in that respect, contrary to the UK you cannot get a summer job easily at all. Employers all want you to be qualified and experienced, and when you are 15 and the only type of work you have ever done is babysitting, well you can just get lost. I am not only saying it because I did not find anything, it is the ugly truth. What's more, people generally do not care for fancy studies in basic jobs, they take one look at classe préparatoire littéraire and think we are socially-inapt bookworms.. which is not so far from reality, but come on, give us a chance ! So anyway, I managed to get an internship at a well-know French insurance company. And it may have sounded like I was complaining previously, but I do realize that I am extremely lucky to be here. Then again, I managed to get a spot by using a popular French method called piston, a.k.a. 'It is not what you know but who you know'. So here I am, at my own desk overlooking the avenue Matignon, feeling very pleased with myself.  Get ready for some serious I-have-drunk-too-much-coffee-and-am-starting-to-get-bored posts !

Ascension et Pentecôte

Here in France they are a religion. A perfect excuse to do sweet f-a for a whole day. Obviously the best day for a bank holiday is a Monday, and - strangely - it's often the case. But the French are clever, especially when it has to do with missing work : the second best-day is Thursday. Why Thursday? A random, generally boring day that's not quite in the middle of the week? Because then you can apply the golden rule in French holidays : le pont. 

Basically, it means that if there is only one day between a bank holiday and the weekend... Well yes, you got it, you just don't show up. And don't get me wrong, it is very nearly institutionnalized, most of the time the boss decides to do it and then of course the employees feel that they should follow the lead. Pont meaning 'bridge', it is a sort of pathway from one work-free day to another, resulting in a nice 4-day-long 'weekend'. Of course, absolutely everything is closed so you just have to lounge about at home and chill, although generally it is an excuse to have 'lovely' family time (and family lunches that last nearly as long as the whole weekend, joy). 

I, for one, enjoy being off school/work as much as anyone, especially during college when we had sports on Mondays, but I cannot stand the idea of not being able to go out or do anything. Oh and the roads are completely unpracticable, expect ginormous traffics jams on the morning of the first day and the evening of the last. And people generally need another weekend to recover. Cue Edith Piaf's singing the country's true motto, 'Je ne veux pas travailler'.

Champ de Mars

A coucher de soleil on the Champ de Mars on a warm Friday evening.

Youngsters, be they French 'frogs' or English 'rosbeefs', all like to get drunk in public places. But you must admit that this particular scenery is absolutely magical. Especially when it lights up! (cue loud alcohol-induced cheers)

Education and studies

I'll admit my posts here won't be as regular as planned, but I have a very good reason. My schedule is always very busy, as I am lucky enough to be following one of the most prestigious - but also the most demanding - literature courses in France, I give you : the prépa littéraire.


The classe préparatoire is a two-year course taken after students have passed their baccalauréat, the French equivalent for British A-levels. You have different types of prépa : it can be centred around Maths, Economics, Physics or lLterature. As I took a bac littéraire (you have three different bacs, not counting the professional field : L [literature], S [maths, science, physics] and ES [economics]), I mainly studied French literature, languages and Philosophy, so I was better prepared for a prépa littéraire.


Most of you will deduce that this classe préparatoire 'prepares' students for something. Indeed, students who follow this course will take the Ecole Normale Supérieure examination, one of the best french schools. I'll admit its popularity is mainly due to the fact that once you get in, you are payed to study there... but it is also renowned for the quality of the teaching, and if you survive the prépa and the exams, you are sure to have a successful career.


The reason why this course is so prestigious is that it is extremely hard to get a place. You have to be a top student all through your last year of secondary school (accurately named terminale) and have an 'interesting' profile. For example, I know for a fact that I got in because I am bilingual and that I studied German and Latin for 8 years. But then you have different levels of classe prépa, depending on the school. Most of the Parisian ones only accept you if you get straight-As in every subjects, and others are more laid-back. The most well-known prépas - and the first to be established - are the ones at the lycées Louis-le-Grand and Henri IV, in the center of Paris, near the Sorbonne.


Prépas are extremely demanding : even though it is littéraire, we study History and Geography as well as French, Philosophy and two languages. The 30-hour-a-week schedule is rendered even more difficult by the amount of work that is assigned. I am lucky to be in a good prépa, but not one of the top ones, so the pressure is not as important as the one that 'the nation's elite' suffers from.


The French education system is complex and differs a great deal from the English and American one. I tried to be as clear and succinct as possible, but I have a great deal to say on the subject, so expect a few more school-related posts to come!


Bonne soirée !

First things first.

I feel as though I should be honest with you from the very beginning :

My mother forced me to start this blog.

So that's the first impression you'll get of me. I have a determined, bossy and very English mother. The reason why she is so pushy is that she has been living in France for 19 years, and that is the only way things can be done around here, en forçant la main. I will spare you the clichés of offices only open from 2 til 4, rude salespeople and foul-mouthed drivers. BUT THEY ARE COMPLETELY TRUE.

This is not another tale of a Englishwoman lost in Paris. Loads of them have been written, and with more or less accuracy. I have read a few of them, and have always been more interested in what becomes of the offspring. You know the pattern, English girl falls in love with Parisian male, gets married in a hurry, sprouts a few kids, then promptly separates from husband because, in the end, the cultural differences are too important. Of course, this is a gross generalization. But it happens more often than not.

What about the fruit of this amour? How does one grow up with an English mother and a French father? More importantly, how can you make an English upbringing and a French education coexist?

Frankly, I don't have a clue. I am not going to rant about the clash of the cultures or pretend that being bilingual is nul. I realize that I am extremely lucky, and at 19, I am only just starting to comprehend the incredible insight on life that this double view of situations can offer.

In short, this blog is written by some sort of hybrid creature, who dips her baguette in her Earl Grey. It will probably be full of annoying comparisons between England and France. It might give out absolute stereotypes about both countries. But above all, The Franglaise chronicles the life of a London-born, Yorshire-originated, Ile-de-France-educated, Paris-emancipated literature student and aspiring journalist, whose only aim is to find real beauty in life, whatever the nationality.