In December 2006, after more than 30 years of unrequited love for France, an infatuated Australian woman moves to Paris; what will happen as her fantasy is confronted by reality?
I’ve thought of myself as in love with France for as long as I can remember. Nothing unusual in that, you might say, c’est normal. But what makes it unusual is that I was born and spent my childhood in England, with a very nationalistic English father. Yet I was always daydreaming about crossing that narrow stretch of water, and living in a stylish, interesting and more egalitarian country than what seemed the drab England of my childhood. As soon as I had the chance, at age 11, I began learning French at school, and it quickly became one of my best subjects. As part of our French studies, we were assigned French penfriends from my English town’s French ‘sister’ town—Annecy, in Haute Savoie. And then at 14, the wish I’d been nurturing for years magically came true: I was to go and spend several weeks of the summer holiday with my penfriend Brigitte and her family.
In 1968 the trip from Cheltenham, England, to Annecy in southeastern France took 24 hours (more than the time it now takes for me to come from Melbourne to Paris!) by bus, train, overnight ferry from Newhaven to Dieppe, then train Dieppe to Paris, and another train from Paris to Annecy; but I didn’t give that a moment’s thought. Once in Paris, we were whisked around Paris in a bus, with our French teacher pointing out the sights. When I saw the Eiffel Tower I felt I had died and gone straight to heaven. Then it was on to the Gare de Lyon and the train for Annecy (no TGV in those days, and even today it takes 4 hours to travel from Paris to Annecy).
Brigitte and I had exchanged photos so we each knew what the other looked like. As the train pulled in I could see her: a small intense girl of thirteen with short auburn hair. I walked up to her, almost too overcome with emotion to talk, and somehow croaked out my first real-life French words: ‘Tu es Brigitte?’ By way of answer she kissed me on both cheeks, grabbed my heavy suitcase with one hand, and with the other ushered me towards her waiting parents.
Those four weeks in Annecy were the most divine of my life (but that’s another story), and from that time onwards, I was totally infatuated with France. It was to be a long and unrequited love affair. This is the type of
love that lasts the longest, though, as the knights and ladies of old, and the psychologists of today can attest. It was unrequited because my family emigrated from England to Australia six months after my stay in Annecy. Once I was settled in Australia, my life proceeded down many paths, in multiple directions, and I didn’t get back to France for over thirty years: in 2001, and then only for a couple of weeks. Brigitte was on the platform of the Gare at Annecy to meet me again, just as she had been all those years ago. This time I’d seen no photo but again recognised her instantly, and she me: ‘You look exactly the same,’ she said.
Finally, in December 2006, with my children grown up, and my job allowing me some travel, I have finally come to France, to Paris. And for more than just a few weeks this time: I will be living here for 7 months. Brigitte and I will be getting together over the holiday period, and will be joined by one of my sons, now based in London.
I’ve been living in Paris now for two weeks. There are already signs, strong signs, that my love is not unrequited. But as with any meaningful love affair, it can be tough at times. I’m not used to rain, for one thing (we have a seemingly endless drought in Australia), so have had to learn the hard way to be very careful when running up and down Metro steps in my new boots. On my third day in Paris, I fell and landed heavily on my bottom. But a young man was at my side in an instant, enquiring, ca va madame?
It’s difficult not to miss the streamlined efficiency of my old life in Australia. But then I see the vibrancy of the people on the Paris streets at all hours (I’m staying in the Marais), whether buying their bread in the mornings, or shopping after work. In Melbourne, the huge vans that deliver our internet-ordered groceries wouldn’t fit down many Parisian streets. I have to remember that every purchase I make in a small shop (and usually after queuing!) not only helps someone earn their living, but is also an opportunity for us all to make human connections. The small black dog that sniffed my shopping bags in the papeterie this afternoon was so cute I simply had to tell his owner comme il est beau. She responded by telling me he was a bulldog francais, and I told her I knew the breed in Australia, although my dog back home is a Chihuahua. Oh tres petite et mignon, said the bulldog’s owner, et elle vous manqué? I do indeed miss her, but she’s in good hands.
After only two weeks, it’s too early to tell how my love affair with France is going to turn out: whether it can survive the transition from fantasy to…
In December 2006, after more than 30 years of unrequited love for France, an infatuated Australian woman moves to Paris; what will happen as her fantasy is confronted by reality?
I’ve thought of myself as in love with France for as long as I can remember. Nothing unusual in that, you might say, c’est normal. But what makes it unusual is that I was born and spent my childhood in England, with a very nationalistic English father. Yet I was always daydreaming about crossing that narrow stretch of water, and living in a stylish, interesting and more egalitarian country than what seemed the drab England of my childhood. As soon as I had the chance, at age 11, I began learning French at school, and it quickly became one of my best subjects. As part of our French studies, we were assigned French penfriends from my English town’s French ‘sister’ town—Annecy, in Haute Savoie. And then at 14, the wish I’d been nurturing for years magically came true: I was to go and spend several weeks of the summer holiday with my penfriend Brigitte and her family.
In 1968 the trip from Cheltenham, England, to Annecy in southeastern France took 24 hours (more than the time it now takes for me to come from Melbourne to Paris!) by bus, train, overnight ferry from Newhaven to Dieppe, then train Dieppe to Paris, and another train from Paris to Annecy; but I didn’t give that a moment’s thought. Once in Paris, we were whisked around Paris in a bus, with our French teacher pointing out the sights. When I saw the Eiffel Tower I felt I had died and gone straight to heaven. Then it was on to the Gare de Lyon and the train for Annecy (no TGV in those days, and even today it takes 4 hours to travel from Paris to Annecy).
Brigitte and I had exchanged photos so we each knew what the other looked like. As the train pulled in I could see her: a small intense girl of thirteen with short auburn hair. I walked up to her, almost too overcome with emotion to talk, and somehow croaked out my first real-life French words: ‘Tu es Brigitte?’ By way of answer she kissed me on both cheeks, grabbed my heavy suitcase with one hand, and with the other ushered me towards her waiting parents.
Those four weeks in Annecy were the most divine of my life (but that’s another story), and from that time onwards, I was totally infatuated with France. It was to be a long and unrequited love affair. This is the type of 
love that lasts the longest, though, as the knights and ladies of old, and the psychologists of today can attest. It was unrequited because my family emigrated from England to Australia six months after my stay in Annecy. Once I was settled in Australia, my life proceeded down many paths, in multiple directions, and I didn’t get back to France for over thirty years: in 2001, and then only for a couple of weeks. Brigitte was on the platform of the Gare at Annecy to meet me again, just as she had been all those years ago. This time I’d seen no photo but again recognised her instantly, and she me: ‘You look exactly the same,’ she said.
Finally, in December 2006, with my children grown up, and my job allowing me some travel, I have finally come to France, to Paris. And for more than just a few weeks this time: I will be living here for 7 months. Brigitte and I will be getting together over the holiday period, and will be joined by one of my sons, now based in London.
I’ve been living in Paris now for two weeks. There are already signs, strong signs, that my love is not unrequited. But as with any meaningful love affair, it can be tough at times. I’m not used to rain, for one thing (we have a seemingly endless drought in Australia), so have had to learn the hard way to be very careful when running up and down Metro steps in my new boots. On my third day in Paris, I fell and landed heavily on my bottom. But a young man was at my side in an instant, enquiring, ca va madame?
It’s difficult not to miss the streamlined efficiency of my old life in Australia. But then I see the vibrancy of the people on the Paris streets at all hours (I’m staying in the Marais), whether buying their bread in the mornings, or shopping after work. In Melbourne, the huge vans that deliver our internet-ordered groceries wouldn’t fit down many Parisian streets. I have to remember that every purchase I make in a small shop (and usually after queuing!) not only helps someone earn their living, but is also an opportunity for us all to make human connections. The small black dog that sniffed my shopping bags in the papeterie this afternoon was so cute I simply had to tell his owner comme il est beau. She responded by telling me he was a bulldog francais, and I told her I knew the breed in Australia, although my dog back home is a Chihuahua. Oh tres petite et mignon, said the bulldog’s owner, et elle vous manqué? I do indeed miss her, but she’s in good hands.
After only two weeks, it’s too early to tell how my love affair with France is going to turn out: whether it can survive the transition from fantasy to reality. Like all serious love affairs, the partners need to get to know each other well, and then assess whether they can really make each other happy; whether what they can create together will amount to more, and it needs to be a good deal more, than what they are giving up to be there.
Carolyne Lee is an Australian university lecturer and writer (currently based in Paris) whose latest book is Power Prose: Writing Skills for the Media Age (Melbourne: Hardie Grant Books, 2004).
Author photograph by Andrew McRae
