I have a lot to catch up on. I thought I would give you some variety and add in a recipe, a poem, and a Letter. On some days I genuinely thought I wouldn’t have time to write a proper journal post.
So:
Saturday, Day 9
I took a grasse matinée and didn’t really get out of my room until the afternoon. I justified to myself that on some days, or half days, it’s ok to do completely nothing. Note, I say half days, because the matter of my unobtained adaptor and my uni work was still weighing on my mind.
I researched where the nearest Fnac was. Well, technically it was in Noisy-le-Grand, which is a (relatively) short bus journey away. However, I knew there was one near Auber, near the Galeries Lafayette, in Paris, and my boss’ question echoed through my head: “Tu iras à Paris ce weekend?”
I suppose I was.
When I got to Auber, I managed to lose myself trying to find the Fnac, but I wondered past the Galeries Lafayette, and the Printemps, thinking, yikes, Émile Zola was right to write about this.
The book in question is The Ladies’ Paradise (Au Bonheur des Dames), which the BBC adapted into the TV series The Paradise in 2012. It follows the travails of country girl Denise as she tries to support herself and her two brothers in Paris. Her uncle’s small business has been going under ever since Octave Mouret set up his novel department store, each corner designed to accost and bewitch even the least susceptible lady’s senses. And it only keeps getting bigger. Denise, desperate for money, joins the enemy side, and watches as decadent consumerism and the ruthless renovation plans of the Baron Hartmann destroy a centuries-old way of life.
I wandered past this kind of now-quintessentially Parisian empire. After a long time lost in the Fnac, trying and failing to find an adaptor, getting sidetracked in my despair by knick-knacks, checking out DVDs I can’t even play, wondering into the book floor, thinking, “This is a LOT of books”, and finally, like an absolute tool, moseying into a part of the electronics floor I hadn’t before and finding the blasted thing, paying for it and getting a Fnac card (a worthy investment), I wandered into it, too.
I was looking for La Redoute Interiors, as I wanted to buy towels. I wondered into the wrong building, thought I could find it via signs, despite the kind question from a gentleman who worked there of “Would you like some help?”, and had it hammered home that
It’s ok to ask for help.
The gentleman directed me across the road, to Les Galeries Lafayette Maison-Gourmet. Having thanked him, I wondered straight into temptation. Macarons, ice cream, and chocolate beset me.
In the book, it is said by Zola that Mouret knew how to make a woman feel courted, seduced, valued. I think here we skipped straight to the part where the decadence held me tight against its manly chest in white tie and tails, most unwilling to let go, perhaps because it knew that my weak knees might kill my ladylike composure, and we didn’t want that, do we?
Was it all these clothes and chocolate and candles oh-so-tastefully arranged that made me want to cave, or was it the fact that I physically couldn’t avert my eyes from them, that they were stuffed in my face? Either way, it’s all very clever, and not great news for someone who really ought to keep an eye on their expenditure, and feels uncomfortable at the fact that Théophile Bader could, so many centuries down the line, make yet another conquest, of ME. The AUDACITY – I’m here for it. (No, I’m not – I want my mum.)
Chaps, La Redoute indeed is there, once you climb past the perils of Pierre Hermé and his heavenly macarons bought for heavenly prices (ought to be tried once in your life, is all I’m going to say, and if you have to choose one, it’s Ispahan). They have bedding. They have bathrobes. They have towels. They have almost every towel under the sun. They even have a sale on. After a conversation with an assistant in Spanish because my French was faltering, I decided against buying. They didn’t have the precise things I was looking for. The wandering in was beautifully fruitless. A few flirtatious comments exchanged over the punch bowl at a party that led to no histoires. Thank you for your kind attentions, Théo. I will consider them, carefully.
I took the RER back home, had to change trains as I took the wrong line, witnessed a very nearly sandwich of trains because of delays, and can now confirm that Lipton’s Lime and Mint Green Iced Tea is… interesting. Not off the books, but not my bottle of tea of choice.
I then made Borsch and posted the recipe here.
Sunday, Day 9
Again, a grasse matinée, an existential one, followed by a call from my mother, who is my voice of reason. I set to work on my to-do list, asked some housekeeping questions of my landlady’s daughter, did some housework and admin, and felt accomplished at the end.
Monday, Day 10
I woke up at 4 in a panic, and couldn’t get to sleep until 5 again. I notice it’s not an uncommon occurrence now, to wake just shortly before the sun rises, as the sky is still washed with dark blue, and to feel fear and remorse, and a profound sense of pity. Usually after, I suppose, a nightmare. I feel very much like a small child in these instances, and I’m not really sure even having my parents present would really help. I feel, in these moments, acutely how chronically lonely our existences are, and how they will only get lonelier. And then I wake up at a normal hour and feel alright.
I felt I’d done well. I was on time for the 7.51. Then I look at the bus updates – nothing for 25 minutes. A gentleman pointed at his phone for the calculated time – 8.16. I thanked him.
It was freezing outside. I stood regretting my decision to wear only a grey jumper. The gentleman gestured to me to sit down. I sat down. He offered his arm for me to bump (like a fist bump). I responded.
The sun rose like I had never seen it rise. The clouds were fishscales, or patterns left by waves in the sand, on the Eastern horizon. A rosé pink gradually swept over them, until they all looked like trout scales, or rose petals. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in my life.
The bus arrived. I thanked the gentleman again by offering my fist to bump, as I had seen another lady do – theirs was a conversation of animated French on her side, grunts and gestures on his. Alas, I missed somewhat. I think he wasn’t impressed. I had to rush, and I felt sad that here was some communication I’d failed on.
Work was good. We have a new apprentice for HR arrived. She’s really cool – she worked as a secretary in a legal firm before, is balancing her time now between here and uni, wants to do something like law afterwards, and she’s just a bit older than me and has a young daughter. My hat is off to this lady.
The apprentice and I had an induction with the Country Manager, and then the continuation of an induction with my boss. We talked about the company’s values, our roles, annual leave. I’ll be honest, my concentration was poor. I felt tired, and I think my mood was slipping. I don’t know how I survived my first Finance training session. I did.
When I came back with lunch my first instinct was to sit apart, then my colleagues invited me to sit with them, but no pressure, they said. I sat down. One of my really sweet colleagues, the gentleman who shared his tiramisu with me last week, who always makes a point of saying “Hello!”, started asking me questions about my weekend, talking about Paris, and, bless his excellent intentions, I was struggling to engage in the conversation. He even made the lovely offer of giving me recommendations of which places to visit, if I am to try and discover Paris neighbourhood by neighbourhood. I just wanted to eat, and not talk to anyone.
After I left work that afternoon, I walked with the sun setting behind me. I thought I might go into Paris to take advantage of the Monday deal at the Comédie – free student tickets at the box office, if there were any left. I decided not to – it was chilly, and going to get chillier. I considered that although I didn’t want to talk to people that day, I was lonely. I thought of my last relationship, and how, although I felt the most open I had been with anyone ever, I now wonder where a part of me is. I thought of a friend of mine, who, despite every rubbish thing that has happened throughout our knowing eachother, is still there, but ours is not a friendship based on talking often. It’s just proof after proof that he wants a part in my life, and that he gives a damn. He can’t give much, but he gives what he can. I miss him terribly, but I know whatever he’s doing, he’s doing well.
I came home to my landlady, and asked if she’d like me to make a risotto for us all. I did make her, her daughter and I a risotto, and we had a lovely, almost family meal, followed by discussions on politics. And it was ok. It was good. My mum texted me afterwards, and I felt loved.
Tuesday, Day 11
Once again, the night terror at 3am. I decided enough was enough with regards to sleeping under a mere duvet cover. I now have a duvet. I slept soundly. I hated myself for a mere 6.5 hours. I think it showed.
No, I went to work today and felt maybe almost worse than yesterday, at points. I wanted to throw in the towel and go home to bed. I wondered if I’d make it home. I wondered if I’d be able to cook. When I felt more positive, I thought, this evening is a comfort movie evening, and realised how “young, single, ground-down professional” that sounded. I finished a terrible 28 page training document, though – The Business Continuity Plan. What a wordy, technical, detailed work that is. I had a nice lunch with my boss and the accountant. We went to a salad bar/deli. I found myself regretting for the first time having got a quiche and a salad. Don’t get me wrong – they were good. Clearly my appetite has gone from “we feel worried, so we won’t eat” to “nothing is comfort except food and drink”. Or maybe I’m making up for lost meals.
Advice: Please, please, please prioritise your meals. In any way possible. Please eat. Proper food. It makes a world of difference.
A lot of the weekend was looking at myself and making the evaluation “I look grey, blue and red”. That is not the complexion I was this summer.
I got complimented twice today: The HR intern at the end of her contract with us said “I’m really surprised at how well you speak French.”, and the Country Manager is really impressed with how I have arranged our visitor logs and visitor badges into folders. It’s much more organised than the previous system we had. I had some active training time with my boss. Tomorrow I’m completely alone on the job. She said she knows I’ll be fine. That, I suppose, is a third compliment.
Well, I have praises and a job well done in spite of wanting desperately to sleep (including through an HR induction, oh misery) and feeling generally not as well as I did at the start, so I came home like a sardine, and I wish I could say that inspired my cooking exploits, but I think that the sardines in the salad I made are a coincidence. It was a good salad – it is appearing as a featured recipe. But not today. Today, I am sleeping.
The last lovely piece of news, that made my day, was a letter from my friend in Edinburgh, that made it here on exactly the day I thought it would, and maybe that replaces the sky as the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
At Least Afloat 