#Startuplife: Take 2

(Apologies in advance for the rambliness of this post, and for starting in the now rather than “chapterizing” like I originally planned! So much easier to write about doom and gloom than about happy moments 😉).

For two months I think I hit rock bottom. I moved sluggishly from room to room, between sleeping, crying, working, crying and sleeping. Welcome to my first few months in California, welcome to the experience that was supposed to be the adventure of a lifetime but turned out to be a disappointing, imprisoned depression. 

So I like exaggerating, we all know that. But I honestly can’t explain how low and trapped I felt in my first couple of months, living and working in the same house, barely leaving the office-home combined space nor seeing other people. Learning nothing and consciously feeling my motivation slip away. It was only after some “traumatic-heartbreak-20-something-boy-problems” that I could finally put things into perspective and realise what is important to me and what is not. The well needed shake up!

People. People are important to me, fleeting encounters with strangers are important to me. These exchanges drive my passion for life. These moments of potential friendship or learning or simple pleasantries that you get in meeting new people is absolutely invaluable. I turned into THAT person, Billy no mates, who goes to the gym and talks too much to the receptionist until it becomes uncomfortable. Miss In Need of Social Interaction. 

Structure. I very quickly learned that I appreciate structure. I like a challenge, yes, often the harder the better, but it needs to be firmly framed by structure. An end goal (why not throw in a couple of obstacles along the way) with a methodical way of reaching it. I crave it and need it otherwise I feel lost. Like I’m floating and unproductive – the ball of a pinball machine, bouncing off the walls in the hopes of vaguely reaching the target. #StabilityGoals

I have a terrible habit of being a cynical pessimist (nothing new there…). Maybe that’s the consequence of an inherently English girl who’s spent too much time in Paris 😉 though I cannot, in any way, say that I haven’t enjoyed this experience somewhere down the line. Albeit limited, I’ve begun to explore a culture totally different to anything I’ve ever known. I’ve eaten enough plastic cheese to last me a life time and have developed a serious peanut butter jelly sandwich addiction (I’m even putting peanut butter on celery…). I’ve eaten waffles, and fried chicken on waffles with maple syrup and even bacon waffles with bacon bits INSIDE the waffle 😱.

I’ve gone to the beach surfing in beautiful sunny January, seen San Franciscan views in a blossoming February, and discovered the SF electro scene in a wintery March. I’ve participated in the most unusual workout classes with a 60 year old Red from Orange Is The New Black lookalike in a beanie and Nike Jordans holaaaa-ing and bootyshaking to Sisqo. I discovered American-style Mardi Gras, lunched at Google, and managed to catch up with some wonderful friends from my not-so-distant past, I’ve done the whole “American Mom” thing watching elementary basketball Sunday league. I even signed up against all my convictions and moral fibre to a Tinder-esque dating app in a quest to get out of the house and meet new people…although it was amusing for 3 days, and then the novelty soon wore off. I’ve had a pretty horrendous photo of me published in the French Tech news scene (guess that makes me kinda famous). And most interestingly – in a social experiment kinda way – I’ve learned how to manipulate and play with social media and self-portrayal. 

After all of the above and with 3 and a half weeks left of my American startup-life-tech-bubble adventure and some seriously long working hours to go, I’ve essentially learned that I’ve never appreciated my friends, family, Parisian life and utter freedom so much. And I can’t wait to see you guys very soon! ❤️

Absences

So after a sustained absence from my dearly neglected blog, I’ve finally rediscovered some inspiration to write.

An itching to document my life that’s disturbed my sleep for a few nights. A need to recount a paradoxically long year that went by in the blink of an eye, filled with post-break up self searching, escapism in Asia, a prolonged romance with summer, through ups and downs, from instability and self doubt to sheer bliss and finally more rational contentment….and, of course, back to insecurity and instability brought about by a change of circumstances in the new year.

This has been my year of extreme emotional states.

Primarily to satisfy my whimsical literature-graduate need to put my life into writing like some descendant of Sylvia Plath, I’ll gradually post chapters of my 25th year on our belle Planet Earth.

Platitude

Breaking up is never easy…

…and here we go with the clichés about time healing everything and being better off now.

No one ever mentioned “delayed grieving”. A phenomenon unbeknownst to me until it hit me like a ton of nostalgic, pitiable bricks, of course.

The irony makes the situation all the more frustrating. You know it’s ending, you’ve seen it coming for a long time, so you do the sensible thing: you mentally prepare yourself, even becoming increasingly cold and distant in the name of self-preservation and dignity, and also so to end this strange and awkward grey-zone relationship asap.

It ends. You’re almost relieved. No more speculating and self-questioning… you’re essentially “free” (or so they say) to do what you want, when you want. And you know what? It feels superb.

You start making lists of all the incredible, creative plans and projects that you never had time to start. Life begins, you’re reborn as the independent woman who can finally have “me time”.

And then, BOOM. Out of the blue the nostalgia begins, delayed and unexpected but now an inescapable burden in everything you do.

In a constant battle between logic and emotion, your subconscious tries to ruin everything by unfathomably linking everything back to them (including your precious new independent-woman-projects). It appears that the coveted “me time” isn’t as special when you have it all the time.

So welcome the cocktail of melancholy, anger and denial, primarily directed at yourself for having regressed.

And then you discover the song. That famous post-breakup song that cures all heart break and gives a new perspective on life. The cliché automation of the breakup process is in full swing, apparently unavoidable. You self-consciously confirm that now everything is okay in a dramatic mid-noughties emo MCR kind of way.

Then voilà again! Wave two of nostalgia and regret. The song technique lasted a week. Now, what if I purge in written form…?

In Paris’ Heart of Africa

It has its charm, Chateau Rouge. It’s chaotically bustling yet, incredibly, everything happens in slow motion, all at the same time. Chateau Rouge is it’s own time zone.

Welcome to the African quarter of Paris. Exotic yet grimy. Colourful yet grey. It’s refreshing to plunge into a culture so different to the one we live in our everyday lives. Our lonely city living where you don’t know your local boulanger or even your neighbours.

Here people talk.

Entering the main square from the metro escalators, you are instantly thrown into another world. People bartering, others trying to coax you into going to their shop/hairdressers/absolutely anything, waving flyers and photos.

Today I was on a lunch-break-mission: find African fabric asap so I can make curtains for my new apartment (we are in an era of DIY, you know). Rushing through the streets, aware of my petite heure for lunch, I laughed to myself. I realised that I stuck out like a sore thumb. My frantic rushing around felt so out of place in the only part of Paris where people walk as slowly as a 90 year old with a wooden leg, a walking stick and chronic arthritis.

Shop #1
I’m way too English. In shop #1 was an elderly man who eye balled me suspiciously, watching my every move and pointing me in the direction (without me asking) of the cheapest fabric he sold. Not sure how to take that, really. I was specifically looking for an elephant motif, “est-ce que vous avez du tissu avec un motif d’éléphant ?” He replied with a bemused yet super serious, “non.” Nonetheless, the pressure of me being the only person in this tiny boutique with the shop owner breathing down my neck made me cave. I bought not one BUT TWO lots of fabric, picking a style at random.

20 minutes gone and I still didn’t have my elephant fabric.

Shop #2
Completely by chance (because I was half lost) I came across a small, jam-packed boutique full of exotic clothing and fabrics. Jackpot. Here was my elephant fabric (in my fave colour) and the sweetest lady ever, whose broken French made her ever more adorable. In my over zealous excitement I almost bought 12m for my one tiny window but thought better of it last minute, much to the dismay of the shopkeeper.

Laden with way too much brightly coloured boubou yet extremely pleased with the day’s purchase, I headed back to work, kind of sad to be leaving this foreign and exotic parallel Parisian universe.

Note to reader, never try to get through Chateau Rouge metro station in a hurry. It won’t happen.

#CharlieHebdo

In light of today’s horrific events in Paris, I just wanted to publicly publish my condolences to all the friends and families of those killed at Charlie Hebdo.

This is a disgusting and barbaric attack on innocent people who have toay been condemned to death for their opinions, expressed through their right to freedom of speech.

“La libre communication des pensées et des opinions est un des droits les plus précieux de l’Homme : tout Citoyen peut donc parler, écrire, imprimer librement, sauf à répondre de l’abus de cette liberté dans les cas déterminés par la Loi” [Article 11]

It’s not only a sad day for Paris, it’s a sad day for the world. Today, the backbone of our occidental society was shattered.Our very principles, undermined. Our constitutions, disrespected. We have been reminded that there are, regrettably, people out there willing to kill to suppress the liberty of others.

The Fifth Republic prides itself on its freedom of the press, established as part of the revolution against tyranny, censorship and oppression. Beaumarchais would have been proud of Charlie Hebdo.

France lost some of its most courageous satirical legends today.

I’m sad and sicked by this brutality, disrespect and intolerance. And I repeat:

Je préfère mourir debout que vivre à genoux.

First of the Month

It’s Monday, you’re obviously running a bit (a lot) late as you battle against the cold, dark mornings that scream out more than just winter is coming, but that winter is firmly here. Winter came raging just in time to celebrate the opening of day 1 on my advent calendar.

Hello December.

Knowing that you must eventually leave your teeny weeny flat, you run to the metro only to see masses and masses of people. Maybe there’s a problem with the metro? A strike? We are in France after all… I hope not, you think. That would officially ruin your week. Despite eating your advent calendar chocolate and saying white rabbits, you still haven’t realised what this day signifies. And then it dawns on you.

Pass Navigo top up day.

If you were running late anyway, now you’re 100% guaranteed to be late. In some strange unison, everyone in Paris seems to come together at the same time to top up their monthly travel passes. The effect of this? Mass, anarchic chaos. Yet surprisingly enough (for the French especially) there is little to no grumbling as everyone resigns to their “I’m going to get bollocked by my boss” fate.

After all, it happens every month.

Cliché

Another one of those clichés : feeling alone in a room full of people.

It’s funny really, how the human mind can transform the hustle and bustle of a big city full of life and animation into a daunting and fearful solitude. Should we not just feel solitary actually being solitary? I suppose the loneliness is exasperated by the sheer immensity of human interactions around us, witnessing the camaraderie of others while we sit passively, watching from the outside, or even on the fringe of a conversation.

Without trying to sound like some sort of psychologist, I’m pretty sure there are triggers. Something, an event, a text instead of a call, a movement that provokes this solitary feeling when in reality you’re not alone. It’s more a fear of being alone, we imagine the worst, as humans have a tendency to do, and transpose ourselves into a situation of utter loneliness… even if only for one evening.

My trigger is the cinema, more specifically going to the cinema alone. This momentary escape from reality, concentrated on the movements and lights of the big screen, makes you forget that you’re there alone. Preoccupied by the entwining stories, the crescendos and the laughter, it is only when the credits roll and the lights turn up that you realise that you have no one with whom to share your ideas or opinions on the film. People around you chatter with their entourage and even the minutest of comments can make you realise that you cannot say anything (unless,of course, if you want some ‘t’es-qui-toi‘ glares or people taking you for a crazy person). It’s the sort of feeling that makes you forget that only on Thursday you went to a fancy VIP dégustation de vin, press only at Welcome Bio (I didn’t spit, d’ailleurs), followed by an awesome run with your team, and with the evening culminating in an exclusive party celebrating the 10 years of Pink Flamingo, arguably the best pizza in Paris. It even makes you forget that you get a 30 euro discount the next time you buy something from the Adidas running collection because you did a training session with an awesome Adidas coach to test out their new running shoe line.

Moral of the story, I shouldn’t go to the cinema alone. Ever. Lesson learnt. The film, however, really was very good, I recommend it: Gemma Bovery.

http://welcomebio.fr/

http://www.pinkflamingopizza.com/

http://www.adidas.fr/boost

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2788556/

One of those days

A week in England has prompted me to consider the culture differences between two of the major European capitals: London and Paris. …and to deal with my semi-it-could-be-worse existential crisis.

As I squeezed all of my stuff into my dad’s van to set up life in Paris, a lot of my friends set up camp in London, already working and being given increasing responsibility as they turn into ‘real adults’. Since, I have developed a slightly unhealthy (yet completely inevitable) habit of comparing my life with other people’s successes and milestones. Living through a very unoriginal quarter life crisis I’ve been wondering whether at the age of 24 I should have actually started my career (or a career, not necessary my career for the rest of my life – scary). Here is where the mentalities in the two countries are completely contradictory.

In France, where everyone appears to be a student until they’re at least 105 years old, people are telling me not to worry, that I’ve got all the time in the world (yes, sorry biological clock, you’re going to have to be put back to my late thirties). In England, on the other hand, people say similar things but out of politeness. Yet, the reality is my friends have all got their feet in the door and are already setting five year plans and buying houses. And, without throwing too much of a pity party, I’m here, transposed to a city that is adamant on hindering my progression because I haven’t specialised enough in my degree, or I haven’t done 10 years of interning, or I earned too much in 2012. (Note to readers, in France, an English Literature degree is worth nothing except if you want to teach English Lit. In the words of Dionne Warwick: don’t say I didn’t tell you so).

Perhaps, before I continue, I should admit that I’ve undergone two days of brainwashing. Passive aggressive persuasion that I should move to London immediately because everything is better there (or, as I prefer to believe, that my friends secretly – not so secretly – miss me).

So this deadly concoction of self-questioning and brainwashing has made me re-evaluate life within these two cities. Thanks guys, disseminators of doubt.

Firstly I’d like to say that London is MASSIVE. Where, in Paris, I’d be reluctant to meet anyone if they suggest a meeting place more than a 30 minute metro ride away from my appartement, in London you can expect at least 30 minutes just to leave your urban village. And then there are people everywhere. London is literally swarming. This wonderful cosmopolitan ant farm is vibrant yet utterly exhausting. Blowing black out of your nose isn’t great either, but who am I to quibble.

On the other hand, London is a thriving and unequivocally diverse city, where people can dress, eat, roll about on the floor in their knickers without being judged. Blue hair, so what? Woman dressed only in a leotard and see-through dress in the name of LFW, so what? When I dyed my hair red in Paris, I honestly believed that I’d been abducted by aliens and transformed into some horrifying extraterrestrial. In comparison, Parisians seem to be fearfully conventional with so many prescribed social codes. Even to fit into the ‘against-the-grain-urban-culture’ you should be wearing certain brands, otherwise you’re not doing it right. Sometimes I wonder if I’m actually living in a French remake of Mean Girls.

Before I begin France-bashing (apologies in advance) I want to stress that Paris is magnificent. Everything about it is beautiful or pretty or awe-inspiring, yes even those scary HLM high rise tower blocks have their charm in their marked contrast to Haussmannian buildings. I love nothing more than getting lost in quaint, narrow, antiquated back streets, or walking along the river, or standing on a vantage point admiring Paris’s uneven rooftops. I will never get tired of what I call ‘tourist Paris’: a Paris sans papiers, far from the labyrinth of French bureaucracy and inefficiency. However, this maze of computer-says-no fonctionnaires (public sector personnel) completely and utterly dashes this paradisical Parisian dream. For a while I thought it was because I was foreign, but no, the French have to put up with it too. As a carte vitale holder, a résidente fiscale, and with an almost completely hidden English accent, I’m as French as can be.

I may be totally wrong but the attitude here reminds me of Fagin’s individualist philosophy in Oliver Twist (ahem, literature degree does come in handy):

“a regard for number one holds us all together, and must do so, unless we would all go to pieces in company.”

Last night, waving goodbye to my wonderful hostess with the mostest at St. Pancras International station with my suitcase and M&S packed lunch, I was marvelled by the shininess of St. Pancras. The cleanliness, the kitsch boutiques, free and spotless toilet facilities, cute and chic cafés and restaurants, and Costa (I love you Costa). Then I arrived at Gare du Nord. The difference is astonishing: awaiting us on the other side of the Channel is a grimy, smelly, ghetto black hole. Here, I had to assume my usual ‘don’t-mess-with-me-I-may-have-a-suitcase-but-I’m-not-a-tourist’ grimace so no one would bother me, or enter into my personal space. The more disdainful and anti-social I can make my glare the better (I’m pretty good now, been perfecting it for three years). It was this daunting realisation that I was again far from the helpful, polite and (generally) smiley faces of the London crowd that made me wonder why I chose this city. I know why, though. I irrationally fell head over heels in love with this place about 10 years ago and I haven’t been able to wean myself off since. Maybe a bit like being in a relationship with a jealous boyfriend, my guard is up yet I’m being questioned and told what I can’t do… I’m persevering yet I’m being blocked from passing go, usually forking out monies for the community chest as I go.

Today I am marking my social-codes rebellion with a tiny sliver of blue hair chalk. Baby steps, baby steps. Don’t want to cause someone a heart attack.

In a funny-not-so-funny turn of events, I think France found out about my across-Channel love affair with London. Not back 24 hours and I’ve, somewhat ironically, had my first bike accident in the three years cycling around Paris. Fortunately, nothing more than a grazed hand, dirty jeans, a fallen chain and my ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ glare.

I guess it’s just one of those days.

Lady Gaga 2.0

Everyone knows at least one of those people in life, you know the people who are ridiculously positive, loving life to the point where you’re just a bit like ffs shut up. S’il te plaît be happy in silence.
Yesterday I was one of those people. I think I was quite frankly irritating, literally grinning from ear to ear. Sorry (not sorry) but yesterday was awesome.

The thing about Paris is that it is totally unpredictable. One minute you’ll be sitting around in your apartment hoping for something ANYTHING to do, next minute your phone goes off and you’ve got five different people proposing really awesome stuff to do all at the same time. You know that expression men are like buses? I think people are like that in general: it’s all or nothing.

So the other week I met the mastermind behind the website Fast&Food. His model could no longer make yesterday’s shoot so I (very willingly) stepped in. All I knew was the time, address and not to wear a black top. Hmm, interesting. Meticulously following Google maps, I found myself outside a butchers (after managing to turn the wrong way, of course). And yeah, I wasn’t expecting that. I met the brains behind Persillé, where the deco is a perfect mix between old and new, enthusiastically serving well presented fresh products #homemade and #madeinfrance. Never before in my life have I posed so much with sausages, worn them as a necklace, or laughed so much. And I said to myself: if Lady Gaga can wear a dress covering herself in meat, I can at least attempt jewellery. Another string to Persillé’s bow: their meat doubles up as jewellery. If that’s not a reason to shop there, I dunno what is.

Once I’ve become one of those annoyingly happy smug people, there’s no way anyone’s going to neg me out. People on the metro last night probably thought I was totally mental. Happy and smiling on the metro once summer holidays are officially over…serious?
And you know what? Today’s going to be just as awesome.

Fast&Food
Persillé – Maison de Viande

La rentrée

It’s September 1st. The day that French life whirs back into action after a month of holidaying and reposing.

Everyday Paris has been completely shut down for the past month, geared only to satisfy the needs of tourists as Parisians head down south or abroad. There is something beautiful and calming about deserted Paris; the usual bustling streets suddenly become more intimate and welcoming. This month only can you rid yourself of the Parisian glare, the city-walking, the people dodging and the frustrated grumbling on a jam-packed metro. For these thirty-one days in a year you can step back and admire the beauty of Paris without getting in somebody’s way. You can stroll, wander and get lost in the back streets. The only thing you can’t do is go out to your local restaurants or boulangeries because they will certainly be closed for at least two weeks, if not the whole month.

August is the month of exploration. 

 This month of chilled out nothingness has given me the freedom to analyse myself and set life goals. Thankfully it’s given me the opportunity to concentrate on and develop my running without having to dodge too many people in the street so I can focus on the Paris Semi-Marathon. I’ve been able to explore, in a different light, the banks of the Seine during Paris Plage (when Paris transforms the banks of the river into a beach), tasting artisanal ice creams, taking photos and finally finishing 1984 by Orwell. I’ve been able to relax on the Canal Saint Martin with friends, drinks and delicious Pink Flamingo pizzas, as well as attend boat parties at Le Playtime with cocktails influenced by the flavours of Cape Verde. The bank holiday weekend was even spent à la parisienne in La Rochelle and Ile de Ré with friends, sunshine and out-of-this-world food.

This is a month of free time, friendship and self-analysis before the reality of September kicks in.