I wake up in the morning with the intention to get a cappuccino. But no, we are not talking about Starbucks. Nor Nero, Costa or any of the chains of coffee shops on every corner of London. On the other side of the pond, there is a different story. On the corner of Rue Benoit in the magnifque Saint-Germain des Pres, just opposite the cathedral (don’t ask which one, I lost count of all of the religious monuments in the Paris guide) there is le Café des Deax Magots. And just a cote is Café de Flore. Quelle Bonheur! So I dress up (another bonheur pour moi, just give me occasions to dress up, and Paris is an occasion itself) and head towards the café. The waiters are already friends and know my order: cappuccino sans rien. I sit on the table and now what? I look around: stylish women, you could never guess their age, are sitting autour de moi. Reading newspapers, sipping from their coffees with all the graciousness and confidence, which only a French is capable of. And all of a sudden I it struck me: Les Francais are the real women. You’d never see a French nervously checking her Blackberry. She’d graciously sit on the table, her poitrine perfectly straight and have breakfast. Mais oui, ils mangent. But the way they do, enjoying every piece of croissant/baguette…that’s what I believe keeps them in a great shape. About la fame francaise there is more than words could describe (no surprise then that there are so many poems and songs written about her). She’ll finish her breakfast slowly, sans etre en rush…whoever wants would wait. Then she’ll start feeding the birds. And again, the way she does it…so fascinating. With all my respect to all other nationalities, mais ils l’ont dans leur sang. They carry it in their blood. The scarf, the pair of high heels…and black, navy, beige claire… because come on, who needs this splash of colour?!
I wake up the next day and look out the window. Oh, no, I think, raining. But what am I thinking? Rain does not spoil the look d’une francaise! She’s walking down the street in the most amazingly cut trench, bare legs and sandals. Oui, oui! Where else would you see that?! Le chien, obligatoirement, a sa main. But if we leave the appearance apart (cause believe it or not, I’m not all about the appearance); there is a factor, a threat of the character of the French that makes her so fascinating in my eyes: elle ne s’en monque de rien! She simply doesn’t care. She lives life! She’s on top. She looks successful, perfect, avec des bonnes maniers, and she speaks with the fluidity and confidence of which only une francaise is capable. But no, I’m not jealous! Pas, de tout! Simply, because I realize that anyone could have this affaire amorouse avec la vie. I always thought that London was the right place for me. And it is. It’s modern, open to different cultures (not very keen on that, but at least open to Bulgarins), it changes constantly, and is, I believe, the best place for a young student. But Paris… This is the place where I would like to get old, because I want to get old like a French woman. They never get old. Toujours d’un esprit jeun! They gesticulate, they laugh, they contemplain. Ipad? Non, merci! They’d buy their magazines and have a coffee, du baguette ou du croissant. They'd enjoy their breakfast, every piece of it. Whatever is left, they’d feed the birds. Then they’d start chatting with their table neighbours, but not flirting or anything of that kind. Very important thing that you should bear in mind is that a French woman’s heart is already taken and her only real love would be la vie. Vivre la vie, c’est ca qu’elle a appris faire avec l’eccellence. Who needs men? There’s so much more in life! Bisoux de Paris!