How Living in the UK has Changed my English

Three years ago this weekend, I moved to London. While there were several cultural changes I had to attentively adapt to, one that’s happened perhaps subconsciously over the years is the adaptation of British English into my language. I haven’t adopted an accent, but there are several tidbits that have snuck their way into my vernacular…

  1. Have/have not

Ah, life; it is full of haves and have nots…especially when speaking British English. In the US, I might ask, ‘Did you make dinner?,’ but now, I’ll ask, ‘Have you made dinner?’

Similarly, there’s ‘have got.’ Before my husband and I leave the house, I might ask, ‘Have you got a mask?,’ whereas in the US I’d probably ask, ‘Do you have a mask?’

If I speak with friends and fam from the US like this, I’d probably sound like a pompous ass…but somehow, it flows naturally here.

2. Pissed

Nope, it doesn’t mean angry! If someone asks if you’re ‘pissed’ or ‘on the piss,’ they’re wondering if you’ve had one too many pints. Think of it this way: if you’re ‘pissed,’ you might piss yourself. But let’s hope you don’t.

3. Taking the piss

What? More piss? This one’s tricky to ‘translate,’ but there’s a couple interpretations. One, to push one’s buttons/joke around – if I’m making fun of someone, they might say ‘are you taking the piss (out of me).’ Two, to slack off/take advantage of – if someone’s always calling in to work sick because their half-sister’s cousin is having their wisdom teeth removed again, you might say ‘they’re taking the piss.’

4. Cheers

Not just for toasting! I admit I do everything in my power to avoid saying this one if I can. It just doesn’t sound or feel natural coming out of my mouth. Meaning ‘thanks,’ I’ll say it if I’ve already exhausted several other ways of saying ‘thank you.’ For example, if someone else is just a step ahead of me as I walk into a building, I’ll say, ‘thank you’ for the first door, ‘thanks’ for the second door,  ‘cheers’ for the third door, and pray there’s not a fourth door. This is, of course, based on the assumption that someone a step ahead of me would hold open the door. If not, I have a slightly different approach where I’ll scoff and say ‘f*ck you’ with my face. I’m good with expressions.

5. CBF/CBA/CBB

Ah, this one comes in handy. Similar to ‘I don’t give a f*ck’ but for some reason, using the word ‘can’t’ makes the f-bomb sound…less offensive? Just as ‘IDGAF’ is a thing, you can be hip and abbreviate it to ‘CBF.’ Alternates include CBA (‘can’t be assed’), or, if expletives aren’t your thing, and ‘can’t be bothered.’ Wholesome, but still gets the point across.

6. Posh

Fancy, high(er)-end, sophisticated. In the US, I think we say ‘nice’ in most cases – having a meal at a nice restaurant, owning a nice pair of shoes. Though, ‘nice’ probably isn’t the best translation as a descriptor of people, cos it seems as though many ‘posh’ people are…not nice? Idk. Think Posh Spice, the poor soul who seems never to smile…not exactly an embodiment of ‘nice.’

7. Proper

OK, so I only say this one here and there. When I first started dating my husband, I told him “I need to get a proper winter coat. Wait – did I just say ‘proper’?” He laughed and told me you’re fully integrated once you start saying stuff like ‘that was a proper night out.’ Welp, I’ve said that now. When my family came to visit us, I gave my mom a bag of Proper Corn and she started pissing herself laughing at the name of it, which then made me realise how foreign this word was before I moved here. Thanks, mom.

8. Spellings

Hi, have I mentioned I’m an English grad? Newsflash – we write a lot of papers, so I immediately had to adjust my spelling of oh-so-many types of words. From the ‘o’ to ‘ou’ (think ‘colour’ or ‘behaviour’), changing my zees – pardon, zeds – to esses (‘recognise,’ ‘realisation’). There was an adjustment period here for sure, but now it’s become normalised in my writing. Bonus, it’s given way to a few humorous equivalents. My personal favourite? The UK spelling of ‘skeptic’ being ‘sceptic,’ which reminds me of sh*t tanks.

Bonus round! Words that haven’t come out of my mouth ‘cos they feel like speaking an alien language:

Sarnie, blimey, chin wag, chrimbo, bloody, trainers, bloke…

If I start using any of these, please send help.

Welcome to Athens, You’re on Greek Time

One year ago, I was up at the ass crack of dawn to catch a plane from Stansted with my husband. Four hours later, we were on a graffitied metro from Athens’ city outskirts, eating packets of olives and sesame-covered nuts, on our way to Monastiraki. Our reason for coming? Practically, to connect with our families flying in from the US and Australia to catch a local plane to the island we’d be getting married on days later, and willingly, because who wouldn’t want to visit the home of democracy right before saying ‘I do’?

When in Greece, wear Nike

A true millennial, I pride myself on my Airbnb-hunting skills, and I was looking forward to this one. As we made our way down the main street, past buildings in shambles amongst lively markets and cafes, I became uneasy. We’d been travelling for a while (a downside of living and travelling in Europe – anything over 5 hours suddenly feels like a lifetime) and I wanted nothing more than to settle in our accommodation, and what I hoped would be a ‘good’ area. We arrived to a café covered in ivy and coloured streamers near the end of the Monastiraki market, where we were meant to meet our host. Twenty minutes past with no word from him. Starting to panic, I asked my husband to speak broken Greek to the café host to see if she’d seen anyone. Nope. Forty minutes past, and then one hour with no contact. My husband started looking for local hotels on his phone as I spoke to Airbnb customer service, coming to the conclusion that I f*cked up this time. We were scammed.

Enter: young guy wearing a mis-buttoned Hawaiian shirt and rocking some serious bedhead. He pointed to our suitcases. ‘You are coming for apartment?’ It was near 3pm and he looked somewhere between stoned and freshly awoken from a nap. As I tried to make sense of the last hour and a bit, I came to the realisation that…we were now on Greek time – aka, what is time? I quickly said ‘never mind!’ to the customer support rep on the line and hung up. To my pleasant surprise, the apartment boasted an incredible view that overlooked the symphonic market and tavernas below, ruined and refurbished buildings in front of us, and a view of the Acropolis in the distance (though, most things do).

Finally settling in, we embarked on an afternoon exploration of the local area, which turned out to be the most unintentionally trippy place I’ve ever been in my entire life. Lemme clarify – I lived in Washington state. I’ve been to music festivals. I’ve had a hippie phase. While I associate a psychedelic culture with those things, from clothing and art, to community and music, there is more often than not an intent behind that culture, to be, well, trippy. Athens, on the other hand, wasn’t even trying.

Looks like Humpty Dumpty didn’t have a great fall! He’s just chilling in Athens with a good book

Wandering through the streets, we came across skate shops, art shops, and vintage stores, the only consistent theme linking all of them being unparalleled individuality. Our interactions with the shopkeepers were amongst our first with the locals in Athens, and they were truly gracious; the girl in the kilo shop telling me where else I could find vintage clothes like the items I was buying, the man in the wine shop considering our tastes and recommending a bottle cheaper than the one we had picked out – these interactions set the tone for the kind-heartedness and hospitality we’d receive throughout our whole trip.

A Mary Poppins themed café? Just what I was looking for!

Just as prominent as these eclectic shops were the ruins – those of capitalism prior to the Greek Debt Crisis (boarded up banks, abandoned chain retail shops, and graffitied streets), and older still, the ruins of, uh, early civilisation. As a result, what can be best described as an atmosphere of contrast, beauty, and defiance of time. Perhaps (OK, definitely) less formal than shops were street stalls selling collections of what I can only describe as aesthetically pleasing sh*t from peoples’ garages. Laid out in wagons and the street itself, the vendors appeared to never make a sale, but at least enjoyed sharing a cigarette (or 10) in each others’ company.

Spotted: an ancient text message

I like to take things slow when I travel, gallivanting around and discovering what may come, as opposed to meticulously planning and loading my days up with walking tours, itemised sightseeing, restaurant reservations, and so on. As high-strung as I may be, travelling is one thing where I like to go with the flow. Luckily, I married someone on the same wavelength (though our preferences for when to get to the airport are a whole ‘nother story…)

So, after a restful sleep, we muster the energy to visit the Acropolis. As much as we typically avoid ‘touristy’ things, you can’t like, go to Athens and not visit the Acropolis.

Leaving our apartment, we weave through the streets on the outskirts of Monastiraki, lined with more vendors on either side selling jewellery, tchotchkes, and Greek souvenirs, their items laid out against colourful facades of the buildings. Nearer to the ascent to the Acropolis, the buildings in question change from the unassuming to the slightly pretentious; fine-dining restaurants for tourists make a point to advertise their view of the Acropolis. Bro, I don’t know if anyone’s told you, but the thing is on a f*cking mountain overlooking the city. Every restaurant has a view of the Acropolis.

As we travel onwards and upwards, the concentration of commercial buildings thins out, as they are overtaken by residences and the occasional taverna. The journey itself is just as glorious as the end destination. The roads leading to the Acropolis give the sensation of one being amidst a movie set for Greece; the scenery is so perfect that it’s hard to believe it’s real.

Finally, we arrive. The Acropolis is packed with humans (as anticipated), and windy (not so much). I’m not talking about a gentle breeze, no – more like gusts of wind that hurl pebbles and sand in your eyelashes. My husband and I sit down to take cover and enjoy a moment together. It’s unclear whether sitting amongst this icon of ancient civilisation brought out our inner philosophers, or if we were just being our cynical selves (probably a bit of both), but as we observed those around us – looking at the architectural legend through the lens of a phone or wearing a goddess-like dress and posing for Instagram – it was hard to have faith in humanity. It was a beautiful moment that concluded with us agreeing that we are past peak civilisation, and leaving. That, my friends, is love.

Ionic or iconic? Both

Back in our apartment, we stare out the window. Not particularly fixated on one particular thing, we watch as the buildings turn from daylight’s beige to evening’s purple haze. It’s a sight that demands you rest to truly enjoy it, and so we do. In our lounge chairs, we gaze out the window as if sat at the cinema, absorbed in a live screening of Athens’ city life.  From the market packing up below, to the rooftop bars kicking off their joie de vivre, to the Acropolis lighting up in the distance, we drink it – and some red wine – in. For hours we sit here, watching, listening, smelling, chatting, laughing, dancing. As someone who spends a lot of time in their own head, worrying about stupid sh*t, this evening spent looking out over Athens is one of the most mindful moments I’ve experienced. For that, I am one grateful chick.

Ranking the Cultural Foods I Grew Up With

Last weekend, I found myself stood in the Polish section of the supermarket, scanning the pierogi, kefir, pickles, until…SCORE! My eyes settled on naleśniki (or as I called them, ‘blintzes’) which I quickly snatched up to take home.

Gimme the good stuff!

As I made them (OK, heated them up) back home, it got me thinking about all the foods I grew up eating as a Polish/Italian/German-American, and so…here are my reflections on the biggest standouts, from worst to best:

9. Corned beef and cabbage

Photo Credit: Delish

My grandma would make this on St. Patrick’s Day every year. We’d begrudgingly go over (begrudgingly because we don’t like this dinner, not grandma – we love grandma) and greet her wearing a green sweater, ask her ‘are we really even Irish?’ to which she would reply, ‘yes, my great-grandmother was named Maggie McEwan,’ to which we would reply, ‘can we please eat something else?’

(btw, Grandma, if you’re reading: I’ve done some research and McEwan/McCuen/MacEwan is actually a Scottish surname) *sips tea*

8. Pork and sauerkraut with spaetzle

Photo Credit: Cook the Story

It pains me to look at that photo. This is a German one, and probably the most ‘authentic’ dish I have from my mom’s side of the family. My ancestors on that side emigrated from…somewhere at some point, but settled in New York-New Jersey so long ago that when people ask where my mom’s side of the family’s from, I say…New York-New Jersey. Let’s be real, NY-NJ is an enclave in its own right. I identify more with things like wearing animal print, cursing, and eating everything bagels more than I do with…whatever it is that German people do. But I digress…

This ranks low because I don’t eat pork (an aversion which may or may not be associated with the 1995 classic Babe). Even if I did eat it, this dish is able to get away with being so painfully bland because it’s slow-cooked with the punch of sauerkraut. It would probably go well with beer, but I couldn’t exactly have that accompaniment as a kid. That, and I was too preoccupied with running to the toilet in the hours following. Thanks, ‘kraut.

7. Soupy

Photo Credit: Aroma Italia

Short for ‘souppressata’ (which I learned…today), this is a Calabrese sausage. I have actually probably only eaten it once or twice, as I’m not a fan of sausage (pause for your immature laughter). Every once in a while my dad would make this with my uncle, Nanutz, and some other random guido cousins…you could say it was a sausage fest. Really not a fan of this one, but ranking it above the last two ‘cos it’s not terrible.

6. Mizeria

Photo credit: Winiary

Worlds collide – both of my grandmothers and my dad made this. I didn’t know the name of this one, and always knew it simply as ‘cucumbers and sour cream,’ cos that’s all it is, folks. From googling I can see it’s Polish, so it’s quite possible that my non-Polish grandma saw it in an issue of Good Housekeeping 50 years ago alongside a recipe for ambrosia salad and adopted it into her culinary repertoire. It was one those things that was always in the fridge ‘cos someone made a batch. In no way offensive but also not out-of-this-world.

5. Pizzelles

Photo credit: Just a Pinch

I love cookies, so in theory, this one should rank much higher. However, I spent many a Christmas as a young’un eating, like, 5 of these bad boys in one sitting, so a mid-level rating as a result of the tummy-aches.

4. Sausage & peppers

Photo credit: Simply Recipes

Kind of cheating by putting this one on the upper half of this list as I’d only eat the peppers, onions, and potatoes, picking around the sausage, but still….

Warming and mildly spicy, can be eaten on its own or as a sandwich-ey sort of thing if you chuck some in a roll. Think of it as Italian curry of sorts.

3. Stromboli

Photo Credit: Wikipedia

One of those things that was kind of just magically on the kitchen counter when you woke up one morning. Did it come from a local pizza-sub shop? Was it leftovers from a party or something? Did dad get it from one of his siblings? We may never know, but regardless, it’s basically rolled up pizza that you can eat hot or cold, anytime of day. Think of it as a Hot Pocket that would be a crime to compare to a Hot Pocket.

2. Blintzes/Naleśniki

Photo Credit: Meijer

Is it breakfast? A snack? Dessert? It’s whatever you want, peeps. My dad used to make the frozen boxed ones, which is why I use the Jewish word ‘blintz instead of its Polish equivalent, ‘naleśniki…but they share the same bones. It’s just a crepe stuffed with cottage cheese, topped with whatever you want – SO GOOD.

1. Gołąbki

Photo credit: Magda’s Cauldron

I used to think my Nana’s apartment smelled like old people, but it was probably just the smell of these ingredients. Meat? Pureed tomato sauce? Cabbage? Gołąbki defies the odds – it ticks the boxes for everything I don’t like, and yet still manages to rank number one. It’s an ugly-looking peasant food, but sometimes that stuff is the best. Its simple ingredients somehow harmonize to compose the most melt-in-your-mouth comfort food I can imagine.

And there you have it, folks! Honestly, these dishes are more of comfort foods and memory-joggers as opposed to my favourite world cuisines, which are Mediterranean and Japanese…but that’s OK – I married a Greek 🙂

The Wonders of Walking

Up until 2017, I still living in Connecticut. Up until 2017, if you had asked me to go on a walk I’d think: a) Is ‘walk,’ like, code for something? Or, b) Where? Surely not, like, here? In the neighbourhood?

It’s no secret that unless you live in a city or own a dog, going on a walk isn’t a trademark practice of contemporary American life. If you’re from a rural area like I am, nothing is within ‘walking distance,’ which oft makes it seem pointless. Door to door journeys are completed by car, there’s a lack of infrastructure (i.e. sidewalks), and heck – people (I having been one of them) even drive to the gym or a park just to walk, rather than going on a stroll outside their front door. Written out, it might seem bizarre, but in actuality, it’s all too common.

When I moved to London, I was walking my ass off without even intending to do so. The experience of living in a proper city (yep, I say ‘proper’ now) for the first time in my life – and a walkable one at that – had me out and about on a daily basis. Albeit I didn’t have a car (and lawd knows if I did, your girl wasn’t gonna try driving on the other side of the road), I fell in love with walking. It instantly became my preferred mode of transport, compared to taking the bus or tube. Need to go to the supermarket? Post office? Doctor? The most efficient way to get there is in stride. Everything being new and different, walking wasn’t a chore. It was instead an action fuelled by sensory engagement, making activities as mundane as running errands an adventure. Taking everything in – sights, scents, sounds…maybe not so much taste (but hey, whatever floats your boat) – is something many of us have experienced before, likely when travelling or exploring a new place. So, why does it stop there?

After a year of living in London, my daily walks became jaded. One foot in front of the other, quickly paced, head down, preoccupied with the day ahead of or behind me. Walking became a point A to point B activity, overwhelmed by a preoccupation with thoughts and simultaneous need for distraction. I’m not saying I became one of those people who needs get on the phone to forget they’re walking, but…I was close. The repetitive act of one foot in front of the other regressed from ‘going on a walk’ to ‘walking’ – a change in wording which denotes leisure in the former and mundanity in the latter.

If there is a good thing that came out of Covid, it’s been the rediscovery of ‘going for a walk.’ When we became confined to our homes back in March, the eventual announcement allowing outside exercise found me tying my shoelaces at 8 sharp every evening, checking with my husband as though things had changed from one day to the next, ‘shall we go now?’

The slowing of the city was echoed in the slowing of our pace. Traipsing through the same streets I’d grown to walk along with my head down and mind distant, I was mindful once more. I noticed the architecture, as it transitions from blocks of Edwardian to Victorian terraced houses, every so often disrupted by an imposing cathedral or the clean lines of an art deco apartment block.

I made a conscious effort to appreciate the greenery where we live, breathing the fresh air until my lungs were full. In doing so, I simultaneously breathed in the scent of curry cooking in another’s kitchen, roses in a front garden, and the pungency of other…herbs…as they waft into the street. My husband and I flow into our conversational rhythm, sometimes cacophonous and other times, the most comfortable silence. As we reach the top of our village, looking out at London’s unpolluted skyline, we pause for a few moments. My surroundings are as still as my mind.

For those of us with able bodies, walks are one of life’s simplest joys we have at our disposal, anyplace, anytime – and it seems a shame to neglect having access to such a thing. You don’t need a reason to go on one, nor do you need to travel to a park ‘appropriate’ for one. When we visit the US, I often walk around my old neighbourhood, albeit a bit nostalgically, and wonder, ‘why wasn’t I doing this before?’

Walking can alleviate a mind frenzied by anger, anxiety, sadness, overwhelm. It can change your perspective on days when you’re feeling demotivated, uninspired, or, for lack of better terms, like sh*t. It can give you the clarity you might have been yearning for by enabling mindfulness. There’s no right or wrong way to do it, so long as you keep your senses engaged, phone in your damned pocket, and chin up.

A Middle Finger to My High School Dress Code

These days, I’m finding my sense of style as an adult. I’ve got both the weird and the sophisticated, remnants of my hippie phase, and stuff that looks flattering on my figure and makes me feel good about myself. One noticeable thing, though, is that my wardrobe is relatively conservative; I tend to shy away from things like low-cut tops and short skirts, and while there are a few causations for this, I can pinpoint an early influencer.

As a preteen, I could not wait for high school. It seemed like a Hollywood-esque place where you could express yourself and be whoever you wanted to be, and let’s face it – one of the most obvious forms of expression is through image. What you wear, how you do your makeup or style your hair – as a young person, this is your outlet.

The summer before my freshman year, my school introduced a new dress code, and I was heartbroken. No graphic tees,  no athletic clothes, sweats, shorts or skits above the knee, no deep cut v-necks that show cleavage (while I don’t have a copy of the handbook anymore, I do vividly remember that it actually stated ‘cleavage’). There were, of course, exceptions; cheerleaders’ skirts were right below the hoo-ha, and athletes could wear tracksuits on game days, but I digress…

Funnily enough, science textbooks weren’t banned (photo credit: CUNY Brooklyn Earth and Environmental Sciences)

That year, I had to properly go back to school shopping, effectively replacing and questioning much of my wardrobe; replacing – no more band tees or logos, shorts and skirts that hit mid-thigh (we all remember the ol’ fingertips rule from middle school), and questioning – becoming incredibly self-conscious of my changing body and wondering whether the scoop necks and v-necks I’d been wearing for the past couple of years were suddenly too suggestive on my, uh, 14-YEAR-OLD BODY.

On the first day of school I wore a high scoop-neck grey dress that went to my knees. I remember our homeroom teacher introducing himself, taking roll call, and then scanning the room, analysing whether each and every one of us was in violation of the dress code, issuing write-ups as ‘necessary.’ That day, I was fine.

The second day of school, I wore a plain v-neck shirt that completely covered me, the neckline meeting the middle of my clavicle, right above my chest. When I got dressed that morning, I thought I looked fine; when I got to homeroom and my teacher did the scan, my stomach dropped, and I became incredibly self-conscious. He pointed at me and said, ‘borderline.’ Walking over to me to give me my write-up, he looked at me (aka, my top; aka, my chest) again to confirm his decision. ‘Borderline,’ he said once more.

I was written up once more at the end of that year for wearing a skirt that sat right above my knees (read: not at my knees). Since it was my second write-up, I was sent to in-school suspension. I – antisocial introvert, good student, stays-home-on-the-weekends, has no interest in boys –  was in ISS. This was my Freaky Friday moment.

When my history teacher got wind of this, she came down to ISS to see me, looked at my outfit as a group of girls wearing skirts shorter than mine walked by, and gave me a look that said ‘what the fuck.’ She tried to think of a solution – she rode horses and offered me her riding pants from her car, though she told me they were covered in mud and would be too big on me. While we couldn’t come up with a solution in the end, I will forever remember and be grateful for her validation.

At the time, I was irked by these rules because I thought, a) why can’t express myself by wearing what I want, and b) why can’t I dress for the weather if it’s a warm day?

When I reflect on the rules today,  my previous feeling of ‘irked’ is elevated to ‘ripshit pissed.’ Yes, girls should be able to dress for expression and the weather, but the issue here lies in sexualising underage bodies.

Why ask teachers to scrutinise the bodies of adolescents? Why impose the accountability of unto the dressers, not the perpetrators of sexual misconduct?  Why assume that girls’ utmost consideration in dressing themselves is for sexual appeal?

Beats me.

Raise your hand if you’ve been personally victimised by your high school’s dress code

One Month in Grenelle, Paris

It’s nearly 11pm on a Thursday as I lie in bed, stuck to the blankets on which I rest atop, not daring to get under them. My husband lay next to me in a sort of intimacy that says ‘I love you, but don’t you dare touch me,’ for that would only worsen the conditions. Eleven PM, and still 33 f*cking degrees (that’s 91, yankee friends).

Our bedroom window is open, carrying the sounds of the streets below. Laughing and talking from the brasseries, shouting in street, someone (with pretty good pipes, might I add) singing at the top their lungs from an apartment block a few buildings down, drinks and plates clanking and smashing, the occasional odour of cigarette smoke drifting up, and every 15 or so seconds, a faint illumination from the Eiffel Tower’s beam makes its way across the night sky. As I struggle to get comfortable, I realise that these people have got it right – keep a low profile during daylight’s scorch, and come to life at night.

9:30 PM sunset…Grandma Steph is watching it in her PJs

It’s our 3rd week in this flat, and while I’ve not fully adopted the Parisian lifestyle, I’ve grown accustomed to this multi-sensory lullaby. After spending 4 months locked-down in our London flat, we – my husband, our French Bulldog (who, by the way, was of no help translating), and myself – packed up the car and f*cked off to mainland Europe. Making our way back from northern Portugal, we’ve found ourselves settled in Grenelle, Paris – our new home for a month.

This heatwave tho! I need a boisson and so does that poor grass

Though we’ve visited many times before (shoutout to Eurostar for making weekend trips easy as sh*t), we’d stayed in the more central bits – ChampsÉlysées, Madeleine, Saint-Germain. This has been our first experience staying in a primarily residential area. Grenelle is located just south of la tour Eiffel, and while probably not close enough to garner any tourists (many shop owners and restauranteurs have told us indeed, most of their patrons are Parisians of the 15th arrondissement), the iron monstrosity seems to sneak its way into the foreground, making even life’s mundane moments a little magical.

Taking out the trash has never been so lovely

We’ve come here between July and August – July being the last hurrah for many Parisians before leaving the city in August for summer holidays. We’d visited a year earlier around the same time and found that many of our favourite independently-owned businesses had temporarily closed for this exact reason. This year is a bit different – amidst Covid, some have done well enough to carry on and take a break as usual, others seem to be staying open to derive what business they can, and a few, unfortunately, appear to be closed…indefinitely.

Upon leaving London in late June for this Eurotrip, the UK’s lockdown restrictions had still closed eateries and non-essential businesses, and for those places that were open, many of us kept cautious in public. In Paris, the old and young both carry on with an air of life as it were, running the usual errands, sitting closely to one another over a brasserie drink, crowding the shops, pairs of young ‘eons whizzing past on shared electric scooters. So, despite a visible decrease in population, those businesses which are open draw in what  crowds they can. Whilst the monstrous Beaugrenelle shopping centre ushers in hoards of people, enticed by summer soldes and climatisation, its quainter cousin up the road brings in its own hustle and bustle. Rue de Commerce, as the name suggests, is a mix of boutiques and chain stores selling everything from skateboarding shoes to lingerie to tableware, cafes, fromageries, patisseries, all of the shops for food-ies, salons, and more, ending at the station Dupleix – underneath which hosts an enormous market selling everything from fish to Persian rugs.

Rue du Commerce

Not only on Rue du Commerce, but throughout Grenelle, are a prominence of Asian food stores, Korean and Japanese restaurants, and what I can only describe as Asian delicatessens (donned ‘traiteurs‘). I suffered from anorexia in high school, and while mostly recovered, I do still struggle with my eating disorder from time to time- particularly when eating out and traveling. Partway through this trip, I challenged myself to eat whatever I wanted and to try new foods, and I’m glad I did. After spending our first week in Paris in a wine & cheese coma, bibimbap bowls, black sesame and red bean frozen treats, and kimchi à la maison made way for a Parisian experience consisting of entirely different flavours.

Still thinking about this bibimbap bowl from Seoul Mama

Back in our flat, it’s now Saturday. Though we’ve made it to weekend and it’s nearly 10:30 PM, the heatwave still hasn’t ceased. As I go to change into my pajamas, my husband entices me to go on a walk to the pitch he’s been playing football at every morning, which, as he’s shown me in photos, has an incredible view of the Eiffel Tower.

As we take our dog (pets need culture too!) and walk through the quiet streets of Grenelle, Madame Eiffel plays hide-and-seek against the night sky. She flaunts her glowing limbs as we make our way down one street, and hides behind an apartment building as we turn onto another. Right before 11 PM, the three of us make it to the football pitch. As the three of us stand together and gaze up at all her magnificence, a couple of families rush to make it to their rooms in the hotel adjacent, to get their £350-a-night’s worth. As the clock strikes the hour, she glimmers and glistens, and as someone with cynical tendencies, I can tell you, it really does take your breath away. As I stare up in awe for the 5 minutes which the lights twinkle, stupidly mindful, I thank my lucky stars for this wonderfully cheesy moment, and understand why Paris is donned the city of love.

They say it’s rude to stare but, I mean, how can you not?