Buds

We had a little taste of Spring on Saturday, with late-teen temperatures giving everything a sheen of burgeoning brightness. I love seeing the tips of the chestnut branches swell and shine, so ready to burst overnight in a fresh riot of feathery green.

This was my view as I sat out on our balcony for the first time this year, luxuriating in the anticipation of leafy peacefulness.

There is something so quintessentially French about the way they prune their trees. It makes the springtime transformation even more miraculous: black brutal stumps throwing out such verdant, misty filigree.

Only a few weeks to go until they remove the signs in the parks telling you that the lawns are having their Winter rest, and picnic season will finally be able to spread out its gingham blanket invitingly.

Not quite yet, though. La Chaîne Météo has just told me to expect storms with the possibility of light snow next week. Rough winds indeed.

Liberté, Egalité, Fidélité

At what point can you say – with the conviction of a local – that you truly live in Paris?

We have been here for two years now (can you believe it?) and there have been many important Parisification progress-markers: renting an apartment, opening a bank account, making friends, obtaining a Carte de Séjour, finding a job, falling off a Vélib and attending the Bastille Day fireman’s ball.

While these are all impressive and hard-won achievements, I’ve found it is the everyday accomplishments which really count when it comes to feeling like you belong; the exhilarating mini-milestones which mark your integration. We were walking in the Parc Montsouris on Sunday (it’s our local, don’t you know) when we happened to bump into a French friend. Well, friend-of-a-friend is probably more accurate, but the point is he was French, and we knew him. We had a chat, promised to catch up for a drink and moved on, secretly thrilled by our first Totally Random Acquaintance Encounter. Absurd how much it made us feel like we’d arrived, this knowledge that, just like any other Parisian, we could run into people we knew at any time.

You come to cherish and celebrate these little landmark moments: the first time you stare haughtily back at a passer-by, until they look away. The day when the boulanger selects the choicest, softest baguette and hands it to you with a smile. That occasion when someone asks you for directions, and you can confidently give them. Or that sweet golden instant when the supermarket cashier asks if you have a carte de fidélité and you proclaim “Oui!”, producing it with a nonchalant flourish.

It’s taken me two years but I finally have “frequent shopper” loyalty cards for my two local supermarkets. They’re completely useless, of course, in terms of earning discounts or extra value. I couldn’t even tell you what the complicated accruals mean at the bottom of my docket. Their worth lies entirely in the “resi-dentity” they bestow; they make me feel like a true riverain, a card-carrying member of the neighbourhood. I finally belong in the local shop. For local people. And perhaps in another two years I’ll learn how to redeem my millions of points and exchange them for a novelty key-ring.

Now all I need is a plaid nylon shopping cart and I’ll fit right in.

Frightfully

I finally watched Atonement last night. As far as I can make out, it’s a film about people talking veh veh fast, whilst walking tehly tehly quickly. I found it all quite exhausting. (I can’t imagine how the actors felt.)

What is it about Keira Knightley: the jaw? The mouth? Dreadful.