First published by The Times on 23 July 2022
I am so French right now. I take morning coffee en terrasse at a café here in Montmartre; I navigate an assault course of dog turds on the walk there and back. I am listening to podcasts in French, reading a book about the language and sprinkling the Gallic interjection ben all over every (stressful, grammatically disastrous) conversation. I eat large quantities of cheese and wear a new red lipstick because I saw it advertised by the Parisian It girl Jeanne Damas. I am very French — apart from the fact that I’m originally a Geordie. I am like a croissant but from Greggs.
I’m here in Paris until the end of August, apartment-sitting for friends, and it’s heaven. I am a Francophile, from a family of Francophiles; my Welsh grandmother was a French teacher. It’s passé, in 2022, to romanticise this city — it would be cooler to develop a crush on Berlin or Copenhagen — but the heart wants what it wants, and c’est Paris that je can’t help but adore.
It’s not, by the way, about the city being romantic or chic. I don’t dream of intricate pastries, photoshoots by the Eiffel Tower or anything to do with Chanel. It’s simply that the French know how to live. Pleasure, here, is considered important. It isn’t accompanied by guilt, self-flagellation or a chorus of passive aggression. Only foreigners walk the streets with coffee cups, because the French feel strongly that one should stop and enjoy it in situ. If you leave your office to have the three-course lunch menu at a restaurant you won’t be greeted with, “Oh, you decided to come back, did you, part-timer?” when you return. Sex is treated as a priority too: a friend of a friend with depression was advised by her GP to drink red wine and take a lover. All of this appeals to me greatly.
Maybe I like it here because some of my interests fall into what Brits might consider pretentious: philosophy, poetry, art, ballet. In most social settings in the UK I’d think twice about mentioning this stuff, for fear of being marked out as posh, arrogant or a snob — yet that attitude itself is snobbery. In France everyone is entitled to like what they like, philosophy is a mainstream subject on TV and radio, and intellectualism isn’t attached to class.
Relatedly, the cinemas are incredible. There are loads of them in Paris, with affordable prices, and they all show old and new films in all genres and languages. To dodge the hottest hours of last Sunday I went to Le Brady in the 10th arrondissement and watched Singin’ in the Rain with French subtitles; it cost me €9, which is half what I’d have been charged in London.
Paris, in some ways, is less demanding than our capital. Housing, while expensive, is 16 per cent cheaper than in London (according to Expatistan, which monitors the cost of living around the world), and you don’t have to be a millionaire to live centrally. Transport in Paris costs about half what it does in London. All this makes it easier to live well and be sociable. Late on Monday night, after a stifling day of near 40C heat, I was lying inert on the sofa when a friend texted. She and her boyfriend were taking their dog, Babbet, for a walk around Montmartre. I got dressed and went downstairs at 10pm; we had a glass of wine, strolled the neighbourhood a bit and stopped somewhere else for another drink. London at that time of night is either dead or rowdy, but Paris was busy yet relaxed, and the bar owners were in no hurry to close. After a long hot day, it was magic.
So yes, for me, this city is worth the hype. I’m wildly in love with it, and I’m going to be heartbroken in five weeks when I have to go home.
Then again, if I moved here, might the novelty fade of being insulted by shop assistants? I might start to notice, as my immigrant friends here have, that the culture is not so liberal. Most of all, I would miss my big, unruly London, which is always evolving and looking forward. Paris feels more traditional. It integrates visitors but doesn’t adapt for them, and so its identity is for ever laced with nostalgia.
So it’s probably best, then, mon amour, that I tear myself away from you — for a few months at least — while we still adore each other. Or at least, I adore you, Paris. I shall take your snooty indifference as confirmation that you feel the same.