Paris versus London

Posted by Isabel Dexter at 21:59 on 6 Apr 2010

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Ok so forgive me dear readers as I know I haven't updated you on my Parisian adventures for the equivalent of a hundred years in the blog world. I won't bore you with the excuses, needless to say that it has been a typical whirlwind of inappropriately English in Paris excess and near-hysterical* French boy/girl/pain au chocolate-purchasing disasters. Lets face it, I could live in this city for another hundred years and I'd probably still be faced with the same reactions:

A: "Quoi?"  (what?) and confused screwed up face with a side serving of annoyance. Occurs when purchasing anything more complicated than a baguette or a bottle of wine. You should have seen the expression I got trying to ask for behind-the-shelf Malibu.

B:  "T'es un peu vulgaire" (you're vulgar). Occurs when I dance on bars, wear short skirts or drink pastis. So that's every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night then. Mondays are for vodka. Tuesday are for hotpants.

C: "Ahhhh tu es anglaise..." (oh, you're english). Occurs during the above times and also whenever I open my mouth or raise my arms when dancing. (I mean open my mouth as in to speak. I don't open my mouth when dancing. At least I hope not. To be honest it probably depends on the amount of pastis/vodka/Malibu that has been consumed).  C'mon Parisians, I learnt to dance to Kylie Minogue's Locomotive. You think you can work a Minogue vibe just by moving your shoulders slightly and pouting a little. Je pense pas (I think not).


And yet...I don't belong in London anymore either. My clothes are all wrong and unexperimental. In Shoreditch amidst the floral body suits from American Apparel and the floral shorts from Erdem and the floral tattoos from the place opposite The Old Shoreditch Station I look like someone's grandma in my grey jersey mini, black tights, belted plum coat and Marni bag. At a press launch the other night in South Ken, I even tried to sip a shot. And the loud music on Brick Lane on a Sunday, the bare-legged Essex girls on Old Street on a Saturday night and the  elaborately-coiffed Fifties pin up girls at the Lexington, all frankly frighten the hell out of me. I understand now why the French girls in London stick together. English girls are truly completement folle (completely crazy). **

"Really the only solution is to just live in your own little world and not give a damn about what anyone thinks," says my English side, smiling and flicking her hair, smug in her non-conformity.
"Or you could just change your behaviour to be more appropriate, depending on the city you happen to be in," counters my French side***, with a scornful look and a slight shrug. Vive le difference, indeed.



* By which I mean, of course, situations in which I kept a hefty sense of inner calm and grace.
** 'Vulgaire'
*** See photo. That's about as moody/French sexy as I can do. No laughing now please.

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