Parisistible
Olivia Dean
Column VI
Having been granted unrequested ‘compassionate leave’ from work despite no discernible circumstance in my personal life that would warrant it, I’ve had two weeks in the UK to ruminate on what to bring back to Paris with me. So far, the list stands at a jar of Marmite and some Eyelure fake eyelashes.
As this pathetic little list demonstrates, my return to England was not that of the Prodigal Son that I had in mind. After my mandated two-week quarantine, I was only left with five days before the new tier system was gifted to us. I’m now under Tier 4, which feels like a cruel joke - we moved out of London when I was 16, and despite the fact that all you can see from my house are cows, I can’t see any friends, and probably won’t for a very long time: zero of the benefits of zone three with all of the problems, but coated with mud. One of my brothers’ housemates has just tested positive, so I won’t be seeing him, and the rest of my family are in Ireland. Adding that extra special bit of Christmas cheer from afar, Macron is amusing himself in his quarantine by waving the sword of Damocles over our heads, threatening to completely close the French border to England. I normally err on the side of Scrooge anyway, but this year I can’t even shout out the window to ask if it’s Christmas morning; nobody’s walked past us in weeks.
Photo Credit: Olivia Dean
I spent my five days of freedom in Cambridge seeing friends, and the displacement of seeing the city where my life was and will be again was compounded by the lack of normality once I came home, as Facebook notifications cancelling parties with school friends slowly rolled in. My social life in Paris is a brilliant replacement for its university counterpart that I now have to be caught up on: away from this distraction, it’s difficult not to let yourself wonder what you’re missing out on in absentia. I’m in flux: nowhere, home, Cambridge, or Paris, is an appealing prospect in such a climate. A weighted blanket of lethargy has set in, from under which a foot occasionally kicks up, ventilating the ennui with a government announcement, an email from the embassy or a walk with a friend. Said metaphorical foot quickly tires though, allowing the blanket to fall right back down.
Photo Credit: Fiona McNally
The best element of Parisian culture is easily the significance of cafés and restaurants. At a conservative estimate (I’m too terrible at maths to work out the exact figure, and certainly too embarrassed) I spend a quarter of my salary on coffee and drinks, not to mention food. I’ve got too much time on my hands to think ever since hospitality in the French capital shut down, which you would have hoped would have made me a better writer. I’ve also got a healthy lump more in my bank account, which I would normally blow on clothes, but with the people-watching inspiration of sitting outside cafés replaced by quotidian necessity of wellies where I live, I’m in a fashion slump, not interested in shoes I can’t drive in or anything that won’t fit under a coat (a farewell to arms to my love affair with massive sleeves), words I never thought I could utter. Another kick up from the blanket is the promise that bars and restaurants will open again in Paris on the 20th January. This is the promise of so much more than a glass of overpriced wine decanted from a bag: Parisians are famously curt, but even if the conversation forms only a sparse web of connection between lone patrons, sitting and watching people can be just as much of a tonic.
Photo Credit: Olivia Dean
And yet I deflated my own daydream by reading a French article, sternly warning that hospitality establishments were one of the worst offenders for viral transmission, with calls for the Élysée to reconsider its plans. The French government fortunately has a habit of ignoring the science, so it could be that nothing is done about the plans to ease lockdown. God knows I have little else to occupy me. Most of my Paris friends are English exchange students at the city’s universities so still have assignments and lectures, but given that my job mainly entails sitting in a fashion office wearing pretty clothes and telling people their English email sounds fine to me, my employment can hardly be called essential, and so would probably remain on absence or work from home if the government actually did what was best.
And so my stagnant flux continues. If all goes well, by the time I go back to Paris in January, there will be some semblance of normality. Given the hair appointment I had here was on the day Tier 4 came into force, my first job will be getting a haircut. Learning the French words for “long layers”, “curtain fringe” and “diffuser” should keep me occupied in the meantime.
