The Love/Hate Relationship

 Greetings. As I'm sure many of you already know, there has been a beautifully sunny weather in France over the past two weeks. Spring has arrived early here, which in Paris means picnics, saxophones on the Metro and cold beers outside. It is starting to look pretty everywhere – the Champs de Mars has even been re-opened after a long, sad, wintry hiatus of inaccessibility.

This means that there will be picnics in front of the Eiffel Tower soon.

There are flowers in the woods next to my apartment, birds, squirrels, rabbits and ravens scampering around everywhere. Maybe it's not Martinique, Nice or Mallorca, but it's something beautiful all the same.

I took the opportunity this weekend and the previous weekend to push aside my dissertation, teaching and reading boring pronunciation studies and enjoy the sunshine because 'life is what happens when you're busy making plans' or something like that (I just wanted to enjoy the sunshine).

"Les jonquils de printemps"

Les jardins de Tuileries

Montmarte

I had two visitors over the past two weeks and we were extremely lucky on both weekends to get such great weather. Although Paris never gets old, I have now been to see the Mona Lisa at least five times, walked inside Notre Dame and the Sacré Coeur at least ten times and taken part in a couple dozen “Eiffel Tower” photos. But I am determined to be a good tour guide.

I have to say, even the Mona Lisa viewing feels better when it's sunny outside.

Now that March is upon us, it reminds me that my trip to France, the year as a teaching assistant somewhere in a rural wood outside of Paris, is drawing nearer and nearer to the end. Last weekend my friend Deborah and I were discussing the “year abroads” whilst sitting on the terrace of a café, in the sunniest sunshine. She suggested that I seem to have a “love/hate relationship” with France which I have to say made me laugh out loud (a real LOL ha).

It's kind of true, to be honest. Anyone who has been reading this blog this year will know that there's been a lot of “merde” over the past six months – whether it's France's fault or not is a different question though. However, I have concluded that even though there have been many frustrating moments which have happened to happen to me this year while I've been in France, I can't really say that it's a “hate” relationship. In France, I have:

1. made some of the best memories of my life
2. drank so much wine I can't remember only that it was good
3. Met some of my most fabulous and genuine friends
4. Tried many new things, from going skiing, eating escargots and swimming in the sea at night
5. Not just learnt a language but become a part of it

Over a period of 4 years, I have been back and forth to France, never quite finishing or saying goodbye. There have been some seriously cool moments here, especially with the friends I made from all over the world. These friends I made in my first year in France are the friends I knew that I'd never forget or lose touch with because we all had that drive to travel in the first place – the drive to move away from 'the comfort zone' and dive into something new without being able to see the outcome clearly.

“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”

This is the moment, this year, when I was really alone for the first time and trying to figure out how I was going to meet friends and make more memories; this was when I realised who my “fabulous roman candles” are.

It hasn't exactly been a case of making new friends, but establishing the ones I've made over the past four years, in all of my different situations. Without asking, they came to visit me. Week after week. The ones who are mad to live, just like me I guess.

(Mad to live in France, you might think).

So when it comes down to it, maybe there is some sort of love/hate relationship. There has to be that in order for anything good to become unforgettable. But more importantly in the love/hate relationship is that I love it – the part where I love France and I am proud of myself for making so many true friends here and for discipling myself to learning French to the point where now it's a part of me. When a language starts becoming a part of who you are, you can't go back.

However, I think that this year is when the era in France ends: I can sense that there's something different for me after this. Unlike what everyone seems to think, that I'll be coming back here as soon as I can when I've graduated, I'm fairly certain that a new country and a new era of experiences are on the horizon.

“The best teacher is experience and not through someone's distorted point of view.”

Happy

There is one thing I want to write about this week

1. The Happy Show

For quite some time I haven't updated this because I had writer's block again for quite a few weeks (I've been busy too but that's no excuse not to write – nope, writer's block it is).

So, "The Happy Show", which is what I wanted to write about 2 weeks ago because I went to this exhibition in Paris called “The Happy Show” by Stefan Sagmeister an Austrian graphic designer. I approached apprehensively because to me, “The Happy Show” is a title which is bound to disappoint many who are really seeking “Happiness”, whatever that is.

But this was the first wall in the entrance of the exhibition:

It soon became apparent that the show is not a “formula for happiness” as I had apprehensively disregarded, neither is it a collection of paintings and sculptures that depict happiness: It is an info-graphic breakdown of one man's experiences and judgement of happiness based on statistics, experiments, psychologists' theories and personal evaluations. In short, it doesn't aim to dictate, but to subjectively demonstrate aspects of happiness.

As I progressed through each stage of the exhibit, I read the walls which contained quite a few statistics about “happiness” relating to humans relationships with other humans. These were statistics about marital happiness, statistics of happiness in “types of love” (Passionate vs. companionship), statistics of happiness among people with different relationship statuses etc:

To be honest, when I read all of the above, it didn't surprise me but what did strike me was that even though statistically “compassionate love” ends up making for a higher percentage of “happy people”, there are tons of people who never have this. And this was where I did not trust the statistics.

Is that to say that most people who never get a long term companion in love end up unhappy? Is it also to say that most people who pursue “passionate love” (ie sex but not necessarily commitment) all their lives also end up unhappy?

This was a big part of the exhibit and instead of making me nod and think “yup, those statistics are spot on” it challenged me to wonder “Is this how people measure happiness? With love?” I found myself unconvinced by this because more and more these days I find that people I meet define their happiness by their relationships: but not necessarily on other terms, and they don't always appear happier than the average Joe.

According to these statistics, happiness in relationships is much higher in passionate love than in companionship love but routinely over a shorter time frame (so high level dopamine quicker = short term happiness, lower level dopamine longer = long term happiness). But where does it analyse the happiness levels in people who are without either of these types of relationships?

(When I thought about some of the happiest moments of my life, very few some but not all, of those moments were relating to romance, actually).

And when I analysed the things I saw in the show: statistics about happiness in romantic relationships, self-image, self-confidence and other such typical things that humans have insecurities, I realised that all of us, every single one of us can't be 100% happy. A lot of the time we are telling ourselves that we're happier than we are or we're telling ourselves that we're unhappier than is true in reality. This was demonstrated in “the gumball machine meter”:

You take a piece of gum from the machine that you think corresponds to your 'level' of happiness (on a scale of 1-10, 10 being the happiest). I took a gumball from the '9' and it didn't work so I settled for 7 and it gave me one. I don't know why this is, but I think it was supposed to show that whoever takes one from either of the extreme ends is fooling themselves most of the time – it's unrealistic to be '9' most of the time but it's equally improbable that you're on a '3', no matter how bad you feel.

This gumball machine meter lead on to a pyramid which breaks down the necessities in order to be happy, showing that physiological needs are the base and self-actualization (creativity and such) is at the top, nowhere near as important as food, water and nuture. This links into the gumball machine in the sense that, in Western culture where most of us have food, water and nuture and the basic necessities we should hypothetically be much happier than a '3' or maybe even a '5' because a lot of our basic needs are already fulfilled (yet many who live in this culture often claim to be depressed or unhappy in some way).

“The Happiness Show” is one man's experience, he says himself, that the show is merely one man's analysis of happiness according to him using data he's collected over a period of 10 years.

But the show doesn't aim to make it's viewers “happier”, however that could be measured, it says from the very start. However, in my opinion it is an important topic which has been explored creatively through the arts for ages and I think that it's aim in this particular creative project was to express to the viewer that happiness is something that should be explored, and it did explore many aspects of the areas in which society measures happiness.

I truly value all the relationships in my life, especially with my friends. The people that I make friends with are people that add so much to my happiness and the true friends are the ones I can be apart from for a long time but are still the same when I talk with them again. But even in my relationships with friends, my happiness isn't dependant on that one other person.

This year abroad hasn't been an easy journey; from the very start it has seemed like there have been challenge after challenge to my happiness. Perhaps at the very start, I wasn't as prepared as I am now to be able to face the challenges to my happiness. But I guess challenges have enabled me to become much stronger in who I am and be proud of what I can do.

Before this year in France, I started this blog because for years and years I wanted to write and I wanted people to be able to read what I could write. I was a little bit scared about what people would think about what I wrote and so because of shyness, fear of what others would think, I held myself back. But I always knew that I expressed myself best in writing – to friends in cards or letters and to my teachers when I wrote them essays . Sometimes my teachers told me that they wanted to see me writing more; but it's possible that when I was a teenager, I felt too awkward to do that.

And since I've started this blog, I've been amazed by what a liberating hobby this has become. It's not only added greatly to my happiness to be able to express my writing publicly but it's given my friends quite a lot to laugh about.

I guess I want to say one more thing about happiness before this post is over: If you can't trust yourself, don't worry about it. But trust Pharell, who doesn't care about what anyone else thinks, just that he's happy:

And only sometimes, the merde continues.

 Hello again and apologies for not having written for a while.

Now I'd rather not let anyone be disturbed by this title, because life is far from the 'Vie de Merde' I wrote about many, many blogs ago in October and November. In due course I will explain myself.

I tried my very best to be optimistic about everything bad that came my way this year even though at times I was angry, upset and just plain frustrated at the way things were.

• No internet for three months
• Living alone in the middle of the countryside for three months
• Losing (and paying) for a new passport (THEN FINDING THE OLD ONE TWO MONTHS LATER)
• Bureaucratic people telling me to go away and come back when I had more paperwork (and thus not getting important things done)
• Paying great amounts of money just to GET internet (doesn't seem fair really does it when you just want a phone line in for four months?!)

But as I've said before, the turn of events, the amount of bad stuff that kept recurring was just too much for me at times. Every time I went to McDonalds, I couldn't stop thinking about how impractical it would be to write my dissertation from there. And often when I got stuck in CORBEIL ESSONNES for an hour at a time waiting for a train or bus which never wanted to arrive, I would think to myself “What in the world am I doing here and why did I ever think this year would be fun?”

So this month, January, notoriously know as one of the most depressing times of year after Christmas, made all the red flags go up for me. I was apprehensive on the Eurostar back from London. But then that month turned out to be full of laughter, Pringles and loud music late at night. It was the friendship I needed, some form of solidarity to get me through the next following months. And I actually haven't looked back on the first three months, as Edith Piaf would put it “C'est payé, balayé, oublié, je me fous du passé”.

But this morning, when I logged onto my emails to print out the tickets for my flight to Barcelona next week for the February half term holidays, I got the shock of my life when I realised that, being the total idiot that I am sometimes, I had booked a flight on the 14^th from Barcelona to Paris and a return flight from Paris to Barcelona.

My experiences with Ryan Air, Easyjet and Jet2 have never been a bundle of laughs. Actually that's a lie, I've hated every minute of flying over the four years. But the worst bit is undoubtedly the booking part. One day I want to hunt down the person who invented online reservations and 'reservation codes' and 'check in online' and 'print your own tickets' and kick his ass.

So there I was, staring at the screen trying to believe that the screen was wrong and I was right, but fifteen minutes later I came to my senses and accepted that the screen was right and I was wrong (as usual, one-nil to technology and Rachel).

So I guess that means there's a 'frais' (Oh how I hate that word – it means charge) in order to change the flights (because as much as I'd love to, I can't spend the rest of my year abroad in Barcelona).

Well anyway, this unlucky bit of misfortune has nothing to do with the unlucky events that took place from October to December. I know that very well. 

But often I can't help thinking to myself “Why does this unlucky stuff happen to me consecutively in the space of four months?!”

Sometimes, the merde continues, even when you think it's gone, but it's been an hour now since I was staring dumbfounded at the screen and after sitting down and writing about it to calm myself down, the feeling of vexation – Stage 1 of Grief 'Denial' has been somewhat replaced with Stage 5 of Grief 'Acceptance'. During the writing of this post I think I must have gone through Stages 2, 3 and 4 'Anger' 'Bargaining' and 'Depression' without many consequences except that my face looked like this the whole time:

To fellow friends abroad, or preparing to go abroad, all of you sorting your lives out on foreign ground: have no fear. Merde or mierda or Scheiße may come your way but don't give up. I admit, I almost wanted to, when I had to re-read terms and conditions in FRENCH for what felt like the hundredth time this morning but in spite of all things bad, don't give up on yourself.

Luckily, I haven't given up yet, don't think I will. But how not to is a constant lesson that I have to keep learning every week.

Until the next time! (and apologies for this being short and somewhat one-sided. The next post will hopefully be full of sunny photos of beautiful Spain).

Running, Yoga and Le Comptoir Général

 Hi,

As the title would suggest, this week I've finally worked up the courage to get off my bum and exercise. After a relaxed week of intermittently studying (allophonic variation and other phonological concepts which are making my brain hurt) and hanging out with my new flatmate, I think I needed the Wake Up Call of Doom which this weekend's run round Paris instilled.

First things first: generally speaking, I wouldn't describe myself as unfit. I can endure most forms of exercise (within reason) and my muscles aren't completely dormant – they've just been resting well this winter. However, the extent of my exercise routine now is one ballet lesson a week and walking to the train station (which is what the government most likely defines as “sedentary lifestyle”).

I spent Saturday evening at a friends' apartment in Paris and on Sunday morning we woke up to go to a free yoga class which was several miles from where she lives.

“Let's run there” was the overall consensus the previous evening over fish & chips.“It's only 3 miles”.

The night before we'd gone out in Paris to this place called “Le Comptoir General”.

We had to queue up for about 45 minutes to get into this gratified, “ghetto” club opposite Canal Saint Martin, but once we got in we realised it was nothing like what we were expecting; it was better:

Here's the tipunch, a typical cocktail from the Antilles. It consists of double rum, a squeeze of lime, a cinnamon stick and a taste of "cane syrup" (I couldn't taste the syrup though) served in tiny glasses a la style Parisienne.

I can honestly say it's the first time on my year abroad so far I've really felt like I was actually in Martinique (a mere shard of the shattered dream).

So anyway, on Sunday morning as we started off our run from Gare du Nord I was feeling great. The winter air does give you an incentive to keep moving, well at the beginning of Exercise Session at least.

Mid-way Exercise session I could feel myself lagging, or at least my body was telling me “Now is when you'd be slowing to a walking pace for the sake of your poor, dormant leg muscles, if you were on your own”.

But in spite of this, my respiratory system was telling me I could keep going. And my “Working Out” playlist was finally being put to good use, so I kept up the pace against the odds.

Twenty five minutes into Exercise Session (aka four songs distance from our free yoga class) I could feel myself lagging gravement, lagging in the way that if my muscles, lungs, etc had voices they'd be saying “No! No! No!” repeatedly to every beat of the background music. I could feel that horrible ache below my ribs, the first sign of a stitch – to those of you who remember P.E. lessons at school where the teacher made you “run laps” or the horror of all horrors, bleep tests; that awful cramping sensation which makes you feel as those the whole side of your ribcage is on fire, sympathize now.

As we arrived at the yoga class and finally slowed to a stop, I caught sight of myself in a shop window. I looked like this:

It's always a slight wake up call when I catch sight of myself during or after a run. As soon as I get into leggings and trainers and attempt to run around in public, I like to imagine I am a graceful, innocent, doe-like creature who wouldn't hurt a soul:

But in reality, I have as much grace and poise as this:

One-nil to Exercise vs. Rachel. Yoga class next.

I have to say, I am not 100% sure about yoga. It's not the stretching and legs-in-the-air or balancing on one leg – I do ballet remember – it's more the “Open your spirit” and “make a huuuuum noise so that the energy can flow”.

Anyway it was my first official yoga class, which also happened to be in French. There was barely any space so we lay our mats out in the fire exit and then proceeded to follow the instructions in French rather cluelessly. “Main droit a coté de la cuisse gauche...” and “Inspire...EXPIRE!” (Inhale, exhale).

It was a bit like Twister, if I am telling the honest truth. Plus it was made even more complicated due to the fact that every five seconds we were forced to adopt this position:

and then this:

In actual fact it is called "the Upward Dog":

#doggyyoga

None of us could for the life of us understand every word the woman was saying (she wasn't even within our field of vision there were so many Yoga attendees in the room), so what we had to do is continually glance up and around at everyone else while we were trying to execute this position:

I enjoyed it nonetheless (the stretching and balancing part) except for this position, which is deceptively more difficult than it looks:

We finished off with some “Namaste”:

And then lay flat back on our Yoga mats for five minutes at the end with our eyes closed which I have to say provided me with an opportunity to fall asleep for a short while.

After that we sat cross-legged and all of a sudden the room was filled with a HUUUUUUM noise (All the Yoga clichés are true! People sitting cross-legged and humming!) at which point one of the girls next to me dissolved into giggles, which set me off and the rest of us.

I am sure that it wasn't “Yoga Etiquette” though, because there were some extremely concentrated people a few rows in front of us who looked mildly annoyed – whereas others were fighting back grins themselves.

After Yoga we went for a coffee (which turned into coffee and one of the most, if not the most, delicious slices of cheesecake I've ever eaten). 

Anyway, that was my weekend of fun for you – conclusion: Time to Start Running Again and Time to Stop Giggling and Ruining the “Energy”.

Confidence

 It's that time of the week again, blog time!

Well first things first. This Tuesday I returned to France, after a pretty incredible couple of weeks back in England. I know I insinuated heavily about 'how much I needed that break' before, but I will reiterate: how much I needed that break.

What's more, it enabled me to see all of my family AND extended family for a couple of weeks. If any of my relatives are reading this (including honorary relatives – Gilly!) please note that your presence was very much appreciated and for the most part of the Christmas break I was smiling, giggling, laughing until I had a stitch and occasionally 'dancing off' the endorphins.

(Wow. I attempted my best to make that sound sincere, but I guess some of you might be raising your eyebrows at me through the screen).

As for friends reading this, those of you who I saw over the Christmas break, your presence was equally as important and special. (For those of you I didn't see but who were in England nonetheless – fear not, you will suffer the full force of overexcited endorphins when I do finally see you again).

Now, my last post (before the previous) was all about “evaluating” the first part of the year abroad, with relation to all that's happened but also I spoke a bit about Paris and the suburbs, and how they are different worlds but that I'd 'found my feet' in both somehow.

If I'm honest, I wasn't dreading my return to Paris this Tuesday, but in the week leading up to it I admit that I was reflecting rather apprehensively on what is lying in store for the next part of this year. I mean, it has taken me an entire three months to work out how the trains work (conclusion: They Don't), get accustomed to Foreign Language Fear (something akin to culture shock) and acclimatising to this town that I live in (which is physically and metaphorically miles apart from the Martinique Dream I nurtured from the very beginning of this journey).

But one of the greatest things in the world happened, and I got a flatmate. The evening I returned I can't tell you how happy I felt when I was cooking dinner in my onesie and suddenly! Heard the key in the lock...and bam! My flatmate walked in and suddenly my entire evening was more sociable than almost every single evening I've had in this flat over the past three months.

This week, I've enjoyed sharing the space so much. The apartment could very well fit 3-4 people (I think more might instil serious Bathroom Wars) but seeing there was only ONE for such a long time, even TWO is a welcome number.

If I am honest, we made the decision to live together quite suddenly and without giving it much thought – a few hazy drinks for the worse at 4am in an Irish bar – but living with someone you don't know well can be a great experience. It gives you the opportunity to get to know someone much faster and personally than you otherwise would.

So that was exactly what we did. We bonded over yummy food, Spotify playlists, Youtube (thanks to INTERNET in the flat) and a couple of Toilet Traumas (our flush broke this week, but we found an innovative solution). And on Thursday evening, after my ballet class I got in late planning on 'an early night' as I was low on sleep...but then we ended up chatting over tea for 3 hours, culminating in a 'red wine, nail polish and Breakfast At Tiffany's dvd' soirée on the sofa.

Just like old times! (Not. But maybe one day we'll be able to say that).

I really have high hopes for this 'next semester' in France. Franchement, the first three months weren't hopeful, but now that things have turned around a bit and I've conquered the art of being self-sufficient, I am sure that this is going to be hard to give up come April time.

If I forget to tell myself this in the future, I am so glad to have had this experience working and living in France. Because not only has it been a good job (teaching) but it's been a good lesson in “How to Look After Yourself”. I don't mean just food, having internet and paying bills alone, I also mean looking after myself in other ways.

There's a lot of things that we twenty-something year olds don't 'get' about life until we have to experience bits of life itself. Friendships, relationships, responsibilities, and most importantly (in my opinion) being self-collected.

Being self-collected isn't just about knowing you've got good friendships, you can save your money or that you can do well in an exam if you study hard. I think that's what I thought it was about for I don't know? My whole life up til now?

Being self-collected is also about making sure that you are making the right decisions for yourself and knowing that these decisions make you in control of your own life. Being self-collected is also very much to do with being able to put yourself first when it's necessary (because if ever you end up somewhere unknown without a single familiar face to help you, it becomes vital to put yourself first).

But most importantly, self-collectedness is about being confident in every way possible. I can't express how important it is to build on your own confidence in every situation. Confidence isn't 'hey look at me I'm great' by the way, and it isn't 'hey look at me I look great' either.

...But hey. Looks like it worked pretty well for Daniel Craig...

Confidence is basically being self-collected. When you're confident, it has to come from yourself and it has to be about who you are as a person, otherwise everyone can tell you're not confident.

Usually people assume that loud, bossy, funny or extroverted people are the confident ones, but that's not true. Quiet, submissive, serious and introverted people can be just as confident – probably if you acknowledge the former without considering the latter, you aren't looking at what confidence is really all about.

I think that this year has taught me how to be confident in myself, whoever I am and whoever I turn out to be in the future.

  

“It's a new day, it's a new dawn...and I'm feelin' goooood.”

Hola and Bonjour and seasons greetings. Tomorrow is the first of January and it has got me thinking about the new year ahead of me and inevitably, evaluating the one that has just past me by.

So, I've never been much of a 'resolutions' girl. To be honest, I'd rather eat chocolate cake, continue drinking wine and exercise less.

My theory is that resolutions are not merely pressurizing; they also do the opposite to make you feel good. Every year on the 31^st of December, I see that token friend eating 'her last square of Cadburys' or that dude who drinks 'his last pint' (oh wait, no, boys don't give up beer) and then a week later...

Yeah, that happens.

So what's the point, I say? I don't make them if I know I'm not going to keep them.

However.

Three months of living on my year abroad has already changed my perspective on some things.

Because that time has been (let's face it) a difficult three months, there have been a lot of inadvertent character-building experiences. Through these character building moments, I have learnt the discipline of:

1. waiting
   
   

   

   The internet modem which nearly took an arm, a leg, 1/4 of a year and quite a few other things to make an appearance in my life.
   

2. persevering at something
   
   
   
   
   
3. dealing with unruly characters
   
   
   
   
   
4. finding my feet (and at times, identity) in a foreign language
   
   
   
   
   

And it seems to me that this has all cumulatively resulted in a change of attitude towards some things I once was relaxed about.

For example: I never made resolutions before because I was never convinced that I had the willpower to keep them, and therefore making them in the first place was pointless.

But now I think about that, I reflect on what terrible logic that actually is. For starters, it makes you believe something negative about yourself – that you can't do something. (And to be frank, I don't need any extra negativity in my life, especially since the French appear to season their bureaucratic notions with sprinklings of it).

And secondly, I think that the past three months has proved to me that I'm not just capable of doing something: I'm also capable of coming through the negative, blue, frustrating, disappointing, sad and downright down moments that sometimes come my way and turn them positive.

Because so far my memories of living in Paris, although coloured by the difficult moments, are memories that remind me of achievement.

If quitting and leaving had been as easy as breaking a New Year's resolution just to eat chocolate cake, then I would have left Paris months ago. But because that was never a choice, there wasn't much to be done about it.

But now that I have achieved in my independence, it puts a whole new light on what resolutions actually mean. When you're resolved to do something, it means that you put up a fight.

It means that you get on with your resolve, even if it's extremely difficult.

It also means that giving up should never even be an option because true resolve should mean the same as “I don't have a choice”.

Okay, so it's never going to be easy to “give up chocolate cake” or “go to the gym more”. But maybe the problem with resolutions is not that the resoluee (is that a word?) is incapable; maybe it's that the resolution itself was always unrealistic.

I'm not going to say my resolutions because once you've said them aloud, that's when they lose their significance. But the point is for the first time in years, I have made resolutions – and I know that I'm capable of keeping them.

At the end of the day, resolutions aren't all that important. It's what they represent, isn't it?

Evaluation: Year Abroad Part 1

It is 10AM. The sky is clear, streaked with strips of wispy clouds and when the wind picks up it is strong and bitterly cold. I stand across the street, in a park opposite the coach station, looking down onto a giant motorway where cars pass underneath.

Except this time, I am not alone. Behind me my sisters are standing, in the pale morning sunshine, chatting to each other. I steal a glance at the horizon, a moment all by myself.

Paris, of all the places I had ruled out. But after all that had happened over three months, here I was. And it wasn't so bad. In fact, it was still mysteriously beautiful to me. It suddenly occurred to me that whatever bad that happened, experiencing Paris would never get old. It was timeless, exciting and beautiful.

As you look at the city, early in the morning, on a Sunday when everyone sleeps and only the tourists straggle through the Tuileries Gardens, amble through the fiery leaves that pave the banks of the Seine and stand before the diamond shaped pyramids that flank the Louvre gazing in admiration at the beauty before them, you realise that Paris is very special, and very unlike other cities in terms of its beauty.

But it is mysterious to me that such a place, whose ancient buildings and cobbled streets, jet-black lamp posts and delicate patisserie shops can also contain the filthiest train stations, the foulest smelling Metro tunnels and the largest rats known to France. It is a mystery to me that just beyond the invisible border which separates Paris from the infamously less beautiful suburbs (the 'banlieue'), there is complete lack of charm, of elegance and romance. The train ride home brings me through into a land that is a world entirely different to the city which has somehow charmed and tricked the world.

“The most romantic city in the world!”

“The capital of elegance!”

“The hub of all culture.”

The difference between these two Metro maps, and the difference between the two geographical maps, is quite significant. London is a big maze of Tubes, buses, cars, bikes and trains which lead out into 'Greater London'. 

Whereas Paris...

Paris just stops. As soon as that invisible boundary which signifies the ends of the city, you are no longer 'in Paris'. You aren't even 'Parisien' any more. You're in the 'banlieue'. (a word which doesn't have a very nice connotation). Some of the 'banlieues' are nicer than others, of course. Versailles, where the deceased monarchs castle still reigns proudly, is a suburb which is more beautiful than any I have seen yet.

But take the Line D, south of Paris, past stations such as Villeneuve St Georges, Evry Courcouronnes and the very best of them all, Corbeil-Essonnes (which sounds a lot like 'corbeille' which is 'bin' which gave me the new nickname for it: 'the Bin of Essonnes') and you realise that here, everyone's expectations and standards are lower. There isn't a whole lot of beauty in these slightly run-down suburb towns, least of all in the area of public transport. They're dirtier, poorer and not romantic in the slightest.

However, I have spent more of my time over the past three months in these towns, passing through and waiting for the elusive buses and briefly chatting with strangers who live here too. And the day that I found my feet was the day when I took the train out of Paris, transported myself away from the breathtaking view of the Sunday morning skyline in the most romantic city there is – that was the day when I ended up in the suburbs, in a small and dim apartment surrounded by a family of African strangers whose love and openness was infectious.

So did I find my feet? I come back to my senses and realise that my sisters behind me are calling me, calling me up out of my reverie, telling me that it is time to move, time to get going.

The time to move, the time to get going, the time to walk to yet another station, another Metro stop and another monument or fascinating corner of this exclusive world. This has become the mantra I am forced to adopt every time I set foot in Paris. If you are not moving in Paris, there is nowhere to even sit. The solution to this? Keep moving.

And as I walk the streets with my sisters, it occurs to me that I don't know Paris at all. And the truth is, I will never know Paris. No-one ever does, fully. Once I met someone in the south of France, hundreds of miles and almost an entire world apart from Paris, who told me:

"Paris is a city that moves. People go there to study, then to work and after two years, they leave. There's nothing left to see after two years, nothing left to experience. The reason Paris is so good is because the population changes every two years."

And as you look on at the city, even after a weekend I get restless. The same cafés, the same monuments, the same tourist shops selling the same tacky souvenirs at every corner...and there isn't anywhere to go to escape this madness.

Except for the suburbs.

Life goes on in the suburbs. Families live, schools run, children grow up and the communities build their lives. There is solidarity and there is semblance of stability. The constant movement of Paris is what scares me sometimes, makes me feel that there is no identity to it. Its identity has been formed around the ideals, the flocks of famous writers, actors, actresses, politicians, hell everyone has been to Paris at least once in their life! But who can say that they have never moved on from it?

There is a song, by Maurice Chevalier, which sums up Paris's reputation in what seems to be a fairly accurate description:

Paris sera toujours Paris !
La plus belle ville du monde
Malgré l'obscurité profonde
Son éclat ne peut être assombri
Paris sera toujours Paris !
Plus on réduit son éclairage
Plus on voit briller son courage
Plus on voit briller son esprit
Paris sera toujours Paris !

Three months ago, I looked out onto the beautiful city skyline and tried to contain my excitement. I was so convinced in that moment that I was going to find my feet. But my feet weren't in Paris, not where the tourists' heels clicked, not where the students filed in and out on a yearly basis – not even in the cafés where waiters and waitresses' black leather shoes squeaked, preparing to squeak away as soon as they got sick of the same routine serving tiny espressos on uninspiring round tables.

The land beyond Paris, the somewhat excluded neighbouring towns where life went on, where families grew together and communities held themselves together with what they had, that was where my feet had landed. And there were many moments of frustration, of undecided emotion at what life had handed me, living in these communities.

I am brought back to my sisters, who are saying goodbye to each other as one of them gets on her bus to London. I wave and hug her, as we promise each other to experience Paris once more, in the spring when she gets a chance to come back. Because even after a weekend, there are things we have not seen.

Sometimes, I tell myself the next day when everyone has left and I am getting on the train alone to go back to my small village, sometimes, it's hard to understand why you have ended up where you are. When you're bustling around, travelling from A to B, rushing in and out of the two worlds which represent the same place, you don't understand which one you belong to. 

Sometimes its very hard living somewhere you never expected or wanted to be living in.

Sometimes the bad moments outweigh the good moments. Solving your problems on your own, in spite of language barriers, waiting for elusive trains and buses, sorting out grown-up things like social security, insurance and installing phone lines, understanding terms and conditions in a foreign language, receiving yet another bill for a service or charge you did not expect (because you were struggling to understand the complex vocabulary that was thrown at you and never fully explained) and trying to find your identity in all of this, often all of the above being done whilst fighting back tears...tears of frustration, exhaustion and unrest.

That is what the lecturers did not tell us about in preparation for our year abroad. But if they had, perhaps we wouldn't have believed them anyway. No one could believe that spending a year abroad would entail some of the most difficult and loneliest moments of your life; the connotation of a year abroad is much like the connotation of Paris. You are presented with the romantic image; an unreal paradise which in reality can't possibly live up to the expectations.

The year abroad is all you can think about, but what happens when you are actually faced with the reality? It's kind of like looking at Paris's skyline on a cold but clear Sunday morning, where all is calm and it looks exactly as you imagined it to always be. But the reality is so incredibly different, worlds apart from what the tourists see.

Paris will always be Paris, sings Maurice Chevalier; the most beautiful city in the world. In spite of its deep mystery, its radiance will never burn out.

Paris will always be Paris, the more you darken its lights, the more it shines on courageously; the brighter its spirit shines.

Paris will always be Paris.