Hochicbachoc

There are so many things I don't like about the French (and, since I am one myself, I am fully entitled to b*** about them), I won't even try to start a list. However, you have to handle it to them, they know how to do things in style. Food, fashion, they are hard to bit. But what I myself did not know, which I discovered earlier this weekend, is that their fashion sense extends to running, too. Now, you tell men how stylish is that:

Now, I thought the guy was so classy that I had to overcome my shyness and walk accross the street to ask if I could take a photo. So here was I, standing on the pavement next to him, wearing only my swimsuit given we were about to go for our swimming session in the lake, standing next to Mr Top Class. And wondering whether, given that the classiest top I wear to go running may indeed be black but is nothing else than a technical t-shirt, I was at risk of losing my citizenship.  Or maybe, I went on thinking,  Ishould I try to emulate him, and give my banker's suits a new life, maybe adding a Hermès scarf as headband for an added French touch... 

Now, I know I will shatter all your illusions (as I sadly did mine, that day), but it actually turned out that Mr Top Class was going to a party. A hochicbachoc party. Although I have regained most of my French over the past two years, this did not mean anything to me until several hours later (must have been the cold water freezing my already not so numerous brain cells), when I woke Martin up: "hey, I got it now, he meant: "haut chic, bas choc", which would roughly translate into "chic top, in-your-face/unexpected bottom",. Athough clearly, with such a not-punchy translation, one may not want to have and organise the same party accross the pond. Which will I guess confirm my point: stylish running... you can only get it in France...

Trying to grasp the local dialect

The problem with the French in London is that most of them speak English. Well, most of them also with the worst accent you can think of - I mean, really, do they take some kind of pride in asking for a “shit of paper”? Still, accent set aside, the UK-based French master the “langue de Shakespeare” fairly decently. Which means that, for the last ten years, I could happily and lazily speak a mix of French, English, and anything in between, when talking to my French friends in London, without having to worry that that I was, strictly speaking, not making much sense (do I ever anyway?).

Back on the other side of the Channel, this has now become a problem. It all became apparent for the first time last year. I was France-bound, in a taxi, heading off to a meeting and having the usual where-do-you-come-from-today-what-are-you-up-to conversation with the cabbie (well, the taxi driver rather; they don’t have cabbies in France - that’s because cockney does not translate well in French, I think). All rather mundane stuff, until the driver said: “of course you still have an accent, but really, your French is pretty good”, at which point I realised with horror he thought I was English. I mean, I may be happily criticising the French every time I have the opportunity. But being mistaken for a Brit? In France? That was just beyond embarrassing.

More than a year has passed since that doomed day and the situation has little, if at all, improved.

I got another “so, you are English, right?” from my banker when opening my account, despite the fact she had just been checking my passport. Although, granted, not sure how much that says about the level of my French and how much about my bank’s positive discrimination policy in favour of brainless employees.

Recently, one of Martin’s colleagues told me that I must be happy that, with Geneva airport so close, it was easy to go back home to England for a few days.

I am thinking of employing my dad part-time as my editor, given that I have to ask him to check my French every time I have to write something remotely official. I also now refuse to help Martin do his French exercises since the day he managed to achieve the fantastic score of a 100% failure rate on an exercise he had done entirely with me.

As we were spending time with friends a few weekends ago, I had to admit to Martin, that, no, I could not tell him what one of the guys had said, because I too had problems with his accent, losing a bit more of the little credibility I still had with my husband when it comes to speaking French.

Last but not least, half of our friends here must think of me as the ultimate poseur since I cannot have a conversation without saying at least once per minute “err, not sure how you say that in French”.

So here I am. My French sucks, but there are still only the French to think I can pass for a Brit. Maybe we should have moved to Switzerland. That would at least give me an excuse for sounding a bit funny when speaking French.

Ready for exile?

So, this was it. The decision had been made. After twelve years of living in London – and swearing I would never leave, let alone to go back to France - this is precisely what I was about to do. Moving back. To France. And not only to France – I mean, after all, Paris would still feel like a smaller and somehow more insular version of London. No, I was taking the plunge, and sending myself, Martin, my running shoes and my climbing gear to Annecy, a small, provincial town nested in the French Alps. Was this really happening to me, the city girl who spent her entire adult life in London? Let get something straight here: I am not the food-obsessed, tick-accent, Paris-on-Thames, type of Frenchie. Until a few years ago, I would even swear to whoever would listen that I so disliked the French and their habit of continuously complaining and hating everything – thereby being very French myself you will tell me, and I will agree. But anyway, things changed, and after all these years, here I was ready to move on, and go… home? Well, it did not feel quite that way. In fact, I was… scared.

Sure, I wanted to leave London. Sure, I may have been until recently a city girl. Sure, I loved shoes, brunches in Notting Hill, feeling like a jet setter courtesy of EasyJet, ending up not doing anything at night because there is just too much to chose from. Still, the runner-cum-climber-cum-cyclist in me has always won against the city-girl and banker, Mrs Jekyll overpowering of Mrs Hyde. And, let’s face it, if your idea of a great weekend is to wake up early, jump on your bike, go for a 6-hour ride, come back, take a shower and go for a two hour session at the climbing wall before your evening run, London is just NOT the ideal place to be. Annecy, on the other hand, had everything it takes, at least on paper. Beautiful mountains, clean air. Check. A flat three times the size of our London pad for half the price, AND a garage big enough for our 6 bikes, mountaineering gear, skis, a small climbing wall, boxes full of summer flip flops and winter boots: re-check. Trails on your doorstep for those off-road runs, so much more fun than running on pavements? Still check. Dive in the Annecy Lake’s pristine water on a hot summer day that beats a London pool full of chlorine and screaming kids any day? Check again. Little winding roads especially designed for weekend cycling rides, or, even better, short lunchtime or weekday after-work sessions (how decadent)? Check, always check.

Not that the “after work” bit was of any relevance to me, mind you. And that’s where the scary bit started. Because I may have been happily giving up the London rat-race and the City job, I was still not ready to become a French version of your average desperate housewife. I only gave up to married life because, let’s face it, when the perfect man comes along and is reckless enough to think he can survive being married to me, it would have been crazy to turn him down. But between being a wife and being ready to add the prefix “house-” in front of it, was a big, very big, step I was not sure I was ready - or wanted to - take. Although I had no second thoughts about leaving Europe’s largest city to become a provinciale, the prospect of also being a chômeur, a jobless, and buying my beloved running shoes not with my own, hard won money but with that of my husband, was a different ballgame altogether!

And then, there was, of course, the issue of the French. Because, everybody will no doubt agree with me, they truly are a piece of work. And I should know, shouldn’t I? In London, it used to be at best funny – of the bittersweet kind – to admit it. But what was I supposed to do now? I could hardly complain to the French themselves, or they would probably try to send me back to where I, no doubt, in their mind now belonged, the visceral enemy: England. Still I figured that, if I learned to shut up even when really annoyed (not easy if you know me, I must admit), I should just about be able to deal with it and not being sent back from where I came from.

So that was it. The decision was taken. Martin’s thesis and my bonus in the bag, we would make our farewell to London, and head off to Annecy. Oh, via Thailand, as one does.