Paris

We are having marvelous days of sunshine in England lately. This weekend, I went to Hyde Park, I wore shorts and sunglasses, I swapped the coffee for a Starbucks' strawberries & cream milkshake. I can't emphasize enough how rare this is in the UK. As I sat outside a very French deli in Richmond (south London), I started remembering my last summer in Paris.

I lived in Paris for three months. I had always wanted to do that, it seemed like such a romantic idea. I was learning French in London's Alliance Francaise, I was working with wines - which basically forces you to speak some French, and I was deeply fascinated by the country, the history, the wines. I had been to France before. For someone who's afraid of airplanes, eurostar is a true blessing. I had also been to Champagne, 100 kms from Paris, which turned out to be one of the best trips of my life. And the Loire Valley. Gorgeous.

I would learn the language and study gastronomy, very Sabrina style (I don't know how many times I've seen this). I was hoping to come back as elegant, eloquent and sophisticated as Audrey did in the film.

I was really fearful that the French would be terribly mean to me, that they would be unfriendly and arrogant, as some people had warned me. Au contraire, they were lovely. They would talk to me on the street. Well, the men would. But it was never disrespectful, it was always like "Bonjour, mademoiselle!" with a smile. And I would smile back. My husband, Martin, then my boyfriend, would always visit me (he didn't like how men would talk to me even when he was around, though). He was living in Scotland, then in London, and we were used to a long distance relationship. It was heaven when he was there. We'd wake up to get our fresh baguette with brie, visit the Tourists sites, go to those famous Parisian cafes and Patisseries. 

Cooking classes were fun, too. And everyone seemed to want to help me out with everything. I was having the time of my life.

Until one day I was walking to the Metro in the beginning of the afternoon and two guys approached me. For no reason at all (aside from probably that they were on drugs) they started punching and kicking me even after I fell on the grass, and took my bag. My life was in that bag. Passport, driving license, health insurance, keys, credit cards, photos, mobile, e-ve-ry-thing. After I realized what just had happened to me, I started screaming. I was helped by strangers. They called the police and an ambulance came for me.

My Paris dream was over.

I had the worst treatment at the hospital. I was waiting and waiting for hours to be seen by a doctor whilst laying in bed agonizing. I had no ID and I didn't remember by head any phone numbers. I couldn't go home - no money, no keys. To make things worse, I was in shock and just couldn't speak French. Not a word.

After I finally managed to get in touch with someone, the news traveled fast. Suddenly my sister was calling Martin sobbing on the phone, desperate (bless her) and within hours he was there with me. He drove all the way from London, and pretended I was beautiful even when my face was destroyed.

The police did nothing and the robbers were never caught. Everything just went from bad to worse after that day, and Parisians started confessing that violence was a massive problem there, but not really advertised - as they live of Tourism.

From that day, I hated when anyone looked at me or talked to me, I was so scared (I was a woman living by myself, after all), I was paranoid someone would attack me again.

I was relieved to come back.

Now, a year later, I start looking at things with nostalgia- maybe it's the way everything goes- and I can recall the good things, the beautiful views, the gorgeous weather and the smiling faces.

My sister introduced me to a band called Beirut many months ago, and I love it. I love the lead singer's voice, the instruments played and the video. The fact that they made it on the exact street I lived in Paris, Rue Oberkampf. It was a loud, young, bohemian neighborhood, and it always makes me think "Nah, it wasn't so bad".

If it makes you happy...

I was going to write an extremely depressive post as this was the mood I was in. I am unhappy about my job and unhappy about the place I live in (what's left?) but instead of rambling again about my discontentment, I decided to write what would take to kick me off of that mood pronto. Wine. There.

Not only wine, alcohol. I'm by no means an alcoholic, but I am a wine specialist and a true wine lover. I think europeans have a better relationship with wine as not only a food enhancer, but a life enhancer.

I fell in love with wine earlier than I should admit, I was a teenager. I never got drunk, but I got numb.How wonderful that feeling...when your problems appear diminished and your anxieties become blurred.

 How fantastic is to giggle with your friends all afternoon over a bottle of champagne; how delicious is a cold beer in a very hot weather, or happy-hour cocktails after a hard day of work, how gorgeous is a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon over dinner with your steak.

Now people like to point out to me that alcohol is poison. And quoting Frank Sinatra, they say alcohol is men's enemy but the bible told us to love our enemies. Joking aside, I kind of feel sorry for people who feel sick or depressed with alcohol. That never has been the case for me. It makes me happy (not to mention funnier, more sincere, braver and a better lover)

I do believe in drinking with moderation, and I never craved cigarette or drugs, but I hold an altar to Bacchus. And the more I know about it, the more I appreciate it and the more it fascinates me. Maybe it will slightly shorten my life, but when I look back and remember the champagne euphoria, I know it will be all worth it.

By the way, I am completely sober whilst writing this.