The confinement diaries

Next Friday will be France’s one-month confinement anniversary. Here’s how my life has changed since March 17th.

• Sorry Jesus, but (since confinement) I really don’t love my neighbour.

Last Sunday morning, the sun was shining gloriously. I opened all the windows, made some delicious brunch and sang James Blunt at the top of my lungs. Then I worked out for an hour or two, aka jumped around to a Zumba class and bounced off the couch repeatedly while playing Wii tennis. I have extremely thin squeaky floorboards. I doubt that my neighbours love me. My upstairs neighbour doesn’t work, but I do. He plays obnoxiously loud instrumental music at random times of the day, he watches Netflix at 2 am, and his alarm goes off for an hour at noon. My other neighbour takes a cigarette break every 20 minutes right underneath my window. I dislike them both very much.

When you live in an old Parisian apartment, with paper-thin walls, you’re not only confined with your partner or your children. You’re also unfortunately confined with people you never chose to share your life with aka your neighbours. Social media’s suggestions of “taking this unique time to rekindle your relationship” or “finding fun DIY projects to do together” don’t quite apply to this type of cohabitation… Therefore, here are mine: you can either go for a series of noise battles and a collection of passive aggressive notes, or you can invest in earplugs and a good meditation app. Your strategy of choice will depend on the likeliness of you stumbling upon them in the elevator post-confinement (in year 2021, most probably).

• I’ve become a bit of an outlaw.

My fan base is made up of a lot of government officials and cops, so I won’t go into too much detail. I therefore will neither confirm nor deny that I still regularly stop by my apartment, even though I’m currently “confining” at my boyfriend’s place. I go there to water my plants, pick up wrongly addressed packages (because damn Chronopost refused to reroute a package 10 minutes before its delivery even though it contained essential things such as board games) and to pick up some comfort items (aka my smoothie maker and needlepoint kit).  I also won’t tell you how many kilometres I need to “fake jog” for to get to my apartment. Do I have two copies of my “attestation” in my Decathlon pants, the left pocket containing the attestation with the boyfriend’s address, the right pocket the attestation with my address? I plead the fifth on that one! (though I’ve just realised that this FBI-level type of trickery won’t work with the phone “attestations” ….Macron 1, Olivia 0).

• And I am constantly being judged for it.

I will say this. Judging others has always been France’s favourite pastime. It therefore comes as no surprise that they will more than gladly lecture you on the dos and don’ts of confinement etiquette.  I have been told off by friends for not shopping alone, for stopping by my apartment, which is slightly over 1 km away from where my “confinement location” is, for going on daily walks outside, for getting food delivered as a special treat….Hear me out though! The government is protecting the physical health of the entire country by putting all these restrictions in place. I absolutely respect that and try to follow these rules as much as possible for the sake of at-risk populations (which I belong to) and the medical staff. But it’s our responsibility to look after our own mental health. We’re not all in this together! Some of us have been feeling anxious or depressed, some of us don’t have gardens to tend to or a pet to hold, or even a person to physically talk to.  Some of us are living in houses with great coping mechanisms, while others are living between four walls unable to see the light at the end of this endless tunnel. My point being that, if you see people having a party, then please do call the cops. On the other hand, if your friend tells you they go on a 1.2 km walk from time to time to get a glimpse of the Seine, then please let them be.

• I have confinement FOMO

We may be in confinement, but my FOMO is still very much well and alive. We are no longer competing for who is eating at the most fashionable, Time Out-approved, restaurant or taking selfies at the most Instagramable exhibit. Instead, we’re competing on who’s the “confinest” of us all! I will scroll on Instagram and start wondering why I’m not making olive bread from scratch, learning Swahili, recreating famous paintings with common household objects (it’s a thing and I want to be part of it!) or simply taking a bath with a Korean face mask on, while actively searching for my Ikigai. It feels like we’ve been given this limited time out from the outside world and its distractions, and we somehow need to treasure every second of it, to make something of ourselves, and lead saner, healthier lives. It’s a lot of pressure for anxiety-driven neurotics like me! So I have to remind myself, and remind you all, that just feeling okay during this tough situation is an achievement in itself, that lots of naps and Netflix binges can also sometimes be the healthiest options during these exceptional times and that maybe confinement is not only a “time out” from the outside world, but also from the constant pressure of productivity.

• I have never felt healthier:

What I’ve learned this past month is that my pre-confinement life was anything but healthy. I often slept 6 hours a night. I ate McDonalds at least once a week, because I had a late photography class or an early movie date. I preferred going out to eat than going to the gym. I almost never cooked (and if I did, I usually ate around 11pm). Since the beginning of this confinement period, life has altogether slowed down. I cook all my meals from scratch now (it can easily take two hours), I try to follow a daily routine of afterwork yoga through Instagram live classes, I do some cross-stitch rather than stare at my phone during work breaks, and my eyes and lashes have been makeup free since day 1. I’m not saying life in confinement is better than pre-confinement life. I am slowly but surely going insane between these four walls! I miss my parents, my friends, my cat, restaurants, bars, parks, the forest, parties, tennis, swimming, the sun…. I don’t miss the subway though! I just hope that once this is all over, I have somehow learned that my life within these four walls should be

I will end this blog on a hopeful note. I have witnessed, or heard of, many acts of kindness. There the local supermarket employee who, when he saw a woman, a baby in her arms, struggling with her groceries, scanned all her items and packed them in bags for her. There is the guitarist who performs live concerts on his balcony every evening, playing any song that his neighbours request. There are the neighbours that smile, wave or chat with one another from their windows or balconies. There are the poems and kind messages people write on their window for any passers-by to read, or the emails and texts that friends send every day to check in on each other. And finally, there are the 8pm claps, screams, whistles and pot and pan that remind you that people, as annoying as they can be, are also inherently good.  

 

 

Books before baguettes?

There is a particularly surprising thing that French people do; besides letting their dogs poop everywhere and their men pee on the walls of side alleys.

French people read….on the subway, a lot! According to my personal research, they are more likely to be found deeply engrossed in a novel rather than mesmerized by their neighbour’s smartphone screen.  Undeterred by crammed-in commuter crowds, they read on, impatient to learn more about murderous nannies, Iranian teenagers or middle-aged men assuaging their existential crises by dating women half their age (the latter a disgustingly recurring theme in French culture).

I have commuted on a number of major city subways and I have never seen so many people read. Thus, I was initially convinced that the French are true literary souls. They are, after all, inhabitants of the land of Victor Hugo, Emile Zola and Guillaume Musso.

Lost Illusions

Unfortunately, I quickly realized that literary drive may not be the sole factor at play here. On my first subway commute to work, all my attempts to text, scroll on Instagram or connect with the outside world failed miserably. Turns out that the French subway underground is where phone signals go to die. Suddenly it was clear. Those esteemed commuters had fallen back on an archaic form of entertainment in the face of terrible adversity: the complete lack of cell phone signal.  Their books distracted them from the monotony of the daily commute as well as shielding them from the ultimate horror of small talk with fellow commuting co-workers.

Au Bonheur des Bookworms

Nevertheless, I kept looking for proof that the French were indeed the bookworms I so wished them to be. I found evidence in the sheer number of independent bookstores in the city. There are around 700 bookstores in Paris, 200 of which, including Shakespeare and Company, are in the Latin Quarter (5^th and 6^th arrondissement). One is on a boat, a couple others serve wine, one will print the novel you seek before your very eyes, while yet another will stay open till midnight to satisfy any late night intellectual cravings. There are also specialized bookstores that will only sell books on a single topic: religion, witchcraft, food, photography….the list goes on!

My own local bookstore is a 4 minute walk from my apartment. I do, however, have to point out that my bakery is a 2 minute walk from my apartment and then a second and third one are respectively 5 and 5 ½ minutes away. This is France after all, baguette before books.

1981: Big Brother is helping you  

My faith in the French as bookworms was restored. We, as a community, read enough books to provide business to both the evil Amazon warehouse and the adorable bookstores flung across the city.

Unfortunately, my image of the valiant French reader saving the entire book business was, once more, an illusion. In fact, we French readers are not buttressing the market with our superior intellect, it is our government.  In 1981, the Lang Law was adopted to fix book prices. Books cannot be sold for be less than 5% of the price set by the publishers. The same rule was applied to e-books in 2011. This meant that large corporations and e-commerce could no longer easily crush small book owners with obscenely low prices. Hence, there could be no French Meg Ryan (Marguerite Durand) making questionable life choices by falling in love with the man who bankrupted her dead mother’s bookshop around the corner.

Mastering the art of French reading

I must however give credit where credit is due. The French do read a lot. A recent survey revealed that 88% of the French who were interviewed considered themselves readers, many of whom preferred the paper to electronic or audio format. For once, the French’s nostalgic way, translates into something good – a yearning for good old-fashioned paper books that fuels the bookstore community.

In search of lost traditions

Despite all, every year, there are less and less bookstores in Paris and in France as a whole, though this trend has slowed down in the past few years. The government and other institutions are constantly fighting this with financial aid and interest-free loans, as well as events to promote books and reading such as “La Nuit de la Lecture”, a night during which, every year, bookstores host conferences, book signings, games and even pyjama parties. Bookstores themselves are working hard to become more competitive by planning events, providing smaller but more thoughtfully curated book stock, and creating a digital presence for themselves. For example, they have set up a collaborative online portal to look up which Paris bookstore has your novel in stock.

Please help France stay the lovely book haven that it is by always buying from independent bookshops. More importantly, please bring those purchases on the subway with you. I find it so entertaining to spy on what everyone else is reading. It’s a fleeting glimpse into a person’s inner world that I will gladly over-analyze during my daily data-deprived ride to work.

Hell is other commuters

If Parisians seem more rude, angry or unhappy than people living in other parts of France, it’s probably because they are forced to spend far too much time underground with way too many people. When you enter the Paris metro, all concepts of personal space, comfort, philanthropy, happiness and hope are lost to the ether.

I am writing this blog post as an ode to all of the different characters you may come across in the metro that every day strive to make the underground an even more unbearable place. Now this list is unfortunately far from exhaustive. If you can think of any other infamous commuter types, please comment below.

As Sartre ‘sort of’ said, Hell is other commuters.

The groomer

I am actually impressed by women who will undertake their whole makeup regimen, foundation, eye-liner and all, between Denfert-Rochereau and La Motte-Piquet (Can you name the metro line?). I’d take notes if my hands and I weren’t sharing one square meter of space with 10 other commuters.

However, commuters who cut and file their nails in the subway, then brush their bodily remnants off their laps and onto yours should be shackled on the spot. They should then be whisked away to “subway court” where they will be made to swear on the life of the pink rabbit with the broken fingers to never again inflict their DNA upon innocent commuters.

Such merciful treatment should not be extended to adult nose pickers; they must be sent straight to jail for breach of common decency.  I honestly feel like it’s only men that take part in this type of activity; as if making sure you arrive booger-less to your 9 am client meeting has become the male equivalent of the makeup regimen.

The man-spreader: the arm version

We all know about the menace of the man-spreader by now; his thighs wide open, inviting you to come hither and kick him where it hurts. But have you come across the elbow-spreader? They will sit down next to you, thigh to thigh and spread those elbows into your chest. The elbow-spreader has dreams. They want to be reading their Le Monde on a sunny Parisian terrace, not in a crowded subway wagon next to you. Don’t get in the way of this Parisian’s dream; Be the arm rest they so wish you to be.

The pole hoarder

In the Paris metro, there are metal poles erected in the alleys of each wagon for commuters to hold onto. This is especially helpful on line 4 where drivers frequently partake in the extreme sport of “brake slamming”.

In an ideal world, about 5 people can comfortably hold onto one pole. On a Monday morning in the real Parisian world, a pole hoarder will enter the subway car and claim the entirety of a pole as theirs. Balancing the length of their spines against the thin pole, their hands are free to swipe left on filtered faces or to crush candy while the pole-less commuters around them flail around in a permanent state of imbalance.

What happens if the pole is occupied when the hoarder enters? Fear not, the hoarder does not mind, and may even enjoy, the sensation of a stranger’s hand pressed into their lower backs. I have unfortunately become a reluctant masseuse on way too many occasions.

The starer

In most countries, when someone stares at you, you can stare right back at them and they will instantly lower their eyes in shame. Shame, like personal space or the right to privacy, is a foreign concept to Parisian subway commuters. If you do choose to stare back at them, please be warned that you are willingly entering a game of Parisian “chicken”. First one to look away is simply not entitled, rude and nosy enough to be a genuine alpha Parisian.

I must clarify that Parisians commuters are not always staring at strangers. They also enjoy reading strangers’ text conversations over their shoulders, or scrolling through the Instagram pictures with them (ok, guilty!).

The DJ

I will admit. I actually enjoy musicians that perform on the subway even if that means hearing the song “Despacito” for the millionth time.

What do I enjoy less? That would be commuters that share their Spotify playlist with you. Are they deaf? Do they have cheap earphones? Or do they just feel like Sia’s Chandelier can only be truly experienced at full blast (true story!). I don’t know but the increasing number of commuters turned DJs in the subway is alarming. I once sat across from a guy who whisper-rapped to his music while the man next to me rhythmically tapped his knee to the beat of his own playlist; these are moments that test one’s sanity.

The ponytail menace

We get it! You have thick, lustrous hair despite the polluted air and hard water of Parisian life. Nevertheless, this is no excuse to flip it in my face repeatedly for 30 minutes.

How about you? Do you have any favourite breach-er of subway etiquette?

The menace of the Parisian trottinette

This post is a barely concealed rant against all the trottinettes that have currently taken over the streets of Paris. Full disclosure: as a child, I deeply wished to own a “trottinette” but my parents never got me one. It is, therefore, possible that this piece is inspired by envy and nostalgia rather than outrage and fear.

Warning: If you photo-bomb my pictures, you are exposing yourself to the risk of ending up on my blog

Trottinettes (‘scooters’ in English), these two-wheeled works of the devil, have invaded the sidewalks of Paris; locust-style. They offer the speed of a bike, while granting access to the lawless terrain that is the sidewalk; pedestrians being their only obstacle. Their conductors are no longer children and pre-teens, but adult men . . . in designer suits (!), rolling through the streets of La Défense during pedestrian rush hour. Why mostly men? I would like to think it is because women are the more mature of the two sexes, but it is probably our heels and tight skirts, or the children we must walk to school, that once again exclude us from all of the fun and reckless behaviour. Indeed, these men slalom by every morning at full speed on crowded sidewalks, probably re-enacting last night’s Mario kart video game session with us pedestrians perceived as mere traffic cones or bananas left by Donkey Kong.

As if there weren’t enough “trottinettes” plaguing our sidewalks, there are, currently, four self-service rental companies for ‘motorized’ trottinettes available throughout the city. Those companies are Lime, Bird, Bolt and Wind, names that, in my grown-up, cranky opinion, encourage impulsive and imprudent behaviour. Thus, more and more tourists are invited to speed by The Eiffel Tower rather than stroll by; “insta-tourism” style.

I do get the appeal of these contraptions. They are fast, energy-saving and environmentally-friendly. They are the ideal solution to circulating in a traffic-prone, polluted city that is becoming increasingly hostile to cars; turning more and more roads into pedestrian havens. I also 100% understand the thrill of riding one. I used to borrow my friend’s trottinette (because, remember, I had a deprived childhood) and we would take turns speeding down her driveway, with a last minute swerve before crashing into her garage door. It was exhilarating. I imagine these men feel the same thrill as 10 year-old me, when they dash past elderly women with canes, dangerously close. What I don’t understand is how we are allowing these contraptions, some of which are motorized and may go up to 25 km/hr, to share Parisian sidewalks with old people and children.

On my walk to work, my headphones blaring with the musical serenades of Kelly to Nelly, I have many times experienced near-miss collisions with these quiet vehicles; the intense breeze felt against my face hinting at the full-forced impact I was spared. This is not an isolated experience. In the past couple of years, more and more accidents have occurred between trottinettes and pedestrians. The laws have not caught up with the trend yet. Thus, trottinettes are benefiting from a regulatory grey area. Our safety depends on their riders’ common sense and savoir-vivre. Yet, we all know that, without rules guiding them, grown adults tend to behave like reckless children, oblivious to consequences.

Thankfully, a new law will be put into place in 2019 that will bannish trottinettes to bike lanes and 30km/h streets. Any rider rolling faster than 6km/hr (considered to be walking speed) on the sidewalk will be liable to a fine. So here’s to 2019, a time when the trottinette’s tyrannical rule over our sidewalks will finally end! Our limbs will more likely remain unbroken and our skulls un-fractured. And trottinette riders will finally join the reckless ranks of bikers, together wreaking havoc upon the bicycle lanes of Paris; breaking traffic laws, speeding past every red light and, in general, making our crossing experience a living hell.

Warning: Do not hug the French

 

Parc de Vincennes

I have always been prone to social awkwardness. It’s a reminder that my DNA is not 100% French and that I am unable to display composure and coolness with as much constancy and ease as Parisian women. Two examples of my social ineptitude involve hugging a French person. The first hug was prompted by a close colleague announcing her engagement; the second by the French scoring during the world cup and one of my friends being within hugging distance from me. In both cases, I lunged at them gleefully with my arms wide open. Both reacted with barely concealed displeasure, their bodies rigid with discomfort beneath my embrace. Moral of the story: the French do not want to participate in the intimate act of hugging. They would much prefer to briefly brush their cheek against yours, make a kissing noise . . . and call it a day.

Why such aversion to physical closeness? It may be part of a more general tendency towards guardedness, self-consciousness and emotional restraint. Displays of affection or outbursts of emotion are not as freely or indiscriminately expressed in our society as in southern European or American society. I, myself have trouble expressing certain emotions, and will stiffen and change the subject when the word ‘love’ is thrown around. The French also tend to put a high value on intimacy and thus, believe it should be earned. This could explain their hardened shell and why being promoted from “acquaintance” to “friend” is such a long and arduous process. Forget oversharing over glasses of wine. It will take a year or two before they let you in on their family secrets, their childhood dreams or any struggle they may have with mental health. However, when they do confide in you, you know that you now mean the world to them. And isn’t that worth the wait?

It is. . . .but only if time is on your side; which it really isn’t for many people of my generation. We are mobile; we change jobs and countries in the blink of an eye. As a teenager I too was reserved and guarded. Then I started residing in different countries for short periods of time. I quickly learned that, if I wanted to make meaningful connections in these places, I had to lower my guard, throw away social conventions and let people in faster. The window of opportunity for building the foundations of lasting friendships (before everyone disperses once more) is such a small one. Therefore, you meet up often, confide in one another, laugh, dance, love and hug each other as early as possible. I met one of my best friends by grabbing her arm and dragging her on the dancefloor with me. I initiated another friendship by planning weekly coffee (chai latte) dates starting from our first conversation.  I invited another close friend to my parent’s (so official!) because we bonded over Anne Boleyn from Day 1.

So maybe, and this is just an idea, these unspoken rules that are guiding Parisian society, are archaic. Maybe, we are missing out on so many meaningful conversations by limiting ourselves to small talk for weeks on end. Maybe, we are missing out on worthwhile people because we dismiss their ‘eagerness to be friends’ as a faux-pas. Hear my message French people, “Please be friends with me. Please don’t wait two years to love me. Please, just let me hug you!”