The French are like coconuts

Published in The Northern Echo January 8th 2008.

After recently graduating in linguistics from Newcastle University, Catharine Hewitson, 22, from Middleton St George, Darlington, has embarked on a trip to Paris to collect material for a book she hopes to write. In the first of a series of articles, she describes feeling out of place in the cosmopolitan city

WHEN I first decided to come to Paris for two months, I envisaged a glamorous arrival; gliding into the City of Light in a clichéd Parisian outfit such as a trench coat and a beret, with my capsule wardrobe of super-chic clothing and essential luggage in tow. Nothing like reality, then.

Before I even left England the strap on my hand luggage snapped. Then, when I arrived at the baggage carousel at Charles de Gaulle airport, I realised how heavy my two bags were (my dad had carried them from the car boot to the check-in desk at Newcastle Airport). Lugging almost overweight suitcases does not a chic Parisienne make.

When I arrived at my rented apartment in the heart of the city, flustered after taking several wrong turns (I refused to bring out my map and thus look like a struggling tourist), my landlady met me and grimaced at my luggage. Oh yes - I had chosen to rent a fifth floor room - with no lift.

So as I arrived at the top floor absolutely exhausted, my landlady presented me with a glass of water and gave another grimace, but this time it was aimed at me.

As soon as I settled into my apartment - if you can call a 13-metre squared room an apartment - I realised that these experiences were just a few of the many hurdles I would have to overcome as an English woman in Paris.

For example, I do not smoke. In Paris, everyone smokes. In the city where the cafe was born, I don't really like coffee. I certainly couldn't drink it thick and treacly like the French have it. I'm not big on red wine and cheese bores me. I'm quiet, I don't make large gestures with my hands - oh - and I don't speak French. Sure, I can hold a conversation, but I am by no means fluent.

So my first weeks in the city have really thrown me in at the deep end.

In terms of language, I have been finding myself able to communicate my own thoughts quite easily - albeit with a few made-up words - but as soon as someone says something back to me I am flustered. I have also made an unintended faux pas here and there - apparently it is not the done thing to order a kir (white wine with a dash of blackcurrant liqueur) with a meal, or to cut lettuce with a knife (do they expect us to eat the leaf whole?). And in my first week I was corrected on my manners by a group of rather handsome waiters at the swish Cafe Marly overlooking the Louvre.

But I have certainly found that the stigma attached to the French, Parisians particularly, is unjust. All it takes is a little effort and the icy Parisian exterior will melt.

I met up with Rebecca Magniant, an American who runs a tour guide company specialising in shopping and who has lived in Paris with her French husband since 2002.

I asked if she thought of herself as French, to which she replied with a heavily American accented ‘No!'. She also gave me a nice analogy - the Americans and English are like peaches - all warm and fuzzy on the outside but with a rock solid inner stone that is difficult to penetrate and get close to. In contrast, the French are like coconuts - rock solid on the outside, but once you break into the soft centre, you will have made a friend for life.

ALTHOUGH I love my home town, especially the lush countryside surrounding it, I can't help but be jealous of people who live in this wonderful city. Culture is everywhere: in the city's innumerable museums, in art galleries and exhibitions, in the streets, on the facades of buildings; even in the passion for food, literature and fashion.

I attended the Nuit Blanche (which translates as "sleepless night"), an all night culture fest which is fully overseen and endorsed by the mayor of Paris, Bertrand Delanoe. Once a year, churches, galleries, shops, museums and bars open their doors from late Saturday afternoon to 7am the following morning. I saw many weird and wonderful exhibits and installations and all for free. One involved people suspended on poles in the pitch black.

They dangled neon blue pipes in the style of anglers fishing; directing them at random people and whispering messages through them. I was flummoxed. Maybe it was a French thing?

Whatever the case, I am certainly starting to feel like a Parisian. I buy fresh flowers every week, pop to the bakers for fresh baguettes and croissants and I am even starting to swear (in French, of course) at the ridiculous Parisian traffic. I have even been mistaken for a French person - but as soon as I open my mouth, my nationality is betrayed.

I have also been welcomed by the French - another point to dispel the myth that all Parisians are rude and unfriendly.

Last week I was invited to a gathering in a boutique that has opened just around the corner from me. We drank ‘diablos’ (tonic water and either strawberry or mint syrup - a staple drink in Paris) and discussed the disparity between the English and the French. François, a gentleman of a certain age, told me that the worst thing an English person can do is immediately ask "parlez-vous Anglais?".

So really all one needs to be welcomed in Paris is to make un petit effort to learn rudimentary words such as hello, goodbye, please and thank you, and perhaps the French shell of animosity that Rebecca spoke of will shatter. I am certainly finding this to be the case. I know it's a cliché, but c'est la vie!