What You Didn’t Expect
What You Didn't Expect
Originally published on Trespass
I was 19-years old and he had the most amazing blue eyes I had ever seen. Oh my god, he was dreamy! He didn’t say much, but it was okay, I managed to do the talking for both of us. Every single one of his features were just perfect and he smelled divine. Immediately, I was head over heels in love and planning the rest of our life together; where we would go, what we would do, what we would see. Ours was a love fated to last forever. And then…he threw up on me.
My son is eight years old now and I told him I was writing about him this week. Why?, he asked me, and I said, it’s because he is the one thing I love more than anything. That’s a bit disgusting Mum, he replied. He asked if I’d use his real name in the article, and I said no, not if you don’t want me to, and he told me he’d like to be known as Darth Vader.
So Darth Vader has taught me the meaning of unconditional love. Basically, when someone can vomit on you ad nauseam (literally) and you still think they are the most incredible thing you’ve ever seen, well, you’ve got it bad. But what you don’t learn when you’re reading all of those ‘What to Expect While You’re Expecting’ books, are the truly unexpected surprises that parenthood brings.
Perhaps parenthood is something lurking in the future for you, Trespass readers, or maybe you’ve just taken the plunge. Either way it’s something new that our generation should take the time to put our own spin on. Recently my Gen-Y friends have started having a sprinkle of babies here and there and since I’ve been doing this motherhood gig for a while now, they sometimes ask my advice. The truth is there is no formula for parenthood. There is such a wealth of information out there and it’s all so conflicting that it feels like everyone has their fingers in your baby pie, which feels just as violating as it sounds! Strangers will accost you in the street and tell you what you’re doing wrong. Parenting books will list every single worst-case scenario so suddenly, staying inside and swaddling your child in bubble wrap seems like a great idea. And then there’s the endless celebrity yummy-mummy brigade with their flat stomachs and shiny hair not encrusted with someone else’s breakfast. More often than not, we will feel like we are failing at parenthood even if we’re getting it right for the most part. An entire mythology and industry has been built around what you should and shouldn’t be doing as a parent, and I want to debunk the hell out of it.
The Greatest Love of All
It is true that you will love your children more than you could ever imagine. They will push your heart to leaping, stratospheric places you never knew possible. People will say things like, “I never knew what love was until I became a parent” etc. Sure. But here’s something we never ever talk about. Sometimes you won’t like your children. At all. With the very best also comes the very worst. They also take you to your darkest, most hideous places where you turn into an unrecognisable evil dragon creature. And that’s okay. I know that I personally have felt so much irrational guilt because I have sometimes found myself acting like a fire-breathing monster. “Good mothers aren’t supposed to breathe fire!” I’ve thought, kicking myself for failing at parenting again. But why feel guilty? There is no such thing as failing at parenting if you have happy and safe, and well-loved kids. As long as your children don’t have third-degree burns after throwing a few flames, it’s okay. They’ll love you unconditionally too, let’s not forget. Darth Vader tests my patience at times, but nothing compares to when he wraps his arms around me and gives me a squishy hug.
The Greatest Love
Yummy Mummies for Dummies
Since I was very young when I had Darth Vader, people always said things like, “You’re young, all the baby weight will fall right off you”. Well, hello, eight years later I’m still waiting for the last of it to disappear! But that doesn’t matter either, does it? Increasingly, there has been a real pressure on new mothers to look better than they did pre-birth, just like the glossy photos of new celebrity mums leaving hospitals looking like they’ve been at an urban spa instead of a bloody 24-hour gruelling labour. On top of that, new mothers are also supposed to, overnight, become the epitome of a woman once they push their little tyke out. We’re supposed to suddenly understand things, ranging from how to be a wise nurturing maternal figure, whether cloth or disposable nappies are best, or which schools we’re going to send our kids to. You grow up as a parent as your child does, and it’s alright if we haven’t got all the answers straight away. And don’t kill yourself if you don’t look like a supermodel. I honestly believe I look so much better post Darth Vader than I did before him – stretch marks and all. We don’t need to get mumsy and buy mum jeans either, it’s all about taking who you are already and adding a small dribbling creature to your outfit.
Oh no, my life is over!
I waddled around Sydney University with water retention, had morning sickness mid-tutorial, and never got drunk. I honestly thought I was just another statistic; nineteen, barefoot and pregnant, and that my life was over. In fact, I was so embarrassed about being pigeon-holed as a teenage mother that once Darth Vader was born, I sometimes kept him a secret from new acquaintances (shame on me). I did that because I didn’t want them to see me as any less smart/assertive/free, or think that my life was actually over – how very wrong I was!
Someone once said to me that children are the ones that come into your life, they don’t need to totally take over yours. Yes, for a while, they demand a lot from you, but there is no reason for you to give up on your dreams and ambitions. In 2006, Darth Vader and I moved from Sydney to Paris and we truly have a magical life. I’m happy and pursuing goals I had always set for myself, and Darth Vader has a strange little idyllic French childhood playing under the Eiffel Tower at recess. Your life will not be over when you become a parent, even if you don’t move to Paris. There’s no reason for you to let go of who you are or think that this is the end of your social life. And it’s better for your kids if you never ever stop striving for the things that you want. I know a lot of new dads and mums who worry that children equals being tied down. But children are more like helium balloons – they’ll lift you up and make you see everything from a perspective you hadn’t seen before.
Required Reading?
Nuture Shock
There is a plethora of data about how to be a parent out there; your own parents, books, websites, old ladies on the street who want to tell you what they think. This is great. Make informed decisions and read widely and listen to what people tell you. But also remember that parenthood isn’t about cramming for an exam, and getting it right or wrong. Nobody is grading you. Your children will have personalities of their own and you will know them better than anyone. What they need and what they get is in your hands, but don’t feel pressured to do things “by the book”. Our generation will really take our own spin on parenting and we will make it our own. We are and will be bringing up children in a new era where we (and they) have access to so much information at our fingertips.
I recently read a book called Nurtureshock: New Thinking About Children, which basically outlines ways in which traditional parenting guides have created a mythology about childhood development that is actually backfiring. Things that seem instinctive might actually not be the best things to do for our kids. Praising children and calling them clever doesn’t create more confident kids, in fact, it has the reverse effect – praising their efforts is apparently much better for their self-esteem. There are chapters on the importance of sleep, why kids lie, and how “Baby Einstein” DVDs etc. aren’t really increasing baby brain capacities at all. I’d recommend this book to any parent, old or new, but like anything in the realm of parenthood, take it with a pinch of salt. It’s all about keeping your mind open, finding out as much as you can, and making your own choices.
Darth Vader truly is the love of my life and the most rewarding, complicated (and longest!) relationship I’ve ever had. We have grown up together and are still growing. I learn something new about him every day and he is always learning about me too. And sometimes when I feel like I’ve been fumbling around in the dark not knowing what the hell I am doing, Darth Vader does something remarkable, like builds Lego meant for 14 year olds or learns a poem by Victor Hugo off by heart – and that makes me feel like I’m not in the dark at all. Parenting is challenging, complex, stressful and full of small pressures but honestly, it’s not so bad. Just don’t let yourself get lost amongst the toys, Wiggles DVDs and tiny pairs of socks. Your kids want to know you as much as you want to know them.
Carte Blanche
Sydney Opera House
And so here I am back in Paris after a lovely little trip back home to Australia. See how pretty January in Sydney can be? Sure, there is a disparity of forty degrees or so in temperature and I am back to wearing three pairs of socks under boots instead of bare feet in Havaianas with patriotic little Australian flags on them, but it is nice to be back in my other home. A small glimpse of The Eiffel Tower as I walk down the street is exciting once more. I’ve just about beat the jetlag and the French even had a grève and giant manifestation yesterday to welcome me back. Thanks France!
Next week I begin something rather insane. I will be making a weekly commute to London to attend the Faber Academy. Every Wednesday until the end of July (and the last Saturday of each month), I will be making my way into the Faber Offices in Bloomsbury to work on my novel. Finally! Some mentorship! Some structure! Some discipline! Some native English speakers! Hurrah! Behold my use of exclamation marks here, clearly I can hardly contain my excitement! But the promise of rubbing shoulders with talented writers and poet laureates and attending boozy book launches isn’t all that I am thrilled about. There is another imminent achievement that awaits.
The Eurostar Carte Blanche.
I am but 200 points away. And with two Eurostar trips per week I will be getting my hands on this much desired little card in the very near future. What is it, you ask? Well to be honest, I’m not entirely sure. I suppose it’s just a card. I don’t even think that it is white. But it will give me access to the hallowed Eurostar business lounge! Now I am not sure what goes on in there exactly but I suspect it is business. Very important business conducted by (in the words of the Eurostar website) “the privileged few”. Hello elitism. You called?
Even as a little girl I have had dreams of belonging to some elitist group, something like The Masonic Society, The Bloomsbury Set, a small street gang of intimidating thugs. All I want is to belong, but also to have others wish to belong and be denied! If the Eurostar Carte Blanche set will have me, then so be it. I even have an elaborate plan. Upon receiving my membership into this secret society, I will spend all of my spare time in the Eurostar business lounge. Even when I have no trains to catch. It’s going to become my local hangout. Laptop in tow I will find myself a spot of my own and appear to be involved in some sort of very serious business.
Others around me will notice and say “Oh, what very serious business are you conducting there?”.
“Classified.” I shall say, very mysteriously, possibly wearing some sort of mysterious hat. Yes, indoors, it doesn’t matter, this is business.
“Yes, I am also conducting very serious business,” they will reply, and then offer to buy me a gin and tonic or possibly another beverage that is slightly more business and mysterious. Perhaps a martini. Nothing says business like vermouth. And so begins my proverbial debutante ball into the world of “the privileged few”. I may take a couple as lovers, on the sly of course, there is no mystery in being overt about these things, but these dalliances shall be documented many years later in the detailed biography of The Eurostar Carte Blanche Set. A seamless plan!
It all begins on Wednesday! Exclamation mark!
New Years Resolutions and Home
Sydney Festival First Night 2009
In the very early hours of New Years Day, after accidentally catching the RER E instead of RER B en route to a party and ending up in an exciting place rather outside of Paris called Creil, where I got stranded until 5am and drank so much I threw up in a bar beside some friendly North African old men, I decided it was time to make a new years resolution. This is not something I regularly do come the first day of the year but as I walked around the empty streets of Creil with my friend and battled frostbite, I knew it was time to grab this shiny year full of promise by the reigns and give it all I’ve got. No, I didn’t resolve to stop drinking so much that I vomit on my shoes, or even to look at train numbers before jumping on board. No weight loss or huge self improvement. My New Years resolution was to blog.
For me, this is something easier said than done. I love reading blogs and I love writing and I love the internet and I love taking photos and I love everything Web 2.0 – Flickr, Twitter, Facebook, RSS feeds. Basically, I am primed for the entire concept. I even used to blog more than a decade ago. But with that pesky novel hanging over my head I seem to always forget about extra-curricular writing. What’s the point of having a brand new shiny website with nothing in it though?
Almost three weeks into 2009, I haven’t yet kept my word and developed a serious blogging habit, (I haven’t actually answered any of my emails either… sorry!) but there has been an excellent reason for this. I have been visiting the homeland. Australia. Perhaps this isn’t any excuse because people far and wide seem to able able to maintain a blog while they are sailing the high seas or trekking in Nepal, but when I come home I’m so wrapped up in the people that I love that I neglect all things internet. When I arrived home in Sydney, I spent the first 48 hours just chatting away with my wonderful Dad. I visited my Grandma. I caught up with many many friends. I played lawn bowls (I now know how I will be spending my twilight years, I was a natural). I went to the Sydney Festival First Night and the Grace Jones Concert at the Enmore Theatre. I ate lots of lovely Asian food and went for a few swims. Right now I am in Melbourne and I will be returning to Paris very soon. And when I do, I promise it will be ready, steady, blog. In the meantime, I’m just going to play with my friends and family and try desperately hard to think of interesting things to say.
Luckily a picture says a thousand words so I have a couple to make up for the last three weeks…
Le Petit Saint Benoît
Les escargots - gros or très gros?
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On the back wall of Le Petit Saint Benoît, the wall closest to the kitchen, is a set of drawers. They look like the sort that once held a library card catalog; dozens of old and wooden tiny drawers arranged in a grid. Spend a few minutes at Le Petit Saint Benoît and you’ll see what they contain soon enough: the napkins of the regulars. Now it is one of my heart’s greatest desires to have one of these napkins, and the aspiration is currently even more excrutiating since my dear friend Dave recently got a drawer + napkin of his own.
And he’s in good company. Open since 1901, Le Petit Saint Benoît is a Paris institution, once frequented by the likes of Jean-Paul Sartre, Serge Gainsbourg, Jacques Prévert and Marguerite Duras. It’s an authentic, top quality Paris bistro, with simple but marvelous French food and and a warm, relaxed atmosphere. I am terribly fond of the revolving door and the slightly tarnished antique mirrors on the walls, and the staff are great.
Everything on the menu is good, and whenever I have visitors from back home in Australia I make them try the escargots – you can have them gros or très gros. The boeuf bourguignon and cassolette de poisson are served in round individual cocottes and ideal for a cold day, and the hachis parmentier (like shepherd’s pie – Jack and I recently discovered that Monsieur Parmentier was the man responsible for introducing the “culture of the potato” to France!) is perfect comfort food. The confit de canard (duck) is also delicious, and for the very brave I really recommend the tartare, it’s maybe my favourite thing on the menu. Vegetarians don’t have a huge range of choice but if you let one of the friendly waitresses know, they can have the kitchen make something up especially for you.
The wine list is solid – you can have carafes or bottles – and the desserts are not bad either (I like the fondant and the crème caramel). Be sure to read the daily specials on the blackboard because there are occasionally some gems in there – I once had the best souris d’agneau (lamb shanks – but literally mouse of lamb!) I’ve ever had in my life here. Only thing I’m not a huge fan of is the coffee, they have more turkish style coffee served in an ornate mug and not the little espresso shots of pure caffeine power that I prefer.
I’m still working on getting my napkin – maybe I need to show them this glowing review! In the meantime I will just have to cope with seeing Dave gloat (and probably wipe his face constantly) but it’s Le Petit Saint Benoît, I just can’t seem to stay away.
Open Monday to Saturday 12h to 14h30 and 19h to 22h30.
Le Petit Saint Benoît
4 rue St Benoît75006 Paris
01 42 60 27 92
Métro: Saint-Germain-des-Prés
Map!
Image Ken Schwarz
Antonia’s Paris
The Seine from St Michel Notre Dame
Antonia’s Paris – My Guide to the City
Ah, Paris. Before I moved here in mid 2006, everyone said to me “Wow, Antonia! Paris! You lucky thing! I’ve always wanted to live there!” but strangely Paris was never a place I had always dreamed of living. I had never had grand fantasies of the romantic Paris myth, of walking around the streets clutching baguettes, being charmed by dashing French men and oozing culture and sophistication. Or wearing chic avant-garde fashion, smoking, talking about philosophy and politics in cafés and generally pretending to be Simone de Beauvoir. But the stars aligned in such a way that here I am, and right now I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Paris is my home. [See More...]
Gigtastic in Paris
Animal Collective at Primavera Sound Barcelona
Winter may be upon us in Paris but there are lots of most excellent gigs coming up in the city of lights, including some of my very favourites like Animal Collective (above is a photo that I took at Primavera Sound in Barcelona in May this year and I have several more shots of the view up Avey Tare’s nose – available on request!). Right now Festival Les Inrocks is on in Paris which I’m a bit sad to be missing because there are many many great things happening. So far I have TV on the Radio lined up for December 1st and am contemplating others depending on funds (High Places!)
My picks:
19 Nov – Liam Finn @ Nouveau Casino (go see my lovely friend EJ)
22 Nov – Fujiya & Miyagi @ La Maroquinerie
29 Nov – Cold War Kids @ Bataclan
1 Dec – TV on the Radio @ Bataclan
2 Dec – Herman Düne @ L’Olympia
9 Dec – Nouvelle Vague @ L’Alhambra
10 Dec – The Notwist @ Trabendo
11 Dec – Deerhoof, Parenthetical Girls @ Trabendo
20 Dec – High Places @ Flèche d’Or
16 Jan – Animal Collective @ Bataclan
20 Feb – Kings of Leon @ L’Olympia
27 Jan – Kaiser Chiefs @ Le Zénith
Rose Bakery
Julian drawing on the table at Rose Bakery
One of Julian’s favourite places to eat in Paris is Rose Bakery on rue des Martyrs in the 9th arrondissement. Firstly it is amazing that he even has a favourite place to eat at all because I have been blessed with one of the fussiest eaters known to mankind, but also luckily it is one of my favourite places in Paris too.
Opened in 2002 by Rose Carrarini from the UK and her French husband Jean-Charles, they have many lovely English style baked goods like fruit cake, scones, lovely dense carrot cake and (hurray!) a flourless orange cake. You’d think that in Paris, the spiritual home of the patisserie, these items wouldn’t be in high demand, but Rose Bakery is immensely popular and always full, very often with a queue out the door. Julian is a big fan of the brownies and little pizzas. I like their wonderful selection of salads, especially the lentil salad and carrot salad, and the strong British cheeses like stilton and cheddar.
Rose Bakery is only open for lunch which means going there with Julian on weekdays is impossible, but they do a great brunch on the weekend. They are also decidedly very kid friendly and Julian and I always have a great time drawing on the tablecloth (it’s paper). Rose Carrarini has also produced a wonderful cookbook called Breakfast, Lunch and Tea: The Many Meals of Rose Bakery which I own and love.
A new branch of Rose Bakery has recently opened up in the Marais which is a tiny bit closer to where we live, so we will have to go there soon.
Rose Bakery
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46 rue des Martyrs 75009 Paris 01 42 82 12 80 Map! |
30 rue Debelleyme 75003 Paris 01 49 96 54 01 Map! |
La rentrée
In Paris, la rentrée was more than a month ago so I am a little bit late. But I am back! Once upon a time in the 90s I used to blog before it was even called blogging. Now I am going to try to do it again. The posts below are from my failed attempt at this last year, but now I have my own site!
Le Quatorze Juillet
Fireworks on Bastille Day
It has been quite a longtemps since I last posted here, but today is Bastille Day, and outside my window I can hear a backdrop of sirens, various drunk people yelling, and mysterious banging sounds which could be cars backfiring, contraband fireworks or my neighbours getting rather patriotic. All of this is making me feel very festive. You see, France’s Fête Nationale also marks my one year anniversary of living in France, and while I still don’t know the words to the La Marseillaise (I can name everyone on the last season of Star Ac though), there are so many things that I have learnt over this past année about France, the French, the world, and even myself, that I would like to share. I can hardly name them all, but here are a select few which I may expand upon another day. Allons-y!
- The most useful phrase I have picked up is C’est pas grave (it’s not serious). This is a wonderful phrase that can be used in contexts ranging from someone stepping on your toe to all kinds of things which really are serious, like say, a cancer diagnosis. I was once watching the evening news and some poor man’s house had been completely devastated and he had lost all of his worldy possessions and all he had to say was c’est pas grave! Sometimes the French are very stoic. That is when they’re not being…
- … very dramatic. Quelle drame! Another thing I have picked up is the art of a crisis. Some people in Paris have un peu de crise over anything and everything. Often while waiting in queues or on public transport. On the 69 bus one afternoon I bore witness to a man yell at a poor young lady, and the entire bus, about using her mobile phone, ranting on about the demise of society and how he should just go and kill himself now. Of course this man would probably say c’est pas grave if he were diagnosed with cancer. It’s all very confusing.
- Aging French rock stars are very scary. I present Exhibit A – Michel Polnareff. I could give you several more examples but I really think he is enough evidence.
- There’s an unspoken dress code for each arrondisement in Paris and after a while you can pick it. Basically everyone wears variations on the same thing though.
- Coming from an Anglo background and upbringing, I still always get surprised when people do the double cheek kiss, but I’d rather they did that than not do it at all.
- I can’t wear as much eyeliner as French girls without looking like I was in a violent punch up, or a panda.
- I like how everything is often given a cute nickname ending in -o, like frigo, texto, moto, and Sarko.
- Often the things that smell the worst do in fact taste the best.
- I swear a lot more now than I did before, putain.
Merci France for letting me storm your proverbial Bastille.
À la carte
À la carte
Where I live in Paris there is a plethora of tourists. Actually perhaps that could be said for most areas in Paris, but on my local commercial strip I seem to hear more foreign languages than French. The tourists are steadily dipping in and out of cafes, asking for directions, pulling out the Metro map and looking confused, significant others wearing silly matching raincoats (and caps embroidered with their country of origin) walking hand in hand and looking very much in love. A few Parisians aren’t keen on them, but I love the tourists. I have been one myself after all. Plus I’ve been here for almost a year now and I still need to pull out my Metro map and look confused. But I have learnt to have a discreet one tucked away in my Paris Moleskine. I love the tourists so much that I have been known to walk up to them and ask ‘Bonjour! Do you need help?’. The Mairie should pay me for assisting lost souls on their pilgrimage towards Galeries Lafayette.
But my favourite thing about Paris tourism is without a doubt the English translations on menus. Yes, I am one of those silly creatures who derive joy from grammatical errors and spelling mistakes. I am by no means whatsoever a grammar snob who gets annoyed by mistakes (because I certainly make them in French all the time), I just find misspelled words and literal translations charming and delightful. Especially when they sound as appetising as “raped cheese”1. Goodness, does it need counseling? Or maybe you’d prefer “Hamburger with egg of horse”?2
Also the whole thing about Parisian waiters and waitresses being rude is a myth. If you happen to stumble across a rude one he’s just as likely to be rude to the locals as he is to the tourists. Most of them are lovely and extremely keen to show off their English abilities. One sort of French I have reached total fluency in is cafe and restaurant French, but if the staff overhear me speaking English with my dining companion, they jump at a chance to tell us the Plat du jour in my mother tongue. Often in the culinary realm though, it just doesn’t translate very well.
Waiter: So ze special of ze day is grilled stingray with concussed tomato, it is very good.
Antonia: Sounds delicious. We’ll take two.
Friend of Antonia: Am I going to die?
Waiter: And something to drink?
Antonia: Two glasses of red wine and some water.
Waiter: Would you prefer water suffering from gas or not suffering from gas?
Antonia: Oh, definitely with the gas. Merci.
Friend of Antonia: Why are you feeding me poisonous maritime creatures and fart water?
My favourite badly translated menu item has to be this:
Apparently this is how steak tartare translates into English at a cafe nearby, but I doubt very much many Anglophones order their beef codly chopped has to the order of the machine cooled. Maybe just the brave ones.
1. fromage râpé is grated cheese
2. Hamburger avec Oeufs a Cheval is really a meat patty with a fried egg on top of it, riding horseback if you will. That’s right, French horses don’t lay eggs either.
À la Pharmacie
À la Pharmacie
Anyone who has ever been to Paris will know that one of the city’s quirks is there is literally a pharmacy on every single block. Quite au contraire to England’s pub on every corner philosophy (although that may be another form of medication itself), it is impossible to peruse the rues of Paris without seeing the warming glow of a green neon cross every hundred metres or so. Comforting for most who recognise the emerald beacon of readily available medication, but probably not for epileptics as those signs often flash so furiously that I sometimes wonder why there isn’t a Japanese cartoon called ‘Green Pharmacy Seizure Robots”.
So why are they everywhere in Paris? Is there a plague going around that I didn’t know about? Are Parisians the sickest populace in the world? Perhaps, but France has an outstanding health system (Assurance Maladie) so deeply rooted in the core of the society that when asked to name the three best symbols of the French nation, the people responded “the flag, the health and the Marseillaise”. Even illegal immigrants receive basic cover, which is much more than I can say for Australia. However pharmacy overload doesn’t necessarily correlate with excessive illness. I think I could even go so far as to say that the pharmacy density in Paris exceeds that of anywhere else in the world. But it’s not because there’s something in the Seine.
Basically, Parisians are vain, nosy hypochondriacs. And I do mean that as a term of affection. Nothing is more charming than the little old women who are convinced they are dying of a fatal disease when all they have is a runny nose. There is also the very French notion that there is a cream to fix everything. Want to lose 5 kilos? Try this cream. Cellulite? Cream. Herpes? Cream (I don’t know that from experience but I assume so). Whenever I am in the pharmacy I am always overhearing people deeply engrossed in a discussion about which cream is best for what. The creme de la creme of cremes if you will. Not to mention that each time you ask the pharmacist a question, every single person currently also waiting in the queue will happily let you know their opinion as well, even if you’re just there to buy shampoo. I recently saw a man come into my local pharmacy with a broken and grazed wrist (he was there to get, surprise surprise, cream) and the moment he pulled out his x-rays, everyone on the grounds gathered round to see his green stick fracture and offer advice. “Make sure you do kinestherapie (physio)” said one bystander. “Did you have a moto accident?” asked another. “It will heal faster if you hold it at exactly a 48 degree angle for at least ten hours a day” was my favourite suggestion.
And then a malady befell me. Just last week, while taking something out of the oven, the top of my finger brushed against the grill and Voila! Antonia Brûlée. I was worried it would get infected so strolled the very short distance to the pharmacy on the corner of my street to ask what would be the most appropriate cream to apply. Now my French is passable and generally I can get by day to day without drawing too many blanks, but there are moments when I have total vocabulary amnesia. My conversation with the pharmacist went somewhat like this (en francais):
Antonia: Bonjour Madame!
Madame La Pharmacienne: Bonjour Mademoiselle, how can I help you?
Antonia: Well I think I need a cream. I have a [searching brain for the right word for burn] erm… flamant on my finger, what should I do?
Madame: Excusez-moi?
Antonia: A flamant. On my finger.
At this point Madame La Pharmacienne turned from slightly puzzled to bright red with laughter. She called out to everyone else in the store, who quickly rushed over and upon hearing what I had just said turned bright red with laughter themselves. Looking at them I wondered if there was a cream to apply for mass hysteria. I was turning bright red for a different reason altogether. “Pardon Madame” I whispered. “What exactly did I just say?”
“Flamant! Like this.” The woman stood on one foot and bent her other at a right angle, exactly like… a flamingo. I had just told everyone that I had a flamingo on my finger. Well… that would be serious. Unfortunately for me, there was no cream to fix my flamingo or embarrassment but the pharmacist did give me a lovely topical cream for my burn and it’s almost gone now. Although I haven’t been back in the pharmacy since. But just so you don’t make the same mistake I did, the word for burn in French is brûlure.
Photo by cubn6
Antonia Hayes is an Australian writer, photographer and mother of one who woke up one morning somewhere in between The Eiffel Tower and Invalides unsure how she ended up there but decided to stay anyway. Originally from Sydney, she has been living in Paris since 2006 but still can't remember which one is the Left Bank and which is the Right Bank. Antonia is currently working on her first novel and is pretty sure she lives on the Left Bank.