Free Almost French by Sarah Turnbull Page A

repeats.
    He’s right, of course—we are lucky to live here. It is a lovely area. But Levallois is not Paris. Although it’s on the city limits, it’s about as Parisian as the Sydney suburb of Roseville. Intuitively, I sense that life would be much more fun and interesting living in the thick of things. That I’d feel less alone in the pulse of urban energy. Moving into Paris becomes my dream, although Frédéric seems so resolved to stay put I’m pessimistic about the chances of it happening. Inmy heart I desperately hope he comes round to the idea.
    The stretch of hours between breakfast and dinner becomes a rollercoaster of optimistic peaks followed by plunges into despair. At first I seek comfort in the thick Côte d’Or bars of black chocolate that Frédéric keeps in the apartment. In my state of frustration, demolishing however many I can lay my hands on gives me a sense of achievement. But he takes to hiding them in cunning places, locking them in antique chests or sandwiching slabs between the pages of one of Jules Verne’s extraordinary adventures. Unable to fathom my lack of control, Frédéric beseeches me, ‘Where is the pleasure in eating it all ? Why can’t you just have one or two pieces?’ I take no notice. I’ve had enough of this French restraint when it comes to indulging in everything from wine to chocolate. If anything, his self-righteous tone only strengthens my resolve. When there’s no more chocolate to be found, I resort to the jar of Nutella, ploughing through fudgy spoonfuls, sick and satisfied.
    At times the decision to give up my secure job and stay in Paris seems insane. There are moments when my conviction that everything will work out wavers. Sure, being with Frédéric is fabulous but what about my life? What about my income? I want a career, not this self-punishing routine of pumping out faxes like some obsolete production line. It’s all very wonderful having the whole day to do dinner, but this frustrated housewife routine wasn’t part of my plan. Where oh where is the glamorous Paris life I envisaged?
    Memories of my previous job come back to me, the images brighter than the reality ever was. At work, the noise in the open plan newsroom used to drive me mad. Forty journalists all talking on the phone at once against a background hum of twenty televisions tuned into different channels (and oftendifferent languages) made concentrating on writing almost impossible.
    But now I’d kill for a bit of office noise. I miss the conviviality of working in teams, gossiping over cappuccinos, discussing stories with camera-crews and editors; pooling ideas. Maybe if I had colleagues to share ideas with I’d have more of them? I miss my friends. I miss sun and light and can’t help wincing when someone at home tells me what an incredible summer Sydney is having.
    ‘You need to get out of the apartment,’ Frédéric urges, when he senses my head is about to implode. And so I take the direct metro line into Opéra and sit reading my newspaper at Café de la Paix, trying to eke out my exorbitantly priced café crème for as long as possible. After, I go for a wander, my melancholy mood inexplicably deepening with every step. I walk around Place Vendôme, taking in its majesty, the arc of luxury jewellers, feeling confused—guilty, even—that I should feel unhappy in a place that looks like paradise.

The biggest shock during these first months is how different France is from my romantic imaginings. In my mind it was a country of rolling revolutions, peopled by anarchists and communists who brave police truncheons and tear gas to fight for their cause. If they were a bit on the violent side, this lack of discipline only heightened their appeal. For me, the French were passionate and progressive and unafraid of change. France conjured up thrilling images of radical philosophers and cobblestone-throwing students into marijuana and all sorts of sex.
    No doubt many factors helped shape this