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Sometimes when I walk down the street, (probably more often when I walk around here in my suburban ‘hood actually), I really do believe that I’m walking through the opening scene of Team America.
That’s the scary thing about this film - just far away enough to be a joke, just close enough to be almost true – brilliant!
There are people who DO dress like the French people in the film (including the little boy in the sailor suit), there ARE butterflies fluttering past (I had 2 fly in through the window of our apartment last week), and the street-scene is pretty much spot on (except that the Eiffel Tower isnt close enough to crush the Arc de Triomphe).
If I walk to our local shops in the afternoon, I step out onto the footpath into a sea of beautiful green leafy trees lining both sides of the street. Garden beds are built into the “nature strip” (as we call it in Australia) with a range of plants, shrubs, colourful flowers, the occasional vegetable (who knew that rhubarb and spinach make great decorative plants?) all arranged in an artistically natural landscape design (which is changed with the seasons).
I walk 50 metres, and pass by a public garden/children’s playground. It has a gate surrounding it so that parents can let their toddlers run around in relative safety. This garden encourages kids to run on the grass, lie under the big shady trees, and there’s a big sandy section with heaps of kids play equipment. Every afternoon the park benches are full of nannies, parents, grandparents watching the kids play, breastfeeding their bubs, rocking prams, and generally chit-chatting with all the other care-givers. As parents and kids leave the playground, the kids are encouraged to say good-bye politely, and as they go their separate ways, the kids yell back to their friends “see you tomorrow! goodbye!”.
This is usually the point where I start to feel like I’m a marrionette in the Team America movie: the sun will warm me, dappled light filtered by the green leaves, a cool breeze will caress my face, I’ll inhale deeply the smell of beautiful damp earth, fresh grass, slightly perfumed flowers. Children will walk hand-in-hand with their grandma, skipping and laughing, old men will pass old ladies in the street and say “good afternoon, girls!”. It’s all 100% true, I’m living it – but how can this be real?
Next, I pass the Town Hall. This is the most imposing building in the neighbourhood, especially with the big manicured garden out the front. Here’s a photo of it: it really doesnt do it justice, but you get the idea.
Its just beautiful. Not too brash, not too cutesy, not a 1980’s architectural disastrous interpretation of a shed (like the one in my hometown). During winter they drape kilometres of white fairy-lights over the windows and around all the manicured trees – a real winter wonderland.
Continuing down the road, I arrive at the commercial section of the “village”. It’s a cute little strip of the main street with a posh supermarket, chocolate shop, a few “old men” cafes, a jewellery store etc. Every thing you could need.
There are a few fruit and vege shops, including my favourite semi-organic one, that only sells things that are in season. The owner writes up receipes for the fruit/vegetables that are in their peak that week on the blackboord out the front. She always seems to be spending a whole lot of time chatting, and not much selling, but I get the feeling that this is the reason people keep coming back to her shop 
There are 3 butchers in the strip, which sounds a lot, especially when you consider that there is also a supermarket a few steps away. But the French dont believe in skimping on quality for the sake of a few centimes, so every butchers shop is full of people (and the meat aisle in the supermarket is, accordingly, very small, and only used by old age pensioners and Australians who dont know any better…..). The “worst” butchery on the street (so I was told) is actually, probably my favourite because it’s so quirky and strange. It’s run by a son (in his 60’s) and his mother (in her 80’s). He runs around the shop (there’s no “counter” as such), and out the back in the fridge, rummaging for the perfect piece of meat or whole guinea fowl that someone has asked for. His white apron is usually covered in blood smears. He has an old (REALLY old) wooden (!!!) chopping bench. It’s probably 10cm thick or more, but it’s been used so much in one area that it’s created a big sloping hole, where the thickness is noticeably less. I’m totally sure that an Australian health inspector would shut the place down, but hey, we’re in France, and they’ve been selling meat like this for years and no one died (that they know of). Once he wraps your meat, you take it over to a little cash register, where “maman” (Mum) is sitting patiently.
“How much is it?” she yells to her son.
“Ten euros.”, he replies.
“HOW much?”
“TEN!”
And she rings it up on the register calmly. “Ten euros, please, Mademoiselle.”
On the same strip, in a covered hall, there’s the indoor market three times a week, where I have been known to cry over salad leaves.
There are 3 boulangeries. One of which I have refused to return to because their bread tasted like cardboard (of course, they are the cheapest in the ‘hood). The second, well, it does a nice sesame seed baguette, but everything else is just so-so (not enough salt I think).
The last one, and my favourite, always has a queue winding out the door. It has the best bread: lovely, sour crusty baguettes, soft on the inside, with just enough salt. Our neighbour has boycotted them because they use a coin machine connected to the cash register. You order, they ring it up, you put your coins in the machine, et voila! He refuses to accept the industrialisation of a (in his opinion) basic human interaction. If he cant put coins in the hand of a human for his baguette, its NO ‘PAIN’ FOR YOU! (Of course, he loves ordering rugby jerseys and Nespresso coffee capsules over the internet…..).
And the dodgey tea shop that I’ve so far avoided, turns out to be a coffee shop as well, which buys and roasts it’s own beans, in shop. I passed the other day and watched as the owner stood out on the footpath and sorted through his latest delivery of coffee beans to pick out the imperfect ones, and smell that smokey, musky odour of roasting beans.
By the time I’ve done my shopping, I’m usually on a ‘France-High”. I’m sure I float back home and up the stairs, a slight smile on my face, and the beautiful Zen forehead and eyebrows, relaxed and smooth.
90 euro massage v daily trip to the shops? Same effect.
Somebody pinch me. Do I REALLY live here?
Sorry for the EXTREME Australian-isms today, but I’m feeling very homesick (it doesnt happen often) and having another round of culture shock (yes, it is still possible to suffer from culture shock a year and a half after arriving).
I was so pathetic this morning that I texted my sister in law and asked her to send me a quick film from her iphone of my little niece, even if it was just 20 seconds of her asleep in her cot.
God, I’m such a sooky-baby-with-a-dummy-spit-out today.
So, what was the trigger?
Well, 2 things.
One was the dinner we went to last night.
All of M’s work colleagues have been trying for ages to get them plus partners all together socially, but there’s always someone who cant come. Last night was the first time that EVERYONE could be there. I was so excited that M was going to spend some time with mates, and I could meet all the partners (I already know his colleagues, so this would just deepen my knowledge and the connections – and maybe I’d make a new friend or 2).
So we arrive early, and it’s summer, it’s hot, we’re in a bistrot and damn if I dont need (want?) a rasberry mojito from their blackboard menu to quench my thirst while we’re waiting for everyone to arrive. Then M reminds me: it’s considered rude in France to start eating/drinking before everyone arrives. NOOOOOO! I wailed and pouted and said “But I’ll die of thiiiiiiirst!”.
OK, disaster averted when the waitress asked us if we’d like a drink while waiting and M said “yes”, but, argh, when you grow up in a culture where it’s just natural to grab a drink while you’re waiting and relax into the evening, having to put the brakes on, in summer especially, it just seems kinda painful.
Then everyone starts to arrive, about 10 of us in total. The boys all chat, laugh, smoke, drink heartily and generally relax and enjoy themselves. I make a suggestion to put all the colleagues together and all the partners together and then realise this means separating into a group of boys and a group of girls. This, I am NOT a fan of, and thankfully, no one else is either.
But I’m sitting right at the end of a long rectangular table. And when the female partners get bored of listening to yet another work story, they yell down to me to ask things and start a conversation (which is lovely and very inclusive). Except, with all the noise, I cant hear them very well, so cant understand very well, and they cant hear what I’m saying either which is even further distorted by my Aussie accent. We all seem to just give up a little, because it’s just too hard. Conversation comes to a halt. And I’m back in my little isolated corner again.
Then the boys start telling stories we are actually interested in, and the whole table is listening, but they’re speaking so quickly and in slang, and mumbling, I barely even work out what the topic is. I lean over to M a few times to ask for an explanation, but this pulls him away from the group vibe, so I just stop asking and sit there not understanding.
Even when I did have conversations, ok, they were alright, but there was always this invisible wall that came up. I tried my best to be “me”, while still being within acceptable “French” boundaries for dinner-table conversation. I dont know, just when I thought I was making inroads, SHAZAM! and I’d get the wall again. Sometimes this manifested itself in the person physically turning away from me mid-sentence, or before the natural conclusion of the conversation. Yes, I talked to the back of quite a few heads.
One of M’s colleagues insists on lighting the girls cigarettes for them, even though the girls already have a lighter in their hand….yes, it’s gallant, but when he has to lean all the way up the other end of the table to do it? Slightly impractical, non?
Time to pay – I pull out my wallet and M gives me the “put. your. wallet. away.” look. Yep, that’s right, it’s only the men who pay. (And yes, in very posh restaurants in France, the waiters do still give the menu with the prices to the “men” of the table, while the women get just the menu with the dishes, no price.) Yes, yes, it’s gallant, blah blah blah, but all the girls at the table were working women (well, except me, but then I’ve got my own finances to rely on). Sigh. I put my wallet away….
Then we were all leaving, and after we kiss on both cheeks with each person, one might say “oh, it was lovely to meet you, I hope that we’ll see you again soon?”, to which I reply “yes lovely to meet you too! and of course we will see you again because….” but at this point, the person has moved on to give kisses to the next person and isnt listening to a word I’m saying. New cultural lesson: saying goodbye isnt an opportunity to talk more, it’s just for saying goodbye. Anything else you wanted to say should have been said before, or should be left for another time. Yes, it took me 3 “goodbyes” where I ended up talking to myself before I realised what was happening.
How could I have forgotten that in Paris, one must remember that one is just a very elegant chair? (see my first few posts). Does anyone talk to a chair? No. Does anyone expect to have a conversation with a chair? No. You just sit elegantly, listen, and expect nothing.
As we were walking back to the metro, M asked me if I had a good night…..and I explained that yes, I did, but it’s just still so hard for me to fit in, even though I try really hard. He gave me a big hug and said that he knows its hard for me, but that I’m doing well, and that he will always be there for me, regardless. Yes, his support encourages me to keep going, but geez, it’s bloody tough.
And then the second trigger is that M’s family is coming down from Dunkerque tonight and we’ll all be eating dinner together at his aunt and uncle’s place around the corner.
I love his family, but when they’re all together, they all speak a million miles and hour, tell jokes that I dont understand (sometimes at my expense, which is actually a way of saying they like me), and I, almost always, get left behind in the conversation. And again, yes, hello, that’s me, the mute foreigner in the corner, smiling like an idiot and hoping that I’ll understand something soon.
And I’m still not really family. Yes, they’re accepting and welcoming, but I dont have the shared history and connection. Which I understand is normal when you’re just starting to get to know the in-laws, but when there’s a language barrier in there as well, it just takes twice as long to make those connections.
Maybe I’ll have a little nap before we leave for dinner, so that my concentration powers will be at super-maximum-strength?
Maybe I’ll just play Foreign Mute Girl again.
Anyway, as I was writing my other post today about health insurance (ooh! exciting!), I started thinking about the overall experience since I arrived.
When I left Australia, I dont think I thought that all this uncertainty, the frustration, the surprises, would be so much fun.
And I really mean that. This adventure has been, and continues to be fun.
And it stays fun – as long as I keep it all in perspective.
I always wanted to be a “child of the world”, to live and work in various countries, to fully experience different cultures so that I could be more enlightened and aware and less narrow-minded.
These experiences, these hurts, culture clashes, homesickness – it’s all bending me and moulding me into the person I wanted/want to be.
It’s making me more compassionate.
It’s making me think outside my narrow understanding of “society” and “community”.
It’s making me think more about what our commonalities are, and what it means to be humain.
This is one, long, interesting game. The objective of the game is to understand as best as I possibly can, and that’s something that cant be done over the course of one dinner.
I wrote this on a meetup message board today in response to a question from an Aussie moving to Paris with his family.
Buddha, it just brought me right back to the moment when I bought my own travel insurance back in December 2008, thinking “I’ll just get it for a year, because if I dont get a job in Paris then I’ll be back on the plane to Sydney“.
Oh my lordy. Isnt it just amazing how, once you let life take you on a journey, it bloody takes you all over the shop and around the corner to a secret door-behind-the-bookshelf that you didnt even know was there?
March 2010 was my “d-day” for success or pack up and go home. And here I am, in July, engaged to a Frenchman and about to move to London for 2 years for work. How did I get to this place in my life? I cant help but smile and say “well, you wanted the adventure….YOU GOT IT!”. lol.
Anyway, I wrote this response and I thought, bloody hell, if only someone had given me this information before I left Sydney, I would have had so much less drama. OK, yes, it was challenging (in a fun way) trying to weasel my way out of having to create more documents and come back to the prefecture again, but really, it was drama that wasnt really necessary. And this guy has a family to bring over with him – he DEFINITELY doesnt need more drama!
So, I have copied the response on my site in the hope that it is useful for someone, someday, who is also making the leap of faith to France.
Enjoy!
* * *
Hi Ron
Congrats on making the decision to move to Paris! A decision that you and your family wont regret
I have a long stay visa “visiteur”. I only really planned to be in Paris for a year and if I didnt find a job (that would provide me with healthcare), then I would head back to Sydney (and, whoops!, I found me a French fiance in the meantime and well, I’m still here…).
ANYWAY back to the point…..
I took out a one year travel insurance policy through my Travel Agent from Heaven (see below). This covered me for everything, including all health issues and expenses.
This worked fine with the consulate in Sydney, but wasnt so well received at the prefecture here in Paris. The biggest problem (and I know, this sounds dumb, but that’s France for you), was that the certificate of insurance (a) didnt say “health insurance” or “sickness insurance” and (b) didnt specifically list all the medical things it could cover me for.
The prefecture told me it wasnt sufficient, because it was “travel” insurance. I had to be quite forceful (in my most polite and smiling and charming way) that travel insurance by nature covers you for medical expenses, and that just because it didnt say “sickness” or “health” anywhere, didnt mean it wasnt sufficient to cover me if I have a problem here. I really pushed this point because (a) I didnt want to have to get MORE insurance (b) I didnt want to have to make ANOTHER appointment at the prefecture and (c) I didnt want to get ALL the terms and conditions of the policy translated into French because translation services, by “official” translators cost a bomb, and I’d already spent a fortune.
In the end, she spoke to her supervisor and then continued to process my carte de sejour without me needing to do anything more.
BUT if you want to have a more smooth transition at the prefecture, and you are planning to stay in Paris for longer than a year, then I would recommend getting some proper health insurance designed for ex-pats. I’ve been in contact with Steve McGrady, an English insurance broker, who was recommended to me by another Aussie. He can point you in the right direction and give you lots of options and different price ranges.
AND if you can ask your translator to make sure the words “Assurance Maladie” are in big bold letters at the top, then that would also help!
Good luck!
Kristie
* * *
[b]Travel Agent from Heaven[/b]
Fabian Cannavo
fabianDOTcannavo AT flightcentre DOT com DOT au
Flight Centre Mosman
717 Military Road, Mosman, NSW 2088
Phone: (02) 9942 8988 Fax: (02) 9942 8999
[b]Nice Insurance Broker Man in London[/b]
Steven McCrady
International Sales Advisor
APRIL Medibroker Ltd
United Kingdom
Tel: +44 (0)191 296 6140
Fax: +44 (0) 191 257 6272
Direct line +44 (0)191 270 3035
Skype: medibrokerstevenmc
E-mail: stevenDOTmccrady AT medibroker DOT com
Web: www.medibroker.com
“The dream isn’t over. It’s closer than ever. I just need to take one more step backwards before I can go forwards.”
This is me in my most positive moments.
The rest of the time, I feel like my heart has split open and blobbed on the ground in a big blubbery mess.
I have found a job in London, with my old employer from Australia. The reality is that I need an income, and I need to keep my career on track.
Yes, I could earn some “unofficial” money in Paris (thereby getting around the “no work permit” issue), but everything that I’ve looked at will barely earn me enough to pay the rent (on a good month). That’s not even thinking about travel around France, or around Europe or going back to Australia for a visit. OK, maybe travel around Europe and France isnt a necessity, but a trip back to Aus is. And as for trying to make back the money that I’ve spent this past year while out of work? Huh. Yeah, right.
I have seriously questioned whether my motives are all about money. Shouldn’t I just be happy to be in France? Even if I’m living below the poverty line, isn’t the joy of Paris enough?
The fact is, I have the option to have the dream, the whole dream. I can have an income, I can enhance my financial security, I can continue my career, I can (at some stage in the future) move back to Paris and into a fantastic job. I just cant do it right now. Can I do it in 2 years time? In 2 years time, hopefully things will be more stable in the global economy, my French will be better, I’ll have European experience, I’ll have more European business contacts (that can possibly give me access to jobs in France) – all things to enhance my ability to get a job in France.
And my new employer has just acquired a new European business, almost doubling their staff numbers – including in the Paris office. Two of my new superiors said to me in my interviews that in 2 years time, the Paris office may well be big enough to warrant my transfer over there. No guarantees, but still, it’s possible!
And also, by then, I should have the right to work in France because M and I have tied the knot.
The other major thing to consider is that, as a couple, life isnt just all about me and my needs. Every decision needs to be beneficial for both of us, or an agreed compromise “win-win”. Yep, we could stay in Paris, M could continue working in his job, we could have a great life. But where does his career lead to from here? He wont be able to progress in France unless he is bi-lingual French/English at a minimum (there are so many jobs now that require you to be tri-lingual, usually with Spanish or Italian as the 3rd language). We want to live in Australia one day, so how will he be able to settle comfortably if he cant communicate? And even more importantly, how long is it going to take before he will be able to have a fantastic conversation with my family and friends (without me having to translate)?
Learning a language when you’re not immersed in it every day is really hard. I know – I spent years and years studying French on Saturday mornings and still found it hard to put a sentence together. M spent years at school learning English, but can still hesitates when introducing himself. And now that I’ve spent a year in France, I’ve been able to hold job interviews in French and crack jokes (probably the most important aspect of language!). Moving to London is actually his best opportunity to get his English fluent while he’s still at an early stage of his career – and, so that he can start speaking with my family asap.
This is a good move for the both of us.
So I will console myself with the fact that Paris is literally just a short train or plane ride away.
I can come back as often as I like. And of course, we will need to come back to France to see M’s family (which, in a strange twist, works out well because London is actually closer to Dunkerque, than Paris is to Dunkerque – bizarre).
I can even continue my French lessons while in London, and speak French with M at home (when he’s not practicing his English).
It all sounds really great. It IS great.
It’s just not like walking out the door in the morning and feeling the rush of French language around me.
It’s just not like living in Paris.
My name is Kristie. Not only am I a baguette-a-holic, but I am also a market-a-holic.
The first step to recovery is admitting that one cannot control one’s addiction or compulsion.
I admit that I have a big, BIG problem with markets.
Today, at the market, I cried over salad.
Yes. Salad.
M and I were at the Italian stand, trying to work our what type of fresh ravioli we would buy, when a radiant green flashed in the corner of my eye.
A row of different types of salad leaves, in separate wicker baskets.
The first, carrying baby spinach leaves, even more beautiful than their name in French: “Jeunes pousses d’epinards”. How can I explain how perfect they were? Tender, fresh, without a single blemished leaf? How is it possible to have a whole basket of delicate leaves without them looking a little transport-weary? I could have sworn that he had picked each leaf by hand and carried it delicately to rest in the basket.
The next basket was full of fine tendrils of rocket. Not the big, burn-your-mouth-out leaves that I used to buy in Woolworths supermarket in Sydney. These rocket leaves were elegant, fine, gently curling, as if asking to be placed on your fork.
And the other baskets – salad leaves that I have only seen in France, like Mache.
It was a moment of amazement and wonder and I actually welled up. How can you live in a big city, and yet have access to produce that you would normally have to go to the country to find, or grow in your own backyard?
And we’re not even in Paris central. We’re in a little suburb just outside of Paris, and yet the market is open 2 or 3 mornings a week.
This market is undercover, in a big hall on the main street. I walked past it’s grimey doors a million times, thinking it looked too ugly to warrant a visit. The supermarket was just fine by me, and if I wanted a proper market experience, then I would just join my friend, A, at the organic market on Rue de Rennes, in Paris.
But one day, M suggested we make a quick Sunday trip to get a few things before all the shops closed on Monday (yes – in most suburbs, all the shops and restaurants close on Mondays. If you dont have anything in the fridge to eat for Monday night’s dinner – you’re stuffed).
Wow – from a dingy entrance, into a fabulous market atmosphere inside. There are:
- 3 cheese stalls (including my favourite husband and wife stall, where they always seem to be bickering and laughing together)
- one basic butchery, one butchery selling offal, and one butchery selling pate, terrines, pre-prepared meat dishes etc
- 5 fruit and vege stalls, with one particularly raucous Italian fruit and vege stall where the owners always seem to be doing more talking, giving kids strawberries to taste and general frivolity, than selling. I dont know how they do it, but they always have a crowd.
- 2 fish stalls (I avoid these like the plague – the smell for me is just too fishy!!)
- 2 flower/plant stalls (you name it – they got it)
- one wine stall (poor guy is always lonely. Everyone prefers the cute man in the bottleshop across the road)
- one cured meats stall (cured meats from everywhere – Corsica, French mountains, Italy, yum yum…)
- one italian stall, with mozzarella de buffala, fresh pasta, fresh pasta sauce, salami, proscuitto and delicious antipasti
- one stall that just does olives, tapenade and antipasti – thats it.
- one stall that just does potatoes and herbs – and salad…..
Now, every Sunday, I promise myself that I will only buy the necessities: the things that we have run out of from our 2 weekly supermarket shop, or the things that we cant get anywhere else. I promise myself that I will only buy the items I have written on the list. This is partly because the market is more expensive than the supermarket, but also as a way to control my addiction.
Some weeks, I succeed in only buying the things on the list – hurrah!
Other weeks, I just lose myself in the whirlwind of delicious market goodness; the people, the dogs, the banter between stallholder and local – and I want it too. I want to be given chunks of cheese to taste by the cheeseman, I want the fruit and vege man to greet me with a smile, I want the potato man to say “oh well, its better to have a big tall fiance with a big appetite than a small weedy one!” as he piles an extra couple of spuds in the bag. If I pass a fresh and beautifully pink pork fillet that has never seen a styrofoam tray or chemical preservatives – how can I leave it behind? I imagine that everything I buy from the market is full of vitamins, minerals and health-giving properties, and will without doubt be more delicious than anything I can buy from the “Auchan” supermarket (whether that’s true for everything in the market, I dont know, but the placebo effect works fabulously on me!).
Sometimes, the market isnt even about me, it’s just about watching how other people interact, watching how they choose their produce, listening to the conversations two women are having about their husbands and their work. I listen to the politeness, the protocol of the market, how things must be displayed, the interaction between stallholders who discuss whether it’s time to start packing up or if they can put aside a fillet of salmon for a customer who has just bought some fennel and lemons. This is the true France, the true meeting point of the neighbourhood – and I love it.
If there is such a thing as heaven, I am absolutely positive that there will be a market there.
Hold onto your seats people, because there’s an announcement that will make you say “what the fuck??” at your desk in your open plan office space and make you spit coffee over your keyboard….
M asked me to marry him. And I said yes.
Uh huh – you still said ‘what the fuck’, didnt you?
In an unexpected (sort of) turn of events, M decided that now was the best time for us to get sorted out, relationship-wise. And I thought he had a pretty good point.
So, the basics: how, when, why?
So, he was at work, and hurt his back, badly. He went to the Dr who gave him some super-strong painkillers. He finished work early, and was driving home when he thought that actually, he would take the opportunity of the early mark to go and check the size and order a ring he had picked at the local jewellers (and which he had already shown me).
He came home, and told me that he was just going up the road to get some deodorant and Orangina (French ‘Fanta’, except with real orange pulp). He occasionally gets Orangina cravings, so I didnt think anything of it.
He arrived at the jewellers. He wasnt sure of my size, and asked if he could come back another day. The assistant suggested that he just buy the ring now, to make sure it didnt get sold to someone else, and come back to have it resized if it didnt fit. (Note to self: OK, I think this is the stage where he started to get all a little bit too excited about things. The super-strength pain-killers may have played a part in this next decision). So he bought the ring, and together with the roll-on and fizzy drink, brought it home.
I was in the kitchen, getting dinner ready when he came back.
In his mind, he was just getting prepared. He thought he’d just buy the ring and ask me later, potentially at our friend’s wedding in 2 weeks time, or for our one year ‘meeting’ anniversary the week after that. But he said he kept thinking about the ring, sitting in his chest of drawers He thought about going to sleep that night, knowing that the ring was just 1 metre away. After about 30mins, he said he just couldnt wait. (Note to self: I wonder which drawer he put it in? Undies? Tracksuit pants?)
He came into the kitchen and asked me to come into the lounge room to clink glasses on our red wine before drinking (a firm tradition between us). I thought it was just going to be a 2 second thing, so I didnt even wash the lemon juice off my hands. So we said “Sante”, and drank.
Then he pushed towards me a wetsuit material stubby-holder with the Australian flag on it: “It’s for you.”
I was like, um, yeah, great, a stubby holder, that my Mum sent over for your birthday, and now its a gift for me – excellent. Then I saw a beautifully wrapped box inside.
I thought it was a chocolate.
It was a ring.
I asked him what he was trying to say (goddamnit, I’d waited my whole life to hear those effing words!! I was gonna hear them no matter what!). He said “Will you marry me?”.
He started crying, so did I.
I said yes.
We took some photos of the ring, the moment, the stubby-holder. We hugged, we were a bit shell-shocked, we laughed.
After a few minutes I said “Well, I’m hungry, better get back to the dinner!” And headed back in for some more lemon juice extraction.
We spent the next couple of days just digesting it. Just spending time together, talking. We didn’t tell anyone.
We finally told his parents, and then his aunt and uncle who live around the corner.
I couldnt get hold of my Mum on skype until the weekend (time difference, M working, my Mum working etc). I didnt want to tell my Mum by text message, or just on the phone by myself. I wanted us both to tell her, and for her to see us both. It’s hard enough for her to be so far away from me, and I really wanted to make a big effort for her.
Finally, a week later, I announced it on Facebook (the official record of all relationship status).
The reactions were mostly in the theme of “oh my god!” and “what the fuck?”.
I asked him why he wanted to ask me now, and not later. He said that he didnt want me to question his commitment to me in the (becoming more likely) event that I had to move to London for work. He didnt want to lose the opportunity.
From my perspective, I think we had already committed ourselves emotionally a while ago. The formal engagement was just an outward expression of what had already been decided.
I think I realised when I was on the plane back to Paris after visiting my family for the birth of my gorgeous niece. During the flight, I finished reading “The Fountainhead” by Ayn Rand. The heroine explains her love for the hero in words and actions particularly well at the end of the book. And as I thought about her type of love, I realised that there is one feature that stands out: she has no questions about their relationship. No “what if?”, no “maybe if things go like that then we can be together?” etc etc. And I think that’s the flip-side of people saying that they “just know” when they’ve met “The One”.
When I thought about all my friends who are in fantastic relationships/marriages, that’s one feature consistent in all of them. They dont have any more questions or uncertainties about their relationship. Even if they fight, disagree, argue. They just know.
And I realised that I didnt have any more questions about my relationship with M. No more second guessing, no more doubts, no more “if only he’d just do this“, or “if only he’d be more like that“, no more insecurity.
For me, this is a logical, unquestionable, next part of the journey for us as individuals and the journey of our relationship. This is very personal, deep, and intimate.
I didnt think about what ‘this’ looks like from the outside, until it was announced and people started sending their congratulations.
And then the cliches started to roll in: “You’re engaged to a hot, romantic Frenchman, he proposed in Paris, in the springtime, with a French red wine and candlelight. And how romantic will it be to have a wedding in Paris!”
Yes, it’s true. But I never thought of it until people mentioned it. This was never an element of my French ‘dream’. Ok, I always thought that I would like to find someone who either was French or who loved France like I do (or was willing to experience it for a while). But to actually fall in love and want to commit to someone, who is French, and who loves Paris, well, that’s just a bonus.
I think I need to put my ‘Little Miss Logic’ in the drawer for a while, and allow myself to get carried away in the romance a little. After all, it’s not that often in your life when you can truly let your heart go all mushy.
There was a time, not that long ago, when I really thought my life had reached a dead end. There was no going forward, no side-paths, and not even the ability to just stagnate where I was. I found this quote (the author changes depending on which website you view), and wrote it on the inside of my diary. I couldnt see how it could be true. I couldnt see what my life could possibly be like. But it gave me hope to keep going, and to keep searching for a future.
There will come a time
when you believe
everything is finished.
That will be the beginning.
And I recently found this verse from a Sufi poem about marriage:
A new hope is born in my heart.
Because of this trip to Paris, because of M, a new hope is born in my heart. This, is just the beginning.
I’m sorry that this post has to be all in past tense. I was just so emotionally all over the place that I couldnt bring myself to post it at the time (even though I jotted down the draft). I need to post it though, because it is a turning point in my life in France, and explains all that is to come. So here it is, warts and all.
* * *
Things were not looking so good workwise in March. After being completely screwed over by Big French Bank (names not mentioned to protect the guilty), I then spent 3 soul-destroying days in London pimping myself around to all the recruitment agencies, where I was again told “Not a Chance – No Aussies Considered – Get Back on Your Ship to the Colony, Criminal“. Add that to a particularly cold and long lasting winter, and my spirits really were at an all time low.
Yes, there were more and more ads for jobs in France that seemed suitable for me. Yes, my French was improving to the point that I could probably just scrape through as “fluent”. But the rejection emails (or no response at all) came in as quickly as the jobs did.
The only real possibility, seemed to be an opportunity to work for my old employer, in their London office (an opportunity discovered thanks to the powers of wine! I’d organised drinks with my old work colleagues and, voila!, a job opportunity raised it’s head).
One day not long after, when I was explaining to M about the job ads that I’d seen that day, and all the “non” emails I’d received, he just stopped me suddenly and said “You know what, this is doing your head in. Yes, there might be more jobs coming in but you, emotionally, cant keep going much longer. Why dont you just draw a line under the jobs that you are currently working on, stop looking for more, and if none of them work out, then we just take the London job?”.
This suggestion was a relief, a reassurance, but also, a path that I didn’t want to follow. I did not want to admit defeat. I did not want the dream to end.
I kept the basic list of job opportunities, but I kept looking, just in case.
I found one job that looked perfect, but required someone with fluent French. The headhunter ended the interview quickly once she realised what my level was, and we thought it was dead, but she called back the following day to say that her client was really interested, and could she take more details.
This, is the one. This is the job that is going to allow me to keep the dream alive.
The day of the interview, everyone sent me text messages wishing me well, telling me that I was going to kill the interview etc. I was so appreciative of the support and encouragement, but it just increased my level of nervousness an extra few decibels. And those extra decibels can kill a cool calm and collected vibe at an interview.
M was rattled as well. His family had been ringing in the morning asking how it went – but of course, the interview was in the afternoon. A whole day of stewing.
It also brought home to me that this really was a deciding moment in my future in France. My own personal D Day. And I just really didnt want to think about that.
I just needed to get through the interview in the most fabulously spectacular “you would be crazy not to hire me” way.
I was fabulous.
The interview was a disaster.
I wont bore you with details, but lets just put this into a short paragraph: My interviewer, one of the principals, arrived back into the office late, forgot that he had an interview with me, couldnt find my CV (despite the headhunters sending over a full file on me), he hadn’t read my CV, didn’t know who I was, typed away on his laptop as I was speaking, didn’t ask any relevant questions, told me that they didn’t even know what they wanted from the role and that if he was me, he would just take the London job.
I rang M straight after interview. He said: “It’s dead”.
So I managed to hold back tears until I got home. M took me in his arms and let me have a big ol’ cry.
In fact, I think the hug was for his benefit as well. This has been an amazingly challenging situation for him as well. Who would voluntarily choose to have a relationship with someone who doesnt have the right to work in their country? The emotional drama is SUCH a stress on the relationship. And he’s had to completely re-think his life and his future because of me. And now it’s likely that we will have to move country.
People called through the evening, sent texts to ask how the interview went. M didn’t feel like talking about it, so just said “We don’t know yet”. I was a little more resolved, and explained the whole disaster to those who asked.
I’ve had this big weight of frustration and continued disappointment sitting on my shoulders and heart, particularly for the last 6 months. And now to have this one more boulder placed on top….
Lets just say it wasnt a particularly jovial evening.
What I suspect is that they actually have already found someone, but that person is a foreigner like me, who needs to be sponsored. To be sponsored, they need to prove that they cant find anyone else in France or the EU to do the job, and hiring a recruitment firm to send through “dummy” interviewees is just what has to be done.
I dont know. Maybe that’s not the case. I guess I’ll never know.
The morning after I got up and got back onto pushing the London job forward – testing, formal job offer, salary, benefits etc. It’s a great offer and a good job. Hopefully it will all go well and I’ll get a formal offer (although, it’s pretty sure).
And we will come back to live in Paris one day.
I have good feelings about London and still feel positive that I will be able to “live the dream” in Paris again in the future. I guess I just need some time to grieve for this first dream lost.
When you’re unemployed, you have all the time in the world – but no money to do anything.
When you’re employed you have money to do the fantastic things you’ve dreamed about – but no time to do them.
People say “oh yes, but you’ve had a year off work, that’s a good enough holiday”.
Well, yes and no. Yes I’ve had some great leisure time, and have enjoyed time with friends. But I’ve had my job hunt looming like a big black cloud over my head, ready to rain on any parade in which I choose to participate. Previously exciting things just dont rate as highly on the hype-o-meter. Oh how I dream of being able to take the TGV to Lyon and eat myself into a delicious food coma, spend a weekend in Bordeaux and make friends with a wine-producer…..
But when you dont know if you’re going to get a job this month, or next year, financial resources need to be conserved = NO FUN.
The fun I have these days is a daily game to see how little I can spend. It works. Sometimes it works too well.
I have spent the past year living a non-buying mentality. This is actually quite a trendy thing to do at the moment. The anti-consumerism and anti-waste movement is growing in popularity daily. Some people have written books about how they spent a whole year not buying anything. They made their own clothes from curtains, made manual repairs to things that broke, recycled gifts, etc.
OK, I havent been that strict, but I did give nearly everything I owned away before I left, and my clothes purchases have pretty much been restricted to replacing things that had become to old to wear (eg pantyhose with holes) or essentials (more jumpers and some woollen pantyhose for winter). I have given up my expensive makeup in preference to some nifty maybelline (with one exception – I refuse to give up my expensive face cream, but have at least saved some money by asking visiting friends to buy it for me duty free).
Now that I think of it, the only treats I’ve really bought myself have been books, and I plan on passing them on – giving them away once I’ve finished with them anyway.
[Side note: This is something else I discovered as I was packing up my life last year. I had SO many books, that I'd read once, and left on the shelf, never to be touched again. When I had my "open day", when friends came around to take anything of mine they liked, I was amazed at how much joy was created around my book collection. Even after I left the country people mentioned how much they loved reading one of the books they'd selected. So my new philosophy is, unless it has REAL sentimental value or its a book I will re-read more than once, then books get given away or sold to second hand stores. This one little gesture will make a difference to other people's lives and will cut down on the number of things I have to pack and move when I change apartments!]
Most days, I dont even bother looking in clothes stores, Sephora etc. If I do, it’s usually because I’m with a friend from overseas who wants to spend up big on something fabulous from Paris (or because I’m with M, who is a terrible shopaholic when it comes to jeans, t-shirts and Nike trainers).
But even when I’m in a shop, I might see some nice things, but I just cant bring myself to buy anything. I have officially switched off the “buy” button in my brain. Whats the point of having a gorgeous pair of red stilettos if I dont have enough money to eat at the end of the month?
Speaking of eating, I have changed my eating habits dramatically as well. In Sydney, I didnt think anything of buying my lunch every day and eating out with friends in the evening. Now eating out is a luxury and I have discovered the joys of the 1 euro, 3-pack of canned lentils! Delicious with a blob of sweet chilli sauce mixed in! Dinners and lunches out are saved for when I have overseas visitors (or for when M is paying!).
Yes, it has been an exercise in restraint for financial purposes, but not spending money has really helped me to understand the difference between “want” and “need”. And it has made me stop and think before buying.
I havent changed my attitude in general though: I still believe in generosity, I still believe that I will receive what I need (through my own efforts or the generosity of others), I believe that there is more than enough of everything to go around without me being a stingy old scrooge. And generosity is not just about material things – it’s about generosity of time, effort, thought, assistance.
I think this is one of the greatest benefits I’ve had over the year: I’ve stopped thinking that I can just buy something and offer it as a gift as a display of generosity. Dont get me wrong, I LOVE to buy presents for other people, especially when it’s something that I know they’ll really love. But with my spending capacity severely limited, I’ve really focused on ways to be generous without buying. Like ironing M’s work-shirt for him when he’s really tired, writing my Nana a big long letter, making a batch of my famous eggplant pasta dish for friends when I know they’ll be arriving home late and starving from a weekend away.
Arent these the best gifts of all?
PS I found this story about a now unemployed food-critic is learning to live off food stamps – oh the similarities in the way we approach food!
People have told me just to go to Paris. They think that anything is possible in the City of Romance.
Let me tell you, if you dont have a working visa, not much is possible work wise in Paris at the moment.
Some people think that you can magically wish for a job and it will arrive. Especially if you have a heart full of love and enthusiasm. That’s just not reality. They ask me over and over again why I havent found a job yet.
Other people love to tell me that unless I’m a french native, with perfect french skills, went to the best french university and am admitted to the french bar, then I’ve got no hope of getting a job in Paris. That too, is just utter bollocks. I have spent so much of my time finding jobs that required native english speakers, from foreign countries, with law degrees from common-law countries (or better still, just any law degrees, didnt matter where from), just to prove all those people wrong. Oh, how I wished that I’d kept a list of all those people so I could run their snooty noses in those job ads….
But at the end of the day, here I am, without a job.
I wasnt going to write about how depressed I’m getting about my job search, about how I just went to London in an attempt to get something there, how I searched for jobs across Europe, applied for paralegal and secretarial jobs, calculated how much I could earn working as an english teacher “under the table” (“black” in French).
But then someone said that I really should. People have so many romantic ideas about Paris and how effortless life is (especially when you have a fabulously rich french husband/boyfriend to support you). My story isnt like that. And maybe it does need to be told. Warts and all. Just to help other people who may also be starting to make the decision to pack up and leave their home town.
I have networked my butt off, followed up every lead and connection, built relationships. I’ve nearly exhausted every ounce of perseverance, motivation and resilience: things I thought I had endless amounts of.
I’m grateful in a way, because at least now I have some idea of what it feels like to be a “long term unemployed”. Being told “No” to nearly every job application is an emotional rollercoaster: the first few times you say, “Oh, you never get the first one, and anyway, it probably wasnt right, there’ll be better one’s soon”.
Then when you start to see the stream of “No”, you say “Oh well, at least there are plenty of jobs to apply for! As long as I keep applying I’ll get one just by the law of averages”.
And then there is more and more and more “No”.
You start applying for jobs expecting a No.
You open your email inbox in the morning to see 5 automated emails all saying “Despite lots of interest in your CV, we are unable to offer you a role.” And you laugh, “Oh hurrah! Today I had 5 “No” emails! That’s the biggest number of “No’s” I’ve had ever!”
Secretly, I have wondered why I even bothered applying in the first place.
People have said “Yes, but you’re unemployed in the City of Love! You can get out and explore and experience the city to your hearts delight!”. And yes it’s true, but the more desperate I have become for a job, the more I started to think that every second spent away from my job search could result in an opportunity lost. My job search has become a 24/7 occupation. “Days off” or “weekends away” fill me with guilt and fear.
And when you dont know when your next pay cheque is coming in, you cant spend money on things that arent necessities. M suggested recently that I should occasionally catch the train into Paris (now that I’m living with him in The Burbs), just to get my vibe back, sit in a cafe, read, do some exploring etc. OK, he’s right. But all I can think of is the 6 euro return train ride, the 3 euro coffee, the temptation to buy something in a cute little shop. If I stay at home and search for jobs, I dont spend any money AND I might find The Job.
And of course, I could have continued to live in Paris, just to keep my spirits up a bit. Hey, maybe even M and I could have rented our own apartment in Paris. But Paris apartments are more expensive than suburban apartments. And sharing his studio in The Burbs saves both of us money.
And it isnt even just Paris that has been tough. I have searched all over France, all through Europe (Belgium, Switzerland, Italy etc), without luck. I went to London thinking that surely, my Australian background will help me get a foot in the door. Nope. No one is sponsoring foreigners, even Australians. Too many good quality English lawyers still out of work.
I know that some of the enormous factors affecting my job search are:
- France’s generally high unemployment rate, which crept up to 10% over the past year
- General global economic uncertainty
- More recently, EU economic uncertainty.
These things are not my fault. And I knew they were there before I left Sydney. I know that I am not a crap candidate.
But the doubt creeps in slowly, slowly every day: Maybe I am crap? Maybe I have nothing to offer an organisation? Maybe everyone else is smarter, better educated, more experienced, better connected than me?
And then I remember all my colleagues at my old work, so many of them demoted, made redundant, or just left without a choice. These are super-smart, mega-candidates, that people have fought to hire. And here they are, still unemployed, or setting up their own consultancies to try and keep in the job market (and I’m sure, keep sane). It’s not just me.
All I can do is keep going. It’s either that, or emotional/spiritual/physical death. I choose to keep going.
All I can do is keep holding onto the dream.
M has been a fantastic support during this time. He has watched me slowly get more and more disillusioned. He suggested that I see out the current job applications that I have for Paris, and if none of them work out, then we can formally pursue a potential job opportunity in London that has just come up. Not that we both want to live in London, and we could, possibly, live just on his income. But he said that if I dont get back to work soon, it’s my morale and my spirit that will collapse. And he’s right.
I’ve heard some really inspiring quotes over the past few days, from some interesting places!
Flashdance - “When you give up your dream, you die.”
Paul Coelho – “Fight for your dreams, and your dreams will fight for you.”
And of course, what would I do without my inspiring family and friends? The people the love and support me and encourage me to keep going? I owe them a debt to large to pay in a lifetime.
Would I change my decision to move to Paris? Never. Do I have regrets about the move? None. Overall, this has been an amazing experience, and a dream come true. Have I given up hope? No. I’ve still got a little bit of energy left to keep fighting for the dream…
I realised recently that I have barely talked about cheese.
What is wrong with me??
Cheese is a major part of my life here, as it is for most French people (their daily dairy intake is just spectacular).
I think this topic will need some proper investigation though, because my current approach to French cheeses is unsophisticated (this is putting it nicely).
Here is an example of my current approach to French cheese:
Step 1: I am offered some cheese/I peruse the Fromager’s stall at the market.
Step 2: I accept/buy the cheese.
Step 3: I eat the cheese.
Step 4: I decide that the cheese is delicious and therefore more cheese should be eaten.
I dont ask what the name of the cheese is, what type of animal it comes from, where it has been made, how it has been made, how old it is, what it’s flavour is, whether it’s ripe, what is the best accompaniment etc. These are all things that French people ask – routinely.
Buying cheese at a market stall will take each person a good 5 minutes minimum. They will often seek the guidance of the fromager or stallholder. Here is a standard cheese buying process for a French person:
- If the Frenchie doesnt have a specific cheese in mind, they will explain to the Stallholder what the cheese is for (a dinner party, for example). This also allows the Stallholder to suggest cheeses that are “in season”, or that are from a particularly excellent Fromager
- The Stallholder will often ask if the guests/the buyer like cheeses that are strong in flavour or more mild, or if they have a particular preference for the type of milk (Cow, sheep, goat)
- The Frenchie will explain when the cheese will be eaten (ie tonight, or in a few days time, or over the course of a week)
- The Stallholder will then suggest a cheese/cheeses that meet the taste and milk requirements.
- The Stallholder will offer a sample of that cheese for the Frenchie to taste.
- If the Frenchie doesnt like the suggested cheese, the Stallholder will continue suggesting cheeses/giving tastes until the Frenchie rolls their eyes in rapture
- If it is to be eaten that day, the Stallholder will test the cheeses to select the one that is perfectly ripe – this is usually done by gently prodding the softer cheeses, or gently squeezing their middles. If the cheese is to last the week, then they will choose one that is just bordering on ripe, so that you can enjoy every day of the week as it ripens, ending with the perfect texture and flavour.
Of course, even if you know what sort of cheese you want to buy, you still must ask the Stallholder’s advice. For example, M loves a good Comte. So, as a special treat, I stopped in at one of the Fromage Stallholders at our local market. He had several types of Comte available. He proceeded to present each type, their qualities and then give me a little slice to taste. I couldnt decide. I bought a slice of both. [Note: I CANNOT be trusted at the market. Another blog on my market addiction is currently being drafted. This cheese experience is a classic example of my weakness.]
So, while the Frenchie is telling the Stallholder, I want this cheese, no not that one, more like that, a little to the left blah blah blah, the queue gets longer and longer, and everyone stands and stares at the cheeses, drooling, waiting for their turn. Cheese Torture. But a fantastic selling technique: more time to view the various cheeses, more time to build up an appetite, more time to be jealous that someone else is getting taste tests and not you etc
On some of my first cheese buying experiences, I would just select whatever I thought looked good and buy a slice. I always wondered why I received a cold reception, but thought perhaps it was just my accent/lack of French skills. Now I’m starting to realise that, it’s almost offensive to select a cheese without seeking the Stallholder’s advice. It gives the impression that you know more about the cheese than the stallholder OR are just not sophisticated enough to be able to tell the difference between a good and bad cheese. Either way, you’ll sometimes get a scowl or a robotic transaction. The best way to approach the transaction for beginners? Just start with something simple like “I would like a really runny Brie” or “I would like a really strong flavoured cheese”.
And really, it’s not even necessary to go to the market to buy good cheese. French supermarkets stock a shocking amount of cheese, and even the cheaper brands are generally of a much better quality that we get in Australia.
So, what cheeses are my favourites?
Let’s put it this way – I havent yet met a cheese I didnt like.
But here are some of my favourites…..
Maroilles - This is a really stinky cheese. It comes from the far north east of France, close to the Belgian border (this is where M is from). It’s a famous cheese, in fact, with a starring role in the film “Bienvenue Chez les Ch’tis” (“Welcome to the Sticks”). It is square with an orange rind, and a camembert-like texture inside. It is such a stinky cheese that we have to seal it in a tupperware container when we store it in the fridge. Even then, everytime one of us opens the fridge door we accuse the other of farting. M makes a quiche just using slabs of this cheese and it’s delicious (Nathan – please feel free to comment). It’s also delicious melted over “pain d’epices” – a heavy french gingerbread. Another similar cheese, from the same region, is “Fromage de Bergues”. Also very delicious and stinky.
Boursin - French people will call me unsophisticated (again), but this is a long time passion of mine. You can buy it in Australia, but only the little boxes and it costs a fortune. Here I can buy the big box for a little price It’s a light (as in not dense) cream cheese, in a solid shape, but spreadable and slightly crumbly. It often comes with herbs, garlic, nuts, figs etc. It’s a cheap cheese that Frenchies spread on their stale baguette for breakfast, or as a snack – therefore not a REAL cheese, but I am just in love with it. Boursin is the brand name, and you can get the same cheese made by different brands, but nothing beats the original.
St Moret – This is another cheapie supermarket cheese, and therefore not a ‘real’ cheese according to Frenchies. It’s very similar to philadelphia cream cheese, just with a slightly higher water content. And more salt too I think. Another cheese that’s delicious spread on a baguette with a slice of tomato, salt and pepper….mmmm
Chevre - Where do I start? Goat’s cheese is enormous here. You can get goat milk, goat yoghurt, very creamy, almost liquid cheeses, solid logs of white cheese, and very hard, yellow, cheddar type cheeses. Where to they keep all those goats??? They dont give as much milk as a cow, so why isnt France covered with goats? All running down the main street, India-style? That would be so cute!….until they started nibbling on your jumper….Anyway, some Australians shy away from goat cheese, saying that it has a flavour that’s too “goaty” and powerful. Honestly, France is the best place to get the full range of flavours. I’m sure that they’d be converted. For example, a French friend living in the Bourgogne brought us a present on his recent visit to Paris. He had driven out to a local farm and bought a beautiful log of pure white goat cheese. It was quite solid, but still with some moisture. And the flavour was a cross between a delicate, slightly acidic cream cheese and that slight ‘goaty’ flavour. Yummy yum yum. Hoorah for friends bringing gifts of cheese! One of the other things that some people find a bit strange is that the softer, more spreadable cheeses are sometimes preserved in ash. No, not because the cheesemaker drank too much red wine and dropped the cheese in the ash from his cigarette (although, now that I say that, it’s probably not too far from the truth about the origin of the technique…). The ash doesnt leave an unpleasant flavour, so dont hesitate to chomp straight into it!
Epoisses - Another killer stinky cheese. Dont give your significant other a kiss after eating this one, unless they too have shoved a blob in their mouth. This is a square, orange rind cheese, with a runny centre (when properly ripe), and is therefore often sold in a wooden basket-type container to make sure it holds it shape and isnt punctured. How can you explain why something that smells so bad can taste so good? Crusty piece of baguette, lathered with liquid epoisses – brilliant. (lol – just read on wikipedia that it has reportedly been banned from being carried on public transport because it’s so stinky!)
Camembert - I have come to call this cheese “The Silent Killer”. Camembert in Australia is very mild in smell and flavour. There are some really mild French camemberts as well. But there are also some really smelly fart-like camemberts that can stink out a room in less than a minute. The problem is: you often dont know which type you’ve bought until after you get home and have let it sit in the fridge for a while. I have indeed blamed M for farting when all he’s done is open the fridge door. He blamed the camembert and I said “Yeah right, an innocuous little buttery cheese smells like a rubbish dump!”. And damn, he was right.
Reblochon - This is another favourite cheese, with multi-purposes. It looks similar to a camembert, but has a slightly stronger, buttery flavour. It comes from the French Alps, and to be honest, the best one we have eaten, by far, is the one we bought while on a ski trip to Serre Chevalier. Supermarket brands are ok, but just pale in comparison to the delicious alpine treat. This cheese is fantastic just with a bit of baguette and red wine. But it also is a key ingredient in a fantastic French dish called “Tartiflette”. It’s a delicious variation of a potato bake: potatoes, onions, ‘lardons’ (bacon bits), cream, and a layer of sliced reblochon, all grilled in the oven. What better way to coat the inside of your arteries!
Morbier - This was the first ‘real’ French cheese I ate on my first visit to France. I managed to score a private tour and lunch at the chateau Moet et Chandon in Epernay. I happened to be seated next to a senior officer in the French secret service, who was amazingly gracious to this poorly dressed, unsophisticated little Australian. He recommended a cheese for me from the cheese platter, and I immediately fell in love with it. I asked him to write down the name of the cheese on the back of his business card so I would never forget it. It is a soft, slightly elastic cheese, with a thin layer of ash running through the middle, horizontally (although you cant taste the ash). Apparently the style came from farmers having leftover milk from the day, insufficient to make a whole cheese. They would pour it into a mould and cover it with a layer of ash to preserve it until the next day, when they would top it up from the next morning’s milk. This cheese smells bad, tastes delicious. It is nutty, slightly bitter.
Tete de Moine – This is a recent discovery. It means “Monk’s Head”. It was made originally by monks, but what it has to do with their heads, I’ve got no idea. It’s a quite solid cheese, but with lots of flavour. The novelty though, is in the way you cut it. Or rather, in the way you shave it. You basically skewer it on a metal apparatus called a “girolle”, and use a metal blade attached to slowly turn around the cheese in a circular motion. This shaves the cheese off into beautiful “curls”. Kids love the mild flavour, the novelty of turning the blade and how the cheese curls melt in the mouth. What am I saying: Yes, little kids AND big kids like me!
Mimolette - This is a very mild, hard cheese, bright orange on the inside and brown and crusty on the outside. It looks like a rockmelon. No joke. The best way to eat it is when it’s really aged, really dry, like an old parmesan. The flavour is much milder than a parmesan though. If you’re sick of stinky soft cheeses, this is the one to buy.
Comté - This is another hard cheese that knocks your socks off with delicious flavour. If you’re a cheddar lover, then I think you’ll like this cheese. It’s less “milky” than cheddar, but has a great nutty, sweet taste. Aged for 24 or 48 months and it doubles it’s deliciousness. M often has a hard time choosing between me and Comté. If he’s eating a slice, best to save the conversation for later.
St Marcellin – I’ll ask Mel to write a comment about what this cheese is like and why she loves it It’s basically a small, white, soft cheese with a runny centre, perfect for lathering over a baguette. It’s larger sister is called Saint-Félicien.
OK, so even if I am still getting used to being more sophisticated in my cheese selection, one thing I do ask of my dining companions is how the cheese should be cut. It’s just a common courtesy for those who may eat from the same piece (if I leave any behind that is). And there are specific rules for how certain cheeses must be cut. I always forget them though. How to cut the cheese is a minor issue compared to the main task at hand – eating.
It has been a very challenging year from that perspective. Managing my cheese intake to ensure I dont gain 1000kg is difficult in the extreme. Luckily, the French culture has saved my butt (literally) in this respect.
In Australia, cheese is (generally, and especially in social circles, as opposed to restaurant dining), more of an entree, or an appetizer. When you arrive at someone’s house for dinner, you will be greeted and promptly given a glass of wine/beer and be offered a plate of cheeses, antipasti, biscuits, dips etc. (I’m laughing at myself as I write this because the thought of eating cheese as an appetizer is making me feel odd – “eew, imaging eating a whole lot of cheese BEFORE the meal”. Oh, how I have changed….lol). This is meant to keep your hunger pangs as bay while you chit-chat away and await the main course. Of course, when you’re hungry, and there’s a plate of delicious cheese in front of you, guess what happens? You eat a tonne of cheese. Which is fantastic for the tastebuds, but not so happy for your arteries or Body Mass Index.
Thankfully, here in France the cheese platter is not offered until AFTER the main meal. AND there is a salad course and dessert to follow (usually something equally delicious). So (a) you’re not so hungry that you could eat a whole camembert and (b) you need to keep some space for the dessert deliciousness that is to follow. Naturally, cheese intake is kept to a minimum – just enough to appreciate the flavour.
[OK, time to be honest. I ALWAYS forget that there is a cheese course and end up eating a full entree and main. During the elation that results from the presentation of a gorgeous cheese platter, I ALWAYS forget that there is a salad course and dessert to follow. I just dig in with reckless abandon (and ignore everyone staring at the amount of cheese I've served myself - I hope they think that I skipped lunch or something and that's why I'm so "hungry"). I think this is where French people manage their weight better than some other countries: they are used to eating smaller meals because there is just no way you can finish a full French dinner with a full entree, full main etc. They learn from a young age to control their portion sizes.]
But of course, while there are rules about how to cut cheese, how much to eat, when to eat it etc, in the end, cheese is just there to be eaten. So I say: eat it however, whenever and in whatever quantities you like!
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Friends
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