A cautionary and brief word by way of introduction: I had never anticipated settling down in France. Never once in my life did it cross my mind, even from the formative years of my education. Failing French at the grand old age of 13, I distinctly remember myself articulating “but when am I EVER going to need this?!?” I was totally nonchalant about the whole romantic notion of France and of living in France, oblivious to the appeal of a place equally regarded for style and Bacchical gluttony.

My attentions were always directed further east, with Slavic languages capturing my imagination and studies, and so, some years ago, living in Russia, I met my boyfriend.

French. Of course.

So after time spent living in St. Petersburg and London, then working and travelling in Australia, it was mutually decided that it was time for the French stint, to understand and appreciated the beautiful workings of all things French.

This, unfortunately, includes my previously unscalable Everest… the language.

I’ve been in France for over two months now, having arrived at the beginning of July, just in time for the season of weddings, Tour de France and tomatoes. After a summer spent either by the side of the local river or in various campsites around France, I’ve found myself in Paris, following the well-trod footsteps of those dreamers seeking success in the big city… or just magnets and coasters decorated with Toulouse-Lautrec images, I think either will suffice.