I might be a French woman, but I hate being late. That said, I am the exception rather than the rule. In my home country, it is generally right to be around 15 minutes late. The reason is that we French people expect it and if you arrive on time then we will still be in the middle of preparing. That’s just the way we are.
But times are changing. I, for one, am pleased with the various hashtags #metoo and #balancetonporc -literally ‘expose your pig’, the French equivalent of #metoo. Frankly, I thought that it was long overdue. Truth be told, I had come to accept that some harassment/bullying was acceptable when you were a woman, or simply when you were perceived to be the weaker party. Just to be clear, I believe that abuse concerns anyone, men and women. It’s not a question of gender; it’s a question of power. What am I talking about exactly? Well, I have lost count of the number of times my choices were judged, my opinions disregarded, my salary lower than my male colleagues, my appearance commented upon, unwanted advice was given, my back/lower back was patted, and so on, and so forth. There were also some more serious things that I will not write about, because it’s my choice not to. When I dared mention something, I was made to feel like I was the one without any sense of humour/morality. After all, it wasn’t that bad, was it? And I was far from being perfect, right? Come on, boys will be boys… In short, once again, put up and shut up.
Do you know what the three secret ingredients of French cuisine are?
Well, here it is: butter, butter and butter.
And guess what: as a result of soaring popularity of the dairy product and pastries abroad, my home country faces a massive butter shortage. Dipping your croissant in your cup of coffee might become the ultimate luxury pretty soon. What happened? How did we get there? Is it the end of the world as we know it?
Well, let me tell you something first: if you are familiar with this blog, you know that I am from Provence. In short, I am more into olive oil than butter. That’s just me. I am told that, if I were from Brittany, I would see things in a different light and become very depressed. But fear not: I am fine. Our olive trees seem to be in good shape, and my father even told me that we would get more olive oil than last year. All is well and we will survive.
When I say that I run ultra marathons, one of the first questions I get is usually along the following lines:
‘But what do you think about when you run for such a long time? Isn’t it boring?’
The truth is that it’s so hard that I don’t think. I just put one foot in front of the other as best as I can, and thinking would be an unwelcome distraction. It’s all about sparing my mental energy.
This weekend, this simple strategy worked again. What happened? I realised a childhood dream: I ran the Canyon De Chelly ultra marathon in Arizona. Running this race was one of the main reasons I started training. I also vividly remember a substitute teacher who taught our class when I was about seven. He was passionate about Native Americans and told us about the Apaches, the Navajo code breakers, Geronimo and the Wounded Knee massacre. It stuck. In fact, I can still remember the tune we learned about life in Arizona.
Fast forward almost 40 years (time flies right?), and here I was, trying to be part of the race a thousand miles away from London, and managing to get in despite the crashing website. It only dawned on me a few weeks later: I was in. Me being me, I immediately started organising the logistics. I was supposed to go with a friend of mine, and possibly our respective husbands. But life happened, and as the start date was approaching it was only me who could go. Frankly, I thought about dropping out. Because, you see, it wasn’t just a race: I actually had to go to Chinley. It was an expedition. The only way was to fly to Phoenix and then rent a car to drive 500 km to the place where the race started. The thing was, I didn’t really like driving and I had never driven in the US. What to do?
I don’t know if it’s my French side, but I hate surprises. I plan like mad. I don’t like the unexpected. Things must be neat, and controlled. Why? Well, because life is already full of surprises, and as a result I like to control what I can. So here it is: I am a control freak.
Maybe I am not that French after all, because I have heard at least a million times that French women are always late, don’t apologise and enjoy the flattery. Well, my British side has clearly taken over then. For instance: I hate being late. I am the sort of person who will text you if I might (and only might) be two minutes late. That’s just me, I suppose. As for waiting, well, I simply can’t stand it. It’s fair to say that Twitter saved my life: I tweet when I wait. That’s how I ended up tweeting all the time, I suppose!
As for not apologising and enjoying the flattery, hmmm…once again, my British side has taken over: I say sorry all the time. yes, even when I am not sorry. The other day I managed to say sorry to a lamp post I had accidentally bumped into (ouch).
Sorry, but today I am going to rant a bit. After all, I am not French for nothing, right?
So here it is: I know I shouldn’t be scared, that life goes on, and so on, and so forth, but I can’t help it, I am scared. Worse: I feel like a sitting duck.
I walk or run all the time. I take the Tube, the bus and the train. My kids do too. I used to feel reasonably safe in London, but not any more. In fact, I feel like an easy target. I have read everywhere that terrorism remains a negligible risk, that I am more likely to be struck by lightning than to be the victim of a terrorist attack, and that we are probably just more aware of terrorism, which is why we feel the hurt and the pain more. But still, I am scared. Truth be told, the recent attacks in the UK and in France haven’t helped. As for what just happened in Las Vegas, I don’t think that I have fully processed it yet. It’s just too much.
Instead of explaining to me about probabilities and other rational arguments, hear this: on 7th of July 2005 I was on the tube. I was just coming back from maternity leave. I had to be evacuated. I was lucky: I wasn’t on the train that was bombed, but it was a close call. What do probabilities mean when you are in the middle of an attack? I’ll tell you at once: it means nothing. I just felt lucky to be alive and see my baby at the end of the day.
It’s all over the French press, and to a lesser extent the anglo-saxon press. Our French President Emmanuel Macron wants French expats to come back to France. Yep, you read this right. Whether he actually means what he said remains to be seen.
He had already mentioned something similar back in February, so no surprise here. More recently, he made an appearance in front of hundreds of French citizens who have made a new home for themselves in the US, and proudly told them France was now the “land of conquest”. He wanted expats to go back to our home country to “innovate, seek, and teach”. Yeah right. Why am I not convinced?
I started to think long and hard about the opportunity to go back to France, and came to the conclusion that no, it’s not for me. First of all, to me Macron’s statement is simply an opportunistic move, capitalising on the Trump and Brexit effects, nothing else. Don’t get me wrong, his efforts to revamp France’s image are laudable, but I am afraid it’s far too late for me. Becoming an expat is a deeply personal choice, and I think that after four or five years you turn a corner. Coming back becomes more difficult, if not impossible, especially when you have kids. And it’s all nice and well to want expats to come back, but what’s in it for them? Unemployment and jealousy ? Thanks, but I’ll pass on this one. To cut a long story short, I would find it really challenging to come back. Here is why: