Blue Dress Hot Mess

Series: The Paris Diaries: 14/03/25–16/03/25

Notes for the confused reader: Gabriel (Gabe) is a dog, not a child. This is a collection of pieces from my notebook, typed up; as such, some is written in real-time, some with the benefit of hindsight. It is fragmentary, but so is my mind. If something says (FA) in brackets, read: French Accent.

14/03/25:

It is a full moon on a Friday in Paris and we weren’t even supposed to be here (today is our Leaving Day). I ate snails and frankfurters and a baba au rhum for lunch in Chartier with my Uncle and Aunt. I am so glad Gabriel and I stayed; I could not have left this year; not yet. I could not have foregone my 6 escargots, not for anything.

A photo came up on my phone of a year ago yesterday of my best friend sitting behind a Camembert drinking sherry in Suffolk in England. I remember the conversation. I remember every word, because it is a conversation I resented; I still do. I rarely remember conversation; it is places, people, faces, smells which stay in my mind. But the photo was a happy one; I texted it to her, and laughed at her response: “I look high”. It is best always to be drunk; on wine, maybe. On poetry, if you like it. But always, always, on Life. Read: Love if you prefer. They are the same to me. It made me think of Me behind the camera. Of the girl there and of the girl here and that girl in Suffolk who had just had her ear pierced (helix), hadn’t yet been to America, hadn’t got her degree, would never never in a million years have guessed that I’d be here now having worked in a jewellery shop for 6 months and turned 21 and bought Gabe and got to Paris all alone. (I apologise for the long sentence; when it is coming straight out of my head, it is hard and too final to punctuate it with commas. Thoughts are never stopped by a comma. It’s like ignoring a ‘Give Way’ sign in your driving test; fatal (for the reader), but everyone does it). I suddenly feel quite overwhelmingly proud of myself. And I want to indulge it, because I have no idea where I’ll be this time next year, when the photo I took tonight of the full moon over the Seine comes up as ‘A Year Ago Today’ on my phone. That letter I wrote to myself in the Cafe Pli will have arrived by then. I have a burning in my chest. It is like a Mother’s pride (a feeling I only know from watching my puppy grow up). I have learnt so much it cannot and should not be put into words. And here I am in Paris, not Suffolk. I ate snails for lunch (and Camembert last weekend; some things never change). The burning remains; proud of me.

16/03/25:

He sang and cooked lasagne, which I actually enjoyed. Their house in the 16me (near the Bois de Boulogne) is big, but I almost prefer my apartment: it is mine for one week more. The Port (Warre’s 1980) was the best I have ever tasted. The wine was the kind that leaves you without a hangover: good wine. We spoke French, which felt good.

I have become fascinated by the grocery shopping habits of the young, active Parisen male: yesterday, we saw one – dark hair, navy shorts, hot from a run – walking back to his house with a raw, blood-dripping steak in a freezer bag and a large 650ml bottle of beer. (It was the day of the Scotland-France Rugby match, but at 11 o’clock in the morning I don’t know how much this factored; France won, bien sûr. I am proud. I am a fake-French). This morning, I saw a similarly aged (late twenties? Early thirties?) dark-haired, blue-running-shorted man emerging from Franprix with a four pack of Coke Zero and a box of six eggs. (France is in the throes of an egg-crisis, I think because of a poultry disease. So I hope that this man is going to eat all his 6 eggs, since Monsieur le Ministre (de l’agriculture) warned over the radio that we mustn’t take more than we need, or people will begin panic-stockpiling like in Covid. I haven’t bought eggs for a week). It is a curious diet – eggs, steak, beer, Coca-Cola (zero, sugar-free). It fascinates me.

Meanwhile, Gabriel‘s fascination is ignited by runners. I have to agree with him – running has always seemed a strange habit to me. He either tries to trip them up (an excellent game, if slightly embarrassing), or wishes to join them on their jog, bounding along at the end of his lead and moving, literally, backwards as I try (unsuccessfully) to pull him in the other direction. He looks like Bambi on ice. At the moment, he sleeps.

Paris is cold-with-a-patch-of-sunshine. I slept in my jumper and dreamt about travelling to Japan. I woke up and thought randomly about the promise of new love and how lucky I am to have the family I do. Thoughts – sleeping, waking – are not real. They are as opaque as the Seine (dirty). They rush through me – river flow. They do not have to be real for me to feel their beauty. Young love is fresh: the first snowdrop in Spring. Familial love is engulfing: apple blossom and cider orchards. There is meaning in that line which is my secret alone. I will not tell it; not even Paris can tempt it from my lips, in English nor in French. Cider-blossom an apple-orchards. All mine.

Tomorrow I will go to my Montmartre. Not for any reason, other than the fact that it will have been exactly a month – the 17th four weeks ago – since I went and had that unexpected Best Day of my life. I am a girl of Tradition. I might have Ricard instead of chocolat viennois. Or crème de menthe, because it is my favourite, and because I just saw a man having a glass of it outside café looking out at the Invalides. My cousin asked me what it tasted like: “like heavenly toothpaste” I replied. “Or like mouthwash that you can swallow”. He laughed, and said he’d like to try some. (Why do we flavour our alcohol so oddly? Half a bottle of that Norwegian licorice vodka is still lying in my freezer. It might stay there. Apparently the only reason we chill vodka is to mask the taste. But do the Russians drink it at room-temperature?).

I have bought a Madeline for my pudding and I ate a truffle-base pizza with a whole burrata on it for lunch. I am alone again; with the whole city just-mine for a week. One more week. I must not count the days; it will be a ticking time-bomb to the end — of what? Instead, I will eat my Madeline and look out of the window; the sun sets: it is six thirty.