Americans in Paris and Juan-Martin.

I did make it into class on Monday morning, feeling very drained after the emotional weekend and having thought far too much for my own good. It dawned on me that this was my final week in my French class and then it dawned on me how pleased I am to be leaving their company very soon.

From what I can see from my privileged vantage point at the back, they’re a bunch of Madam Bovarys. I’ve not actually read the novel but... Seems to me that they’ve all come to Paris on some romantic notion that they can start a new life in the ‘City of Light’ or ‘City of Love’, whichever they choose to buy into.

Or they’re Americans, living out their clichéd ‘Americans in Paris’ dream doing arty things, sitting in pavement cafés pretending they’re living in the 1920s. And, 90 years later, they’re the same sort of ‘phonies’ that Hemingway came to detest. So he bailed. My morning phonetics class reverberates with chat of internships in D.C. and Long Island as I sit in my corner, a prim, dignified, stiff-upper lipped corner of Britain refusing to get involved. At least, that’s how I see it when no-one talks to me at 8.30am.

My prof asked me this morning about my ankle. I told him it was still sore but we lost so doesn’t really matter now anyway. He said that the loss doesn’t matter so long as my ankle is getting better. I looked him full-on in the eyes and asked, “You’re not really a sporty person are you?” He said, “No, not really”, looked ashamed of what he had said and steered clear of me for the rest of the morning.

People often say, “Hope you’re enjoying the French lifestyle!” or “I’ll let you get on with your Parisian evening” with a hint of jokey jealousy, as they conjure up an image in their head of me calling over the garcon at my café on the left bank and ordering another Perrier as I watch the sun set over Notre-Dame before strolling home to my loft apartment, passing by the boulangerie of course to pick up my bread, stopping to chat to the butcher and the man who owns the art gallery on the Boulevard St. Germain.

And what is the French lifestyle? This seems to be a phenomenon that British people think exists but in my opinion is something conjured out of some daytime programme on Channel 4 and only applies to retired couples moving out to some village in Burgundy where they’ve renovated an old farm-house. I.e., it doesn’t exist in Paris and especially not for someone with a weekly timetable like mine.

In fact, the only part of the imaginary fictional French lifestyle that exists/I have bought into is the bread. Those who know me will know also of my limited palate and therefore love of bread, the plainer then better. I am now a connoisseur. If you just want your standard baguette then Mme. Da Silva near Fontaine Michelon is where to go. The baguette comes with a smile. Steer clear of my local bakery, the woman there treats you with complete contempt. I’ve tasted croissants and pain au chocolats in no fewer than 12 establishments and have now reached the level where after one bite I can find myself saying, “they’ve skimped on the butter” or “distinct lack of chocolate”. It pains me to say it but the best pain au chocolat is to be found in a modern café run by an Algerian immigrant and not in a traditional family run boulangerie. I’m not as right wing as that sounds, I promise, just came out a bit wrong. But it’s true, the face of modern France...

My geography exam today was a good laugh. 10 multiple choice questions, then had to place Paris, Lyon, Lille, Strasbourg, Marseille and Bordeaux on a map, along with the Alps, the Pyrenees, the Loire and the Rhine. I then wrote a lovely essay on Paris as a world city, amazed at how much A Level has stuck with me.

Juan Martin Hernandez inspired me in the gym to put in a monster session. He’s in there every day working to get his knee fit in time for the world cup so it’s the least I could do to push out a few sets on the bench press, shrug (the exercise, not the Gallic version) and do a cardio session. Juan is the only person I’ve ever seen do sit-ups with the air of a rock star. Extraordinary.