A Divorce, a Sensuality Coach and 5 Good Friends

I found myself eating a pastry called a divorce and watching Star Academy, a reality TV/karaoke competition (the French version of American Idol), while the wannabe future French Idols took sensuality lessons from a sensuality coach (as I often assure others when I tell any story set in France, I am not kidding) to prepare for a song called Undress Me. This was probably a new low in defining what it means to be single. It also occurred to me then that maybe I would feel more sensual if I weren’t stuffing my face with what is essentially a double chocolate and coffee-flavored éclair, or wearing 3 sweaters because for the first time in my illustrious career of illegal apartment sublets, heat is no longer included in my rent, or too lazy to unfold the sofa bed anymore at night. I’m used to sleeping alone, as well as watching tv and eating colorfully named pastries alone.

I gave my writing students an extract from Brigit Jones’s Diary this week and it made me think about being 30 and single in a European capital city. Although my friends aren’t yet divided into smug marrieds and singletons, in Brigitspeak, when I visited my friends in California over the summer, they were all paired off in committed relationships, living together in suburbs, tending gardens and it goes without saying, “I” was replaced by “we.” Maybe if I’d stayed in the US, I would have that, too and I’d also use the first person plural pronoun as there would be no other major challenges in my life besides relationships because language and culture would pose no problem.

A characteristic of American ex-pats, I think, is that we tend to think, arrogantly, perhaps, that after living in Paris, moving anywhere else imaginable would be easy, even a space bubble colony run by aliens on Mars. At least the bureaucracy is more reasonable here, all former Paris dwellers would say approvingly, and the sidewalks are cleaner. Living in dangerous, rude, pressed-for-time Manhattan would be like a walk in central park after the challenges of Paris. While there’s definitely the happy fluffy croissant side of life here, like watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle, seeing the dome of Sacré Coeur from in front of my house or sitting in a café for 3 hours with an espresso and no one rushing you to buy something else or leave, there’s also the negative side, maybe call it the boudin noir side, like the metro during rush hour where everyone glares, pushes and generally hates you, or the long lines at the grocery store at 7 pm, or waiting 6 months for internet installation.

What I’ve got in Paris is a circle of international friends, which is already something, and on occasion, I fold out my untrained in sensuality sofa bed. Quick, what would Star Academy sensuality coach do? Judging from the 2 minutes I saw of the show, she would wriggle her shoulders, ask me to imagine I were naked on a desert island, shriek, yes, yes, and then some teenage boy contestant would share with viewers excessive details about how hot the sensuality expert made him. I think making a teenage boy hot is not great evidence of advanced sensuality skills, more just of being a living, breathing woman.

In one of my favorite book series, Tales of the City, beautiful love letters to quirky liberal drug-saturated San Francisco in the 70s that some of my closest friends devoured when we were all together in California this summer, a character says that at this point in her life (she was probably 30), instead of having a lover, she’d settle for 5 good friends. I’d prefer to have both, since these don’t have to be mutually exclusive, but in reality they often are.

If I’d stayed at home, maybe I’d have a relationship, too, instead of my 5 good friends. In some ways, maybe my life hasn’t changed that much—I’m still single, I’m still ambivalent about my job and don’t think I’ll be making a career out of it, the only difference is that instead of eliminating animal welfare from the possible career list, this time it’s French national education. I still have an American best friend who I talk to multiple times a day, just in Franglais text messages instead of free Verizon network phone calls and who makes me dinner a lot, just in the miniature scale Parisian toaster oven that we all have here along with separate burners, instead of an enormous stove that combines both of these features and would be half the size of anyone’s entire French apartment.

But at the same time, everything is different: not just the people, the language and the way of thinking but also the cars, street signs, license plates, advertisements, lampposts— when I look around every day, nothing looks the way it did where I grew up or anywhere I used to live. After 2 years in France, I still marvel at the metro signs, the architecture and the miniscule smart cars; these are the visual markers of a different cultural life that I chose for myself and I relish this challenge (with whatever condiments are available in Paris).

One of the things I most appreciate when I visit the US is just the sheer familiarity of the whole urban landscape, but one of the things I find most stimulating about Paris is the utter lack of familiarity of this same scene. I spend a lot of time wondering if I’ll ever feel integrated into French life. I’m not even sure what this means to me. Understanding all cultural references in any given conversation? Having a French boyfriend always available to adore me and explain new vocabulary? No longer being surprised by any given situation? When do you start to feel welcomed and accepted in a foreign country? Sometimes I think on a very simplistic level, I’ll start to feel more integrated when I no longer notice the metro, the architecture and the cars. And maybe when I have 6 good friends.