Winter '95 - the Strike, French Style part 2

My student was due at 8:45 and I decided to play the prudent card by setting off at 6:45. The Parc de Boulogne was deserted. I could feel the cold wind on my hands, my face and my feet. I shoved a copy of FUSAC in the layer between my vest and my aran jumper to block out the wind - a trick I learned many years before on Channel 4 or RTE watching Tour de France riders descending the alpine stages.

I had counted on my effort pedalling through a a foot deep snow to keep me warm. And it did. However the trip across the Parc was taking way longer than I anticipated. The bike was robust and responsive. The angles were perfect for the task. Occasionally I'd see the odd car struggling to make headway as I would pass them with a friendly if smug wave. I could feel the point when I mounted and descended curbs more than I could see them. The technique was to keep looking ahead to find the line. Find the line, find the line, find the line I kept repeating to myself. From a distance I could makeout the approximate position of curbs and roundabouts from the gently sloping contours of the snow banks. What a wonderful way to start a day. I was conscious of the cold but I no longer felt cold.

When I reached the southern edge of the Parc I could see slow moving traffic ahead. As long as my trip took I felt regret that it ended this way. I arrived at the school at 8:30ish. At 9:00 I got a message from my student who was stuck in traffic and cancelled the lesson. I relished the trip back home but first I needed to warm myself up with a cup of coffee, courtesy of Berlitz Boulogne.

The trip back was as the mornings trip. A lot of white, deserted and cold. It was hard to get the legs going at a steady rhythm again after the pause at the school. I was happy to see that most of my tracks were still discernible in the noon snow. When I was climbing the final hill back to my flat in Puteaux I felt that my legs were still good and I regretted that I hadn't gone faster than I had. I also considered that I could have stayed in bed. But if I had, I would have missed one of the most enjoyable bike trips of my life.

Late Summer '96

It's mid August, lots of Parisians have already left for holidays or are about to leave. I've just left my job at Berlitz and started a new job at Computer Intelligence selling specialist databases to IT and telecoms companies. Just as I began a two week training course in my new job my little sister Rosanna , Edward and John (two of my brothers - Edmund never made it), Joey and Eva (two cousins) and two of their friends (Teresa and Kevin) arrive in Paris for their planned two week holiday.

It was great to see my family again and to share some 'quality' time with them. We visited all the famous monuments and places of note. My enduring memory is the picture of the kids forming the word PARIS in the Jardin de Tuilières with the Pyramid of the Louvre in the background. I'll post the picture on this site when I have more time.

It must have been a great two weeks for them. They had free roam of Paris for two weeks and had my place in Puteaux, near La Défense, as their base camp. John, the next-to-oldest brother was their 'leader', or 'coach'. The went to Disneyland several times, Aquaboulevard once, the Parc Floral in the Bois de Vincennes, the Eiffel tower. We even played football in the Jardin de Tuilières.

As much as it was fun during the weekend, I found the pace of the week-days tough-going. Not only did I have to contend with job training from 9 am til 6pm everyday, I also had to do groceries, cook, entertain and manage logistical problems for my new flat-mates! I didn't always get as much sleep as I would have liked and found myself struggling to keep my eyes open. On the last day of training, my new managing director launched into a marathon training session that defied all norms of formal training (remember - I had just spent the last two years honing my teaching skills). So not only was it boring, it was badly taught and I was having trouble staying awake. It must have been 30-35°C outside and I found myself excusing myself to splash water on my face more than once that day.

It was also during this time I met some other important people in my life. Roberto, the Italian golden boy and I shared a passion for Formula 1 racing. We hit it off straight away. I eventually became his flatmate and then his witness at his wedding. There was Bill, the curious character from Milton Keynes. Eager to share his inner most secrets at a whim, we also hit it off as we discovered we shared the same birthday, the 24th July. Bill had been working there for some years before me. He couldn't speak french and always seemed to be broke. That explained his unwaivering regime of chips, ketchup, lots of bread and water every lunchtime. This is what you can eat for 'free' at the company canteen using the company-subsidized canteen card. Some weeks after my family left, towards the end of the month, he asked if he could 'stay and eat' in my home for a few days until his next pay cheque arrived. Not being sure what to do, in the knowledge that whatever my reaction the repercussions would be lasting, and adding a splash of naivety with equal amounts of charity, I agreed to his request. Although both of our characters have evolved over the years, and the fact that we don't see each other as often as before, Bill is like family to me now.

When I got back to my flat in the evenings I found my family and their friends still as fresh as when I'd left them on the mornings. I fed them, entertained them and once even scolded them for the water-fight in my apartment. One day I got a bollocking from Thierry, the manager of the Foyer. Apparently there had been 'complaints' from neighbours about a 'gang' of young asian kids 'playing' in the neighbourhood. I was warned that if they got more complaints they would re-examine my status at the Foyer. Even if I thought Thierry's remark was a little heavy for 'kids playing in the complex', I had to respect the wishes of the Foyer or I risked being kicked out of my cosy little flat. The gravity of the situation was absurdly disproportionate to the cause and my family and their friends were so disbelieving and unruly that I really had a tough time getting them to heed the warning. Between the all-day training, the shopping, the cooking, the entertaining, the chiding, not to mention the lack of sleep, the stress was getting to me. I was only 26 years old and I actually began to look forward to going to work to get a break. It was just too much for too long.

Then one day, they left. I saw them to the train station. The flat was now empty. No water fights, no keeping me up late at night with their jokes and giggling, no more whining about not liking the food I prepared for them, no more stress. The sudden change from full-volume domestic family scene to empty, silent flat was almost a shock. I missed them already. I missed their closeness and the feeling of sharing immediately. Then I fell into a deep and well-deserved sleep.

Summer of '96

Vicki, a friendly English colleague at the Opéra branch invited me out with her friends for the 'bal de Pompiers'. Meeting point was the bridge at Châtelet. I knew she had also invited another friend of hers, a new teacher who had just started at Berlitz. As I was waiting the arrival of my friends I noticed a tallish girl waiting on the opposite side of the bridge's footpath, on the west side nearest Châtelet.

She was wearing jeans and a really cool, if weathered, black leather jacket and tattered ankle-length leopard-skin Converse All-Stars. She had a kind of lofty imperious look about her, as well as something else entirely more mischievous. Kinda like an obscure aristocrat that decided to bum it. I thought it might have been Vicki's friend but I was too shy and intimidated by her coolness to go over and test my theory.

When Vicki arrived with her friends and promptly waved to the tall girl across the way. She walked excitedly toward us. "Hi, I'm Val", she sang as her face cracked into an infectious dimpled grin.

Sitting nearby at a bar, about 5 minutes into a conversation, she impressed me when she blurted " you're Irish!" in disbelief. Everyone I'd met up until then assumed that I was either American or English. (Note for my non-Irish readers: This is an excellent way to become friends with an Irish person)

We were having a lovely evening, in the nice warm knowledge that we were going to have a lot of fun that day. Then Vicki and her troops announce that they are going to run for the last metro (before midnight at the time). I felt quite disappointed as living quite far away I had planned on going home in the wee hours and had certainly not been expecting to run for the last metro only to run for the last SNCF or RER! I looked towards Val and was met with an equally disbelieving look. Then the edges of our mouths curved upwards and and in that instant we understood that we weren't going home just yet.

The following account is only going to be an approximation, for lack for any sober witnesses. Bar followed bar followed bar followed fire station followed disco followed bar etc. We ended up in a very, very small bar on the edge of the Marais, whose name and whereabouts would remain a mystery thereafter for many years. This is what I recall, the heavy 5'10" barman Séan was wearing what would otherwise been an elegant gold and black sequined evening dress, with a low cut back. He was sporting a pretty obvious blond wig on his great shaved scalp. Apparently 'cheap blond' night was a regular event there. I think we must have stayed there a while because he remembered us years later. Val and I discussed for years the theory that we could only find this pub on condition that a) you were not looking for it, and b) you had to be completely drunk. (This theory was thoroughly tested on many occasions but too much emphasis was on the latter).

We spend the night wandering around the quais, the streets, the arcades of the Louvre beside the Jardin de Tuilières and somehow got to talking about Star Wars. I now had a new best friend in Paris. The world was good and we were young, invincible and a little tipsy.

Dawn then came all too quickly, the trains were working again and cars filled the streets. Tired looking party goers everywhere were returning home like weary vampires, having done their night's work clocked out and headed home for a good-day's sleep.

A couple of weeks later Vicki and I celebrated our birthdays together in her place near Crimée. Val had prepared mini-birthday cakes for both of us. I am still touched by that small but important gesture. Just goes to show how far chocolate sponge and Smarties can go.

Winter '95 - the Strike, French Style

In my very first winter living in France I was exposed to the full power of what the French trade unions can do. Somewhere in mid December the first snowflakes fell to coincide with the the strike that everyone had been anticipating.

I had no idea how bad it could get.

As I was based in the centre of Paris and lived in Puteaux it was impossible for me to get to work. People took to hitch-hiking, roller-blading, cycling even the bateaux mouches was mobilised to cope with estranged commuters.

Fortunately I had an extra source of income in a French telemarketing company where I was doing research for Texas Instruments. With the money I earned I bought an 18 speed Specialized Hard Rock All-Terrain Bike with Shimano Alivio gears, Grip shifters, SR telescopic front fork. I even splurged for an expensive U-lock to protect my investment. GoSport wanted me to wait a week before shortening my handlebars for use in traffic but I opted to risk using it 'as it was' unfortunately for several motorists with damaged rear-view mirrors.

All too proud of my shiny new bike I went to work on it. It had been snowing regularly for two weeks and people were making alternative plans to get to work. Bike sales were up 30% for the period and a lot of folks traveled with in-line skates. Man, were they fast and nimble!

I loved riding that bike through Paris. It seemed to me that there were no rules against push-bikes or even motorbikes riding on the path. I crossed the Parvis de La Défense, continued on to the avenue de Grand Armée, then onto the Champs Elysées, gleefully committing myself to corners and kerb stones, trusting my telescopic forks to absorb the shocks and standing up when flying off the kerbs to absorb the impact of the rear wheel with my legs, I swung a left onto rue Royale between La Place de la Concorde and the Jardin de Tuilières, turned right at Madeleine and then it was the home straight on Boulevarde des Capucines and bouncing onto the Place de l'Opéra where I worked. It was great but it took about 2 hours to get from Puteaux to Opéra. The other teachers and students were well impressed with my bike with the extra large knobbly tyres.

Mr. Nortern, the manager of the Opéra school greatly appreciated the effort I had made to come into work, so much so in fact he placed me in the Boulogne-Billancourt school under the impression it was more accessible than Opéra. I was grateful for this favour but a little disappointed that I wouldn't be doing the Opéra run again. The next morning I had an early morning student at 8am. I set off at 6am. It was snowing heavily. The shortest route to the Boulogne school was to cross the Bois du Boulogne. I wore a thick woollen jumper, jeans and a pair of waxed 'Geronimo' Doc Martens for the journey. The Cateye computer mounted on the handlebars near the stem was barely visible in the snow but registered a fairly steady 18kmph. The thick layer of fresh snow meant there was plenty of grip.

My First Post in My First Blog and How to Live in France

Hello and welcome to my blog - can't promise I'll write regularly but I'll certainly try whenever I get the opportunity.

When I was a student I used to keep a diary on a regular basis. Ever since I came to France I've always been too busy to continue. I guess I'm just trying to make up for lost time and fill in some of the gaps.

The objective of this blog will be to account for who I am, what I do, what I'm interested in and is dedicated to my loved ones, family, friends. So you might find that I meander between subjects as varied as friends, family, ancient Chinese mythology, photography, Guinness and where to eat duck in Paris, so for this I apologise in advance.

I arrived in France at 11pm on Sunday the 5th February 1995. It had been raining heavily and my flight had been delayed for over 45 minutes. I had a black 80-litre MILLETS rucksack and 2 cheap nylon hold-alls which I still have collecting dust at the bottom of my wardrobe. Because of the limited space in my bags and the fact that I didn't have a 'suit-bag', I wore my suit with my doc-martens boots for the voyage.

In the months that preceded my arrival I did some research at the Central Library in the Ilac Centre, the Alliance Française, the British Council and Hogdes & Figgis' (this all happened before Internet search engines existed). With the listings of primary, secondary and languages schools I gathered, along with job hunting tips, CV and covering letter models, I sent 51 CVs to different teaching establishments in the l'Ile de France region surrounding Paris within two weeks after my arrival.

I got 50 polite refusals (Yes, employers actually responded to applications back then). Two weeks passed and I filed one disappointing letter with another. Then one glorious Sunday morning at the end of February, just as I came home from the wonderful Sunday morning market in Vincennes I found a message on my answering machine that was to change my life. J. Huxter, head of HR of Berlitz had left a message. She wanted me to come in for an interview for the post of teaching English.

Two weeks of non-paid training later I was sitting nervously in front of my first student in a classroom in the school at Opéra in the centre of Paris. A week later I got my first pay-check for 500 Francs (about 70 euros). The timing was good as I had just run out of funds. Unfortunately I didn't have the presence of mind to open a bank account before then so at lunch time I went down to the BNP to which was on the ground floor of the building where the school was. As young as I was, 24 at the time, and as yet uninitiated to the excruciating bureaucratic machine that France can be, I tried to open an account but the teller took one look at me, a scrawny Asian kid with a measly little cheque for 500 francs clutched in his right hand that spoke terrible French, and decided it was probably a good time to grab a sandwich for lunch. I was deftly turned away and left standing on the magnificent marble floor of the bank wondering what to do next. I can't really blame him as it was probably not the ideal situation to open a bank account given all the facts but, in any case, this set my attitude toward this particular bank permanently.

The other 'profs' suggested I try 'La Poste'. And that is what I did. I opened an account there for 10 francs (1.5 Euros) and I have stayed with them ever since. They even gave me a credit card even though I only had 10 francs in the account.

The next week, while wandering around the neighbourhood near the Chateau de Vincennes I saw an office whose name mentioned something about young workers and housing. I stuck my nose in and with my rudimentary French asked a middle-aged woman sitting at her desk what they did. She smiled at the directness and the naivety of my question and immediately rang an English-speaking colleague. He was called 'Ny Aina' (pronounced 'Nine').

'Ny Aina' was from Madagascar and spoke with a Mancunian accent. He asked me questions on where I was from and what I was doing in France, then he told me was going to find me a place to live and asked me to come meet him at his office in Asnières, in the north west suburbs of Paris.

His office was cluttered and small and his PC had flying multi-coloured toasters on his screen saver and so I thought he was cool. He opened a file for me and within a few weeks he had found a flat for me in Suresnes. The flat was in a 'Foyer de Jeunes Travailleurs' a kind of hostel for young workers, only everyone had a private 30m2 flat to themselves. The flat was fully equiped and there were 2 communal washing machines, a dryer and a vacuum cleaner. All kinds of crap that I took for granted at home but having lived for almost 3 months without I fully appreciated. The flat was great and it made a huge difference from the 12m2 bedsit where I stayed before. I ran from one corner of the room to the other. Just because I could. Happy days had just begun.