So given I'm now living in gay Paree I thought it would be an ideal time to revive Clarabella after a somewhat quiet 7 months, and so I present Clarabella: The Diary of a Parisian Office Worker. The idea was (and still is) to do my own little series of studio style (the less cool version of street style) on the outfits I wear to work in my chic little Parisian office every day. However, given my semi-homeless status until this morning, and the fact that I simply have not yet figured out this whole getting-up-early-enough-to-take-a-photo-of-myself thing (something I would normally avoid especially so early in the day), there are currently no photos, and so instead this evening's blog will serve as a stage for me to lament my first unfortunately eventful week in France. I hope it amuses you.
So I arrived here on Tuesday, after a Eurostar journey beside a crazy french/english woman. In hindsight I should have taken that as a sign of things to come and got on the first flight back to my beloved Spain. Everything was going okay, I was living in a hotel because getting used to French life was going to be difficult enough without living in a hostel, and on the first day I walked 8 miles without getting lost and I even had to take off my scarf it was that not-cold. The 20 degrees I left in Granada didn't seem too out-of-reach. However disaster struck on friday when it started to snow. Yes snow. I was most unamused, especially as I had had to leave my hoodie, dressing gown and blanket in Spain due to small-case syndrome (probably should have sacrificed some shorts instead). Oh and this wasn't before a mouse ran across the floor (and dangerously close to our feet) of the restaurant we were dining in.
Still living in a hotel at this stage, but things were on the up when I arranged to meet a potential landlady who was exchanging a room for babysitting. This is exciting I naively thought, thinking I would get to speak french and live in a family's apartment, hence avoiding tiny and possibly messy student flats. My mother warned me they could be some sort of french Vonn Trap family. Don't be silly I told her. She wasn't being silly. I arrived at the flat to find 2 young kids and i thought to myself, slightly crazy but I could totally deal with this, then la maman said "I have 3 older kids too". 'Joderrrrr' I thought to myself, 'Gwen was right'. Needless to say I didn't take the room, esp when I discovered it was not in the flat, but in fact on the 7th floor, and about the size of a child's play shed.
Things calmed down for 24 hours. I met a Durham friend in the street who invited me for lunch with her dad, I started work and didn't get fired, and signed a month-long contract for my boss's studio (nb he doesn't live here too). I was even going to go to the gym and rekindle my love with the spinning bike. So last night I set off in my gym gear with my christmas jumper over the top because it's so cold, looking like I could have been homeless except for the fact that I had my debit card ready to pay 60 euro for a month long gym membership. However Paris had other plans, and it turned out the gym membership was actually 120€ for the month, which is more than I paid for 3 months in Granada. As dying as I was to go (my name's Clare and I'm possibly a gym addict) common sense prevailed and I headed off back to the metro station I had got off at. Except I didn't. Clever me walked the wrong direction and ended up at a different metro on a different line. Lazy me figured that given I was going to have to change either way, I'd take a little trip around Paris to end up on the closest line to home (still the hotel) to avoid walking in the sleet, which was, I think, a perfectly legitimate reason. Approximately 20 stops and 1 change later I was back, I booked a trial class at a different gym for tomorrow (today), packed for the 3rd time in 9 days and went to bed.
Life was on the up. I survived another day at work. I ate my first bowl of fruit in almost two weeks in my wonderful kitchen with actual cooking stuff, and I was going spinning. But as it would turn out, I wasn't. I had 20 minutes to walk a little over a mile to the gym, so I figured I'd run as a way to keep warm (left the homeless christmas jumper at home tonight) and arrive sooner (did not want to miss out on getting a bike). Turns out this was not a good decision and somewhere along the way my passport which was in my pocket (I needed ID for the gym) fell out. So not only was I late for the gym I was now passport-less and cold as I retraced my steps to find it but it was nowhere to be seen. Never has the phrase FML been so appropriate. THEN, my boss called in on his way out of the office (I live next door) to check I was getting on okay, and all I could see while I was talking to him was my bra lying on the sofa. Fab.
And so this takes us up to the current hour where I am sat, surrounded by cases and sheets and clothes and bags, writing my memoirs and lolling a little bit at my life. It's not all disastrous though, I've now got a washing machine, and I survived 3 phone calls with the French police so my french can't be that horrible. "Swings and Roundabouts" as mi mejor amiga would say.