So it would seem that I now just... live in Paris or something. JUST WHAT I'VE ALWAYS DREAMED OF!
I'm doing this not only for my own selfish reasons, but also for my other half, L.T. She's living vicariously through me and my Parisian adventures, so I have this extra overwhelming pressure to just have the best time anyone's ever had. And I'm sure gon' try!
I was talking to my friend, G.B., last night though (look at me having friends in Paris! Aint no stoppin' me now!), and we were talking about everyone else we know who came to spend their year in France. Most people seem to have had a right whale of a time, but then we mentioned S.P. (a boy I used to see), and we swapped stories about how shit of a time he claimed to have had while he was in Paris. Mine and G.B.'s decision was unanimous- it can't have been Paris; it must have been him.
Really though, to have a shit time in Paris, you must be a shit person. To have a shit time in Paris you must be determined to have a shit time. You have to really search for a shit time in Paris. I sound like an advert for Paris, and this is probably really annoying to read (also seem to have said Paris an unreasonable amount of times now), but this is what it comes down to- HOW CAN YOU POSSIBLY NOT LOVE THIS PLACE?!
If you don't like the area you woke up in you can just hop (well... scramble/squeeze/scrape/crawl/claw your way) onto the metro, and in a matter of minutes you're transported to somewhere entirely different.
Just such a fun time; I can't even deal with the idea that someone could come here and be unhappy about it. Obviously there's shit aspects about the city; there's shit aspects about every city... But if I have to accept the negatives of a place, I find myself a lot more ready and willing to accept the negatives of this one.
It's not all sunshine and golden Eiffel towers though; there have been things which have made the transition from tiny town to less-tiny city sorta difficult, and here's my main moan:
I live in a nunnery.
I do tend to use hyperboles rather freely, but this time I'm serious. I really do feel as though I have accidentally been sent to the wrong establishment, and there's a lost and confused little nun in a happenin' foyer across the arrondissement living my life.
It's not fair.
I arrived here last week and was immediately very very very poorly with food poisoning, so I'll readily admit that that may have contributed to my negativity about the whole shebang. However, I maintain that I have been brought here until false pretences. I'm only really here because of a recommendation from my aunty's friend's daughter, who had 'the best time' while she was staying here. Liar.
Ah, let me explain my woes, shall I?
There are about... 5 things which I don't love about this set-up. And here they are in order of how much they've annoyed me (working backwards for dramatic effect):
5. No toilet paper ever.
This one is pretty self-explanatory. There is never any toilet paper left in the shared toilets. And I am really quite against buying my own, because... well, why should I? I pay enough to be here to not have to deal with the heartbreaking sight of empty paper dispensers.
4. Grim meals.
This one is also quite clear. The meals, they are grim. So far I've only eaten down there 3 times, and each time I've been teased and tantalised with various delicacies such as mushy carrots, fish nuggets, and once (a special treat day I think) an unidentified pastry parcel (possibly fish inside? Who can say?)
Gayest situation of my life. Curfews are just not something I thought I would ever have to deal with at 21 years of age. I've never had a curfew, even when I still lived at home with my mum. Frankly, just ludicrous. The rule is- either in before 1am, or upon failing that, after 5am. So future nights out will either have to be very very very tame or very very very not tame. Can't wait to see how that one's going to unfold...
2. No mates, apart from the ones we tell you to have.
On my very first day I was introduced to some super-chatty, super-keen, super-annoying blonde called Constance, who within 5 seconds of meeting me had asked/told me to go to a 'discovering Asia' day out, and who even went so far as following me to check that I'd put my name down on the sign-up board. Pushy people get right on my tits, so we didn't start off well. I was then pushed towards someone called Zaira(je pense?), and was told to ask her anything I wanted. Well obviously I don't know what I want to know when I'm put on the spot comme ca, so I asked her nothing and just smiled awkwardly instead. I was then shoved towards the main desk, where the person in charge pulled out an enormous book with photos and information about all of the girls who live in the foyer (I guess I star in that book too now- exciting!), and proceeded to point out the four girls who I should 'pay special attention to look out for.' So... my designated friends then? Wish I was joking about this bit, but I'm not even. Fucking designated mates. I just can't.
And the worst bit is I'm not even allowed my real friends in my room! Wah.
M.H. is coming to visit on Sunday, and he's had to book a hotel because he can't stay here with me. What's the point?
1. Rules, rules, rules.
First night. Poorly as all get out. Couldn't have possibly found me in a less social mood. Not in the mood for anything/anyone/life. Outrageously tried to sit next to a group of girls who were clearly already friends and didn't care to add a yellow-tinged precarious-looking English girl to their gal gang. Muttered a few unintelligible words to them. Realised within 30 seconds that this was a waste of everyone's time. Text M.H. and asked him to call me because I was 'lonely'. Which I was. So he did call me, and it really got me through my disgusting dinner. Had a laugh, moved my food around my plate really nicely, got up to leave. Perfect!
Not quite. As I was heading back upstairs I hear, 'erm... Silvia?' So I turn back around and muster up my most dazzling smile to the man at the desk (Julian I think? Who knows, but he turns out to be a twat, so don't worry about remembering his name. We don't like him.) He then proceeds to tell me that phones are not 'allowed' in the canteen, and that it's 'better' to speak to the girls, and that they like to 'encourage' chatting at mealtimes. Force chatting at mealtimes you mean, Jules? Christ. Couldn't deal with that. Leave me literally the fuck alone. If I want to never speak a word to any other girl the whole entire 3 months I'm here, guess what? I'm not going to. Luckily for everyone, that's not even remotely the case, but I'd just quite like the freedom to be antisocial if I want.
So... that's that.
But as is more than likely evident from everything I've already said, my opinion on the whole thing is this: who cares about any of these stupid little problems? I'm in Paris, and nothing else matters.