Category: Travel

  • How to be French, beyond croissants and berets…

    Vive La France! Another article about croissants and the strolls by the Seine? No. The country that hosts Paris, wine, cheese, luxury bags, a famous Riviera and countless other blessings that are both natural and man-made. When you come to France to live, as a native English speaker, you can be just that and live here, observing always the way ‘they’ do things while you star in your own living in France dream, and admire and sometimes cuss the differences. Or you can also dive in deeper beyond the cliché’s about carrying a baguette while wearing a stripy top and red lipstick and understand how the big things behind France’s culture that give rise to the little things that make it just so.   

    There is a certain type of Anglo-Saxon culture, where anything that costs more than nothing is ‘expensive’ you must spend as little as possible as there is apparently a limited supply of everything. The French pioneered the metiers that create beautiful things with using deep, irreplaceable expertise in artisan production methods in art, fashion, food. The cliché of the French woman’s wardrobe having three items hanging it is not such an exaggeration.  They buy well-made clothes at a reasonable price mostly and wear it regularly. France does not have it’s own answer to a Zara or a Next or Forever21. That’s not to say that there are not small shops selling cheap clothes and items for the home. Local market often fills this gap as well, with thousands of iterations of Isabel Marant being sold for less than 20 euros.  

    ‘British manners rule the world’ said Mohammed al Fayad in the last season of The Crown. Manners were designed to be a social lubricant, social cohesion, a way for all of us to live alongside and have relationships and do business leaving the other person feeling good for it. The philosopher David Hume and the author Henry Hitchings defined them as “a kind of lesser morality, calculated for the ease of company and conversation” and spoke of the “companionable virtues of good manners and wit, decency and genteelness”. In other words, these are virtues that sit well together and enable us to sit well together. They are not a form of self-abnegation, but instead lubricants of sociability”.  But they also used to disguise deceitful behaviour, to manipulate and to gaslight those who may speak up. Manners are frequently used to silence victims and whistle-blowers. In fact, in polite society there never is a victim is there, it was all her own fault. 

    Anglo Saxons crow endlessly about rules holding back business, and themselves. Liz Truss in the UK “underlined the importance of growth to the UK economy by linking it to the need to cut taxes…slash regulation, boost investment, and improve public services”.  The much-derided rules and regulations in France exist for a reason. They are one of the reasons French productivity is high despite working less hours. The rules stop time being wasted on misleading offers. Chasing up being ripped off, providing restitution to customers after trying to rip them off, all eats into productivity. If you can’t work within the rules, which exist to benefit everyone, are you even running a business? Or are you essentially a giant egocentric three-year-old steamroller-ing over everyone around you? 

    In France, the culture of revolution exists to protect the ordinary person from the interest of the  1% from creeping into everything like Ivy.  French people protect their rights to time – which is at its core the true essence of life and is more precious than money.  They see going to the gym to undo 50 hours of sitting as a false economy, they have time to walk to work or play in the park with their kids.  The work from home ‘revolution’ was already in place, and with many kids at home all or half days’ on Wednesdays the family has time to do activities, cook and relax together. 

    The Anglo Saxons seek to minimise and avoid taxes wherever possible. Is it a deep-seated lack of respect for the government that drives it (they who seek to enforce those dreaded ‘rules’ should just stay out of my business!), a culture that puts the individual at the centre of the universe, which, sitting at the French table, reflects a lack of respect for your fellow man. The French pay social charges, in addition to taxes, and to avoid paying them is socially unacceptable. Everyone contributes for the benefit of everyone because they are a community and a society. 

    As observed in Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction…. when you go overseas, it’s the little things. Like over here, when you go into a shop, people greet you and you are expected to greet them.  There’s no expectation of engaging into a deeper conversation or indeed frivolous disingenuous conversation that will lead to a purchase, it’s not a sales tactic, just pure civility. A connected society, one person acknowledging or welcoming the other into their store or presence

    The bus maybe crowded but people are considerate of those around them. No one needs to be told to let people of the train first, they just do it, it’s common sense. Women are people. Not sex objects, not free home help, not child bearers. They are all those things and still people. 

    Want to get a house in France? You need The ‘Dossier’. If you thought it was only something spy agencies collected on their targets, you’re mistaken. It lives and breathes in France as a pile of papers to verify who you are, what you have, where you come from and tell us what you’re likely to be like, what you represent, what kind of space you take up in the world, in this very much a society. The dossier probably has a history going back a hundred years or more right, when everything was on paper, and letters of recommendation were common place to even open a bank account. In fact, the modern dossier requires a guarantor, effectively a letter of recommendation in the form of someone putting actual money where their pen was and guaranteeing they will pay your rent if they don’t. Who has these kinds of friends or family? 

    Modern technology comes to France with their startups and great ideas, and the Guarantee is now ‘disrupted’ so that anyone with an appropriate amount of money can remove that hurdle. So, you have some money but no person to guarantee, who are you? You’re an individual. Unencumbered, untethered and unaccountable to anyone but yourself. You can do anything you want. Except rent a property unless a startup is willing to back you. 

    So that’s what it is, a part of being French. Learning verbs and being connected and accountable. 

    And the other thing about France and being French is that it’s not a noun, it’s a verb. Very much a verb. It’s more than the passport and the language, the food and fashion.  It’s taking the time to get dressed before going out of your bedroom even. We wear loungewear at home, not pyjamas, and proper pants or an outfit even to the supermarket, because we live in a society and other people have to look at you. We never snack between meals; we have breakfast and then never ever get hungry before 12.00 which is lucky because no restaurant kitchens are open before then. Likewise, that meal better be good because there’s nothing till dinner at no earlier than 7.30pm. 

    Everything is old to look out. You can jump, with English speaking world arrogance, to the conclusion that its somehow not as good as at home. But it is, it’s actually better. Cities AND people in France are allowed to age and still be valuable. 

  • The Collections no. 1 ‘Roof Bars in Central London’

    In London, there is always something new to do or place to go. So I decided to keep lists on my  phone, to have them handy when I’m looking for somewhere or something.. they are lists like ‘places to eat in Notting Hill’ or ‘Things I like to collect’… so here they are, from me to you. I haven’t always been to all of them, and it’s an ever-growing project, so please, share your collections or thoughts in the comments

    1. Aqua Kyoto / Aqua Spirit:  http://aqua-london.com
    2. Sanctum Hotel: http://www.sanctumsoho.com/roof-terrace
    3. The Courthouse Hotel: http://www.courthouse-hotel.com/restaurantsandbars-en.html
    4. Vista at The Trafalgar: http://www.thetrafalgar.com/vista-homepage/
    5. Radio Rooftop Hotel: http://radiorooftop.com/?page_id=2
    6. Orrery Terrace, Marylebone: http://www.orrery-restaurant.co.uk/at/terrace-marylebone/

    Bring on Spring!

     

     

  • Adventures

    When I was four years old, the centre my universe was on the corner of Bradford Street and Centre road, where anything could happen. For instance, brushing my teeth was a true source of achievement and I took it very seriously, perhaps because according to my parents, I was the girl with the whitest teeth on Centre road (which runs about 15km!). Saturdays’ until dusk were spent riding my bike up and down Bradford street with little Billy and Emma from next door and Phillip and his brother from down the end of the street, they were the older kids that also had a pool in their yard and Tammy and her older sister from across road. The day was full of stopping to inspect the front yards of the neighbors we didn’t know, playing hopscotch, street cricket and even jacks. Does anyone remember jacks? The end of the street turned into another and had a large green fence with barbed wire that was the boundary of the golf course. The end of that street also represented the boundary of our world on bikes according to our parents. We never knew why exactly, and we took it seriously. Until one day when I didn’t and trundled down the street alongside that large fence and around the next corner and then next one. The houses down there sort of looked the same, just a bit darker and a bit more mysterious.. and one had a jungle garden that totally needed to be explored. I got off my bike and strode on in. There were cool flowers I hadn’t seen before. A giant ceramic frog. A pond. With fish in it! I heard a sound behind me and a man was there. I think he had white hair but I can’t be sure because while he was probably only wondering what I was doing there, I was running for my life. All of 8 steps out of the front yard and on to my bike. By now of course it was pretty much dark and by the time I rode home, and of course I got lost as I had gone so far, I was in big trouble. No bike for Maryanne for quite a while after that.

     

     

     

    A few years later, we moved. Our new back yard was adventure itself. There were grape vines hanging overhead on trellises near the back door, beyond that strawberry plants overflowed their beds. A bungalow right at the back of the yard was filled with someone else’s bric-a-brac; the most interesting kind. Oddly, an old blacked out incinerator filled the other back corner that led to a lane and the veggie patch.

     

    The centerpiece of the yard was the lemon tree. It had alter like status in the middle of the yard, on a raised square of plush green grass, hand rolled out in green velvety rolls when we first moved in. I hadn’t been allowed to walk on it, because otherwise the grass wouldn’t take if it were stepped on. So the lemon tree had been off limits, but now, the grass was thriving and the tree was mine to conquer. I gazed up at the tree and debated internally how I would approach it. Its trunk was pale and mottled, but it was smooth. A shoulder height solid branch jutted out, and lemons dangled way above my head, with a clear blue sky as their canvas. I hoisted myself up to the first branch and sat on it triumphantly. From there, going up from branch to branch was easy-peasy japanesey. There was no sound, no sign of anyone in my family to tell me no. Again. I stood up on the branch and climbed up to the next one, then one more… I was three quarters of the way up the tree. I could see the neighbor’s neighbor’s yards.   I put a foot out to move to another branch. But I missed it. In slow motion I fell down the tree, my left cheek scraped against one of those conquered branches, my foot hit another. I was on the grass.   “Maaaaaaammmmmmmm”. She couldn’t hear me. I hobbled through the yard into the kitchen, my tears stinging my burning face. There was a lot of blood for a kid. My mum screamed when she saw me. Now we were both screaming….. Dettol and band aids followed. And I still have a cool scar on my ankle to show for it.

     

    Many, many years later after finishing school and spending 10 or so years in working in banking I set off on another adventure. I was ready to leave it all behind, to have a completely different kind of life. I rented my flat out, I sold my car, my superfluous stuff, clothes, CD’s and the like …. And I bought a one-way ticket to Dusseldorf (it was the cheapest) and left. I lasted 3 days before flying to Milan….. I saw the Duomo and all of the shoe shops before spending the day in picturesque Genoa. From there my travels took me to Nice, Grasse & Monaco for what could have been Maryanne’s church tour of Europe in partial sun. But no! I redirected my travels to be guided by mouth and went on to Bouillabaisse in Marseille, Pintxos in San Sebastian, roast Pig Madrid, two weeks of tapas and sangria in Barcelona where I considered starting my new life undeterred by my lack of Spanish. But the real summer hadn’t started yet, so I decided to pass the time by heading north. Amsterdam for Jazz and Febo, Prague for late night dancing and dumplings then Vienna… for an uneventful pork schnitzel. … and finally driven by an odd desire to work and a grasp of the greek language, Santorini.. where I began my new and exciting life.. as a waitress. While Santorini is beautiful and every corner is a real life postcard, 42 days in a row of work on my feet reduced my fun ratio to about 30:70 and I thought a 60:40 ratio was a minimum. So I hopped over to Naxos and put my feet up by the sea for a week and then a friend I met in Nice got in touch and invited me to London…. 6 months earlier I had sat on my back doorstep and said to myself ‘no matter what happens, I’m not moving to London’…..

  • And Thrice Makes a Trend?

    A funny thing happened over the summer, well funny in relation to bags that is.. everyone started carrying a tote around with very unique pattern. I saw student types, I saw grandma’s, I saw people on Marylebone High Street carrying this bag. It was the IKEA siting coupled with then seeing Kate Moss carrying it on holidays – twice, in TWO colour ways – that finally made me ask “where did you get that bag”..

    As it turned out, it is Goyard ! a brand I had never heard of until that day.. and then after the summer, I saw it again in another form, it’s original form..the trunk..

    Once I checked out the website, I was in awe and totally dying for one of these bags. Aside from some websites selling what must be fakes… (as the website clearly states, they don’t sell via third parties or e-commerce)

    I love that Goyard are still independent, I love that they run a “Chic du Chien” boutique, and the best stamp of approval – Karl Lagerfeld has a personal account there – since 1972..

    gkate blue goyard kate pink goyard marion goyard

  • After the hiatus

     

    St John’s Wood tube station.. on a random Sunday evening. #lovelondon
  • Copenhagen..

    So maybe it’s time to move on to cities starting with C!  Copenhagen is on the schedule for this weekend..

     

    IMG_1591 IMG_1594 IMG_1599