Follow the adventures of Liesha Stone –a sister trying to make a new life in the city of love, Paris. This week Liesha’s escapades take on a decisively more political theme…
Well, ladies, I am sitting on the veranda of my local café on a beautiful summer’s day in June in order to bid you farewell.
This will be my last column from the city of love. It seems such a long time ago since my first writing to you all, complaining about the size of my new flat and being mistaken in the streets for the maid. I am long past that, my friends. My flat has not grown in size, but because rents here are so affordable, I have been able to buy a new house in the country, turning my flat into a pied à terre just for work. So on the weekend, I have a large four-bedroom house with nearly an acre of land to run around in, just one hour outside of Paris. I could never have afforded a lifestyle like this in London.
Now, I dress so fierce that I am more likely to be mistaken for Mrs Obama than the local help. My tracksuits never leave the house, all my baseballs caps have been thrown away, and although in London I barely made it to the salon once every two months, today, Gerald, my hairdresser,
is one of my best friends, and I have a regular appointment every week.
What I learned very early on is that everything over here relates to status. And everybody dresses to represent how they see themselves on the hierarchy. I am a senior manager of a major conglomerate, and therefore to be respected as one, I need to dress accordingly.
At first I found it quite irritating to always have to spend time getting ready even if I was just popping out to the shops, but I now enjoy always looking my best, and I can see the change in the reactions of my fellow Parisians. They now take me seriously and – dare I say it – see me as one of them.
I have got to say I feel almost Parisian myself. I cannot pretend my conversion has been an easy one. Paris is not a place for the faint-hearted. The French already have a reputation for being no-nonsense straight talkers. And in Paris they take this to another level. You have to get used to people who say what they think and mean what they say. But for
a black woman growing up in a house full of black women (five sisters), this was something that I quickly learned to take in my stride. For some of my friends who have visited me, though, I think it has been something of a shock.
My mum does not even mind me being here, because I can leave Paris at 11am and, taking into account the time difference, be seated across the table from her for Sunday lunch by 1:30pm.
I was never sure how the city would cope with me when I arrived, but one thing I never envisaged was that I would be the one changing – and to such a degree – to fit in. But do you know what? I have changed, and I like the new me: more sassy, more confident to say what I think, and with more free time to enjoy life, thanks to the French work-hour laws, which mean I have every Friday afternoon off.
The only irony is that in the city of love, love is so far the one thing that has eluded me. There have been a few boyfriends but nothing really serious. Still, the one thing I like is that men here make you feel sexy. They manage to give you that knowing look without being sleazy. And although I have yet to find my man, my Paris adventure is just starting, because I have fallen head over heels. Paris, I love you.
