This is now my third visit to France.

Technically, it’s my fourth, but I am blocking a whirlwind “three days in Paris, two days on the Côte d’Azur” bus tour from my re-telling, but I thought I should set things straight in case any of those suppressed memories rear their ugly heads in the near future.

The first was a nervous meet-the-family visit to my boyfriend’s hometown, all under the guise of attending the Festival des Francofolies in La Rochelle. Linguistically, I was able to express that I was 13 years old, which was hilariously funny for me, but I don’t think the joke carried well, and I’m sure that many family and friends thought that perhaps Guillaume (let’s give him a name) was indulging in some illegal fetish that involved an over-grown pre-pubescent…

The second was spontaneous – and all related to the fact that the mercury had plunged to -30° in St. Petersburg (after a marvellously temperate 0° for the whole of the New Year’s festive season), whilst Toulon (where Guillaume was studying at the time) was enjoying a mid-winter 24° (plus!), so I thought I should join the dazzling sunshine to shake my winter blues. I spent a month nearby, in a little holiday unit, rented to students in the off-season. With the Mediterranean as my backyard, I could concentrate on the hardly serious pursuits of buying a pain au chocolat of a morning, and wandering amongst seaweed of an afternoon. To finish it all off, we had a memorably compact week in Paris, staying in a friend’s capsule-like apartment and notching up tourist attractions like they were prize scalps. Needless to say, this time, I’ve hardly ventured outside. I can see the Eiffel Tower from the nearby metro station, and otherwise, I might just wait till the tourist tide has ebbed away… wish me luck, please, I might be waiting until 80…

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.