C’est chiant, quoi?

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I’m not speaking nearly enough French, I really need to be disciplined.  All the erasmus students hang out in their respective hoards using English for any diplomatic purposes.  I’ve had to take drastic action, and joined a choir, and the ENST forum, AND I’m going to get a language exchange buddy.  Meanwhile I’m spending hours constructing poorly written reports for the various Travaux Pratiques which we’ve been assigned.

I still can’t quite get it out of my head that I’ve stolen someone else’s life and they’re about to reclaim it and send me hurtling back through the channel tunnel.  I did however, have a semi sobering moment the other when I got my haircut.  Greeting me with a broad North of England accent, I discovered that Heidi had come to France 15 years ago on a whim and decided to stay, picking up three new languages on the fly if-you-please.  It was certainly a relief to actually meet someone on the other side of what I may end up doing.  Sorry Petite, Coquette and Maitresse, you remain my intangible protagonists of Paris.

I now have a bank account which I can tick off from my list of things which I require to feel properly Parisian.  All that’s left so far are

Social security card
Navigo card
Coat hangers
and at least one pair of really great shoes

I managed to duck into Zara and pick up a new jumper and shirt.  These french guys are making me feel inadequate, with their leather belts and expensive watches.  I spent all this time in England trying to pass as a heterosexual, and now I’ve had to relegate my polo shirts and hoodies to the back of my wardrobe.  I am a broken man, in my light grey merino wool v-neck, and black pinstripe slim-fit.

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Filed under Jour après jour, Making the transition