Family Matters

I ran halfway across the world and my two sisters came and found me. I didn’t realise what that meant until I saw them and the niceness of it almost made me want to cry.

It was only when I saw them that I realised that I’m not just a random floating being skitting from random opportunity to opportunity. I am a sister; I am a jigsaw piece of a family. The threads came back as did my vague sense of belonging.

My sister’s sense of amazement and their cautiousness reminded me of when I first arrived. They were in such awe about how far Reunion is and all I could say is “oh yeah” how did I forget that I’m on the other side of the world? The banality of what has become my everyday life has dulled my sense of adventure. But my sister’s enthusiasm became mine…till I felt new again. It came back with my sisters as I showed them the different corners of the island and rediscovered them myself

Hiking an active volcano…one of the most active in the world…that’s pretty immense right? Why haven’t I done that before? Or the east of the island? I’ve gotten comfortable, complacent…and poor. I guess I was trying so hard to build some kind of temporary life here that I forgot about the views.

 Family are like old socks. Not always pretty but for better or worse no other socks fit like it. It’s only when you put them on that you realise why you need them. (Have I gone OTT with this analogy? I think so) basically, in a place where everything is relatively new, having people who knew my name before I did…well there’s nothing and no one else like it …I just needed to be reminded. 

 Now they’ve left and have taken the sunshine with them (I’m not just being emo, it’s literally been chucking it down ever since) and I’m left almost like a deer in headlights, exposed and feeling foreign and singular again.

 I think my days in Reunion might be coming to an end… 

Mastercard

So i did it, I finally broke the chains. Two weeks ago I moved out.  I am no more chez weirdo Richard. I was so nervous to tell him, had visions of him breaking down into a sad crumple of tears. Me feeling awkward and avoiding his gaze as he rocked back and forth, begging and pleading me to stay. Also as I’d put off telling him it was less than the month’s notice I was supposed to give and more two and a half weeks due to the time I’d spent procrastinating.

The day I told him was literally the biggest anti climax ever. He smiled, said ok and went back to his war invasion computer game. Well have a nice life too bucko! In a way it was what I wanted but it also kind of stung.. I guess I always knew it but suddenly there was just no denying that he literally didn’t give a damn. All these months I silently played the matyr-half angry half empathetic. “This weird poor guy without me it’s just him and his weird baby cat rattling around in this empty house” It seems all I was, was easy rent money. A fact I think he only really realised himself in the last week. In the last week, Richard suddenly hit with the revelation I was leaving, decided to dial up the crazy. Screaming into the TV till 3am, banging his fists of the table for hours, suddenly deciding to sell the computer that I always used giving me only ten minutes to save all my stuff, knowing full well that as it was his computer, I couldn’t really say anything.  Like a friend said, I should have been more scared of staying there than leaving

Hurrah to be rid of all these shitty mind games! I know that what I am about to say is a severe exaggeration but I really feel like what I experienced was so extreme, so bizarre that much like a really traumatic experience, I can’t really remember it now. After my initial victory dance after moving into my new place, I’ve settled back into relative normality and weird Richard seems more and more like a vague nightmare I once had. Thank God I’m awake

My new place is my friend Lucy’s old place. I moved in after she left so it doesn’t really feel so new. It’s basically a house that a retired couple live in and I live in the flat attached to the house. It’s less central, the tiny kitchen reminds me very much of my scummy uni halls of residence days and weird Richard has been replaced by a distant french girl (I call her Smokey Jo) who works by night, smokes by day (even though the landpeople specifically said not to) and who has only said hi 3 times in the 2 weeks I’ve been here. But it’s really ok

To be clearer, if my life were a mastercard advert it would go this this;

-Stopping the smell of smoke in my room thanks to good old Smokey Jo= two towels to shove under the gap in my door

-Tolerating the scummy kitchen= denial and a good scourer

-The crappy buses that stop at 20.30-=my trusty bus pass and a sturdy pair of legs to run for the last bus

-The vicious dogs that my landpeople own that bark and growl at me every time I walk past= their sturdy metal cages and the capacity to hold my breath as I run inside

-My old laptop on its very last legs =prayer and the cord wedged into the back

Having my own chilled space? Having a proper desk to write? Walls that aren’t crumbling? Not being woken up at 3am by inane screams, every morning hearing the tropical birds that my landlord bought twitter (no not the stupid website), landpeople that invite me over for lunch, tasting their homemade octopus curry and apple pie? Their banana trees? Being able to hear myself think? Priceless

 For everything else there’s mastercard…or in my case my crappy generic cash card

nine teachers plus one

So I’ve actually finished my original contract as an English assistant and so I think I can honestly say, now that my opinions are mainly reflective, that I worked with my fair share of pretty lame teachers. Yes the kids were difficult but the teachers were the main problem; cancelling classes without telling me, dumping oversized classes on me last minute or just their constant disregard for me.

So I worked with nine teachers, three in each school

It just so happened that they all fell into the same kind of order. Number one- A good teacher, number two- ok nice-ish person not that helpful as a teacher and slightly fake, number three- A disgrace! Talk about symmetry

First school

Number one:

The stuff real teachers are made off- A fantastic teacher, I first stayed with her when I first arrived in Reunion and she was soon known to my friends as “teacher with a cool house” due the amazing house that she built up from scratch. She is a teacher that naturally commands respect because she gives it and the only person in the school that got to know me as a person. She invited me over for dinner several times and was generally interested in what I had to say

Number two- 

Bolshy ‘un- she was a very brash teacher and on observing her with her kids I was initially slightly disgusted at her harsh overly teaching style. ..this put me off her but much like her teaching style she kind imposed her tepid friendship on me. Whereas I was quite content to just nod hello and be about my way, she would always talk to me, not about anything real but still, until eventually she chipped my armour and i didn’t mind her so much. She did put me in the shite a few times with her cancelled classes etc springing things last min but  was generally ok

Number three-

Nightmare on Elm Street!  She was definitely the worst teacher I ever worked with.  I think people’s surroundings say a lot about them. Whereas other classrooms had flags, pictures, student’s contributions; her classroom was a bare and cold as her personality. Young, pretty and…I don’t know the word…the word isn’t mean…that’s too straightforward maybe indifferent. I mean, I might as well have been invisible. It’s hard to explain…it was like even before we’d met we’d somehow already had this massive argument in another parallel universe and so the day we met there was already this pre-existing rift…this tension that I couldn’t explain. She’d hand me the keys to her classroom without looking at me. She’d never tell me where she was going to be at the end of the class so the ten minutes after each class would be dedicated to running across the school to find her. Sweet

Second school

Teacher one-

Straight to the point. This one was pretty cool and seemed to understand what it’s like to be an assistant. I made the mistake of saying I didn’t think I wanted to be a teacher or at least not know…which is very not French mentality like so I got the impression she was…maybe still is suspicious of me for having the audacity of choice. Nevertheless she’s been more or less the only one to give a damn and help me out if i had a problem. Very cool

Teacher two-

Checked out- was very nice to me, we had a few genuinely cool chats but that’s about it…at first I took one of her most difficult classes and she essentially had no support network, leaving me to drown. Very nice person…how she is as a teacher…i wouldn’t know…she was never really present!

Teacher three-

 Lamo. Initially quite nice but progressively throughout the year she just turned quite cold…which maybe got me thinking if it was something that I’d done…but how I could have offended her by sitting and eating my lunch in the staffroom while reading a book is beyond me. The deal was that I would take half of their classes for oral exercises and lesson etc. she frequently wouldn’t send down half of her class leaving me sitting in an empty class for an hour. Obviously after the class she wouldn’t ever mention it…why would she when she never usually acknowledges me anyway…another highlight was when the kids came down and asked if it was my last day…she had spread it around that it was my last day. I sent a kid back to tell her it wasn’t. In the staff room she naturally didn’t comment again

Third school

Teacher one and two

Joint contenders-I’d say joint second for both teachers although one was a prime FDG (see False do-gooder blog) which was irritating. However as teachers go, you could see students respected them and they were always nice and professional.

Teacher three

All about the Benjamin’s- was lame and blatantly was in the job for the money. She seemed to have no interest in the job and was always late. She didn’t really know of my existence and generally told me thing last minute if at all.

The plus one?

Slyviane! Lucy’s teacher. I never even worked with her but would always hear of the different things Lucy was invited to…an actual genuine do-gooder? (GDG) Crazy. Eventually I was introduced and she took me under wing and has been helping me look for work etc. She totally didn’t have to but did and was disgusted after I told about the teachers I worked with

Good thing is, I never had to work with them again!

My Inappropriate Relationship

So, my final year at uni was this intense hell-ish year filled with word counts, stressful essay deadlines and days chained to my desk. Now that I’m living on this island, working part time hours and pretty much chilling out, I feel like I’ve gone from one extreme to another

Have I ever heard of balance? When will I get it right?

All this time to chillaxing on a tropical island does give you time to think. I was especially reflective after my trip to south Africa (blog coming soon on this) I felt like since that trip I’ve had itchy feet. South Africa is this massive amazing county and to get from one end to another we had to take an internal flight for two hours. It takes about two and a half hours to get from the north to the south of Reunion and most of that is because of traffic. So I went from feeling quite free in South Africa with all its diverse quirks, nightlife  and cool vibes to a little suffocated to be back here again.

So in the midst of all this reflection, how weird is it that Italy should be calling me once again? I pretty much wrote off ever using the language during my struggle with it during my final year. So how strange that now, basically rid of distraction, Italian verbs should come swarming back sometimes pushing out the French ones I actually need. How strange that I should catch myself secretly whispering Italian sentences and that it’s only now i can finally appreciate its beauty as opposed to the burden it became last year. Memories of food, travel and Italy’s rich culture now sit on my shoulder. Maybe I should do something in Italy now?…Maybe?

It got me to thinking about what my friend Carolyn/Carri P/American said about travel and choosing where to live. It’s the idea of knowing that wherever I end up will be my choice, my responsibility…not through ignorance or indifference but because I feel I can make it mine and I can choose to live my life there. I think I see living in countries like relationships…it’s not always an instant match..more often then not it takes work and time…

I’d say first of all Britain is my steady one. I am fast realising that i will always need England in some way. I can’t say I will always feel this way but for now  it is my base and somewhere I will always need to go back to (for the cadburys and humour alone)

My first time living in France was my first time living away from home and living with new people.  It was my eye opener and gave me a sense of living in a place other than England. Another culture, another way of life, another way of thinking. Priceless…another way of life other than Rotherham!

I think..Italy would be my first love. It knocked me off my feet. I totally wasn’t expecting to fall for this country full of everything I didn’t even know I was looking for. I couldn’t tell you how and why I chose Italian but it suddenly brought me such a warm richness that will stay with me for life. My eyes were suddenly opened to real food, people who showed me quirky friendships and what a real extreme night was, people who inspired me and  who literally shaped the way I think now.  It gave me new ideas about how I wanted to live my life and the things I wanted to achieve. The grammar I learnt came alive through travel and the genuine desire to meet people. Bologna, the city of student revolution, taught me to question, how art belongs everywhere and in everything, how to get used to strong drinks and to NEVER eat pasta with a knife.

However I saw Italy’s badboy streak as I was confronted with the burden of the countries bureaucracy and its streaks of racism that would always mean I could never be anything but a foreigner. I was royally screwed over in the company I did a few part time hours for and was too foreign and linguistically inadequate to fight for my rights.

My second time in France was an experience I took for granted. Having already lived and travelled in France, I was less bowled over. But I felt youthful. I’ll always remember the joy of feeling young and the buzz of walking back at dawn, my youth as my bullet proof jacket, to the looks of disapproval as I walked back after a night of dancing through the dirty streets of Lyon. My second time in France spells crazy stupid youth

So what is reunion?  What exactly is it, knowing who I am and what I need to thrive? I need somewhere fast paced…somewhere to keep up with me, young and dynamic, nightlife till dawn,  pockets of calm in the midst of its craziness…conscious political vibes to get involved in, somewhere full of revolution!

So knowing all this, what exactly am I doing on this sleepy tropical island??  Why here…this tiny island that falls asleep at 8pm, where you need a car and lots money to do anything? (seeing as I have neither) Well, simply because…

Its beautiful

its like one of those inappropriately mismatched relationships that you know is never going to work (you know the kind of train wreak relationships you see your friends go through but you can’t say anything until they realise it for themselves…you know what I’m talking about).

No long term commitments, no “and they all lived happily ever after” its not going anywhere …i know it has a shelf life but despite all warnings I’m going to try and make it work anyway…it’s not for life… I’m just trying this life on for a bit and while I have it I’m here  to enjoy the view…

….and then i’ll keep looking

I miss….

• Dirty indie clubs

• Toast

• A cosy fireplace

• British Humour

• Knowing where you stand with people

• Feeling like I had a home

• Intimate spine chilling gigs

• Curly wurly’s when they were 15p

• My friends and family

• a good pub

• Crunchy Nut cornflakes

• Dancing like a crazy till the sunrise

• My hats

• YOU!

I’m Cold….

hurrah!

My Cat Fight with Salem

It’s 2.30am and I cannot sleep…is it because I have been napping for the majority of the day? Probably. Is it because Richard is yelling at the television? Almost certainly. But it is also because I was rudely awoken by a disturbing dream. In the dream Salem the cat (you know the  cool cat from Sabrina the Teenage witch) is my best friend and combat and martial arts teacher (Naturally) Anyway, so he is teaching me the moves but it’s really hard and he’s so strong, suddenly turns evil and starts trying to kill me! I woke myself up when I realised my head was shaking under the strain of trying to pin the cat down!

What the hell was that about?

Could it be anything to do with the cold war I’ve been having with Richard’s stray cat? It started sniffing around the place a few months ago and although I’m not a pet person… I acknowledge that my heart is not completely made out of stone and so we both would feed it once in a while. Fast forward a few months and it has its own bowl, a reserved place on Richard’s lap (disturbing) and is officially Richard’s new best friend/baby. This really wouldn’t bother me if I didn’t have to hear Richard’s attempts to “communicate” with the cat by a series of what can only be described as mock meows, baby talk and high pitched squeals.

So now this cat thinks he owns the joint, sitting on chairs, his claw marks all over the walls, there first thing in the morning lying all over the kitchen table. We both look at each other with an equal sense of distain. I think Evil Salem thinks he has to compete with me for Richard’s affection…if only I could convey that he can have it all. I just don’t want him eyeing up my tuna pasta.

The latest mishap is that this cat managed to break its tail..how and when is beyond me. For a good while Richard managed to conveniently ignore this and shift himself of responsibility leaving this already weird cat with what looked like an abused pipe cleaner for a tail. A few tortuous weeks later the wonky end of the tail has been disposed off leaving a raw weeping stub of a tail. As if this wasn’t disgusting enough, the cat seems to like to wipe his weeping tale against every possible surface. Richard turns a blind eye while a little piece of me dies inside…If that wasn’t bad enough now the mite is getting into my dreams?!

How can one furball  cause me so much irritation?!  (hm I genuinely can’t say whether that last sentence is directed at the cat or Richard..interesting)

The “White Tent”

So anyone who has had a conversation with me lately will know how disappointed I am by the fact that I don’t really know many Reunnionnais people here. I know a few French people but most of the friends that I spend time with are foreign. While I realise this could seem closed and small minded on my part, this is really not from want of trying. The proof? The visual art exposition I found myself at yesterday night. A visual interactive exposition called “La Théorie d’Antoine- Extension” which meant that I had to leave my bag outside and step into what can only be described as a room made out of sheets…kind of like a white rectangular tent.

Inside were 4 dancers/artists all dressed in white and a chair in which they pushed me around and swung my legs. Through the course of this experimental session the four of them proceeded to carry me sky high, each dancer taking a limb and turning my clockwise like a twirling star in the sky. Afterwards I was led to a makeshift door (again made of cloth) with just a hand sticking out…feeling very Alice in wonderland-esqe, I took the hand and was led into a dark room where I was taken through the same procedure only now in sheer darkness. As this finished I was led back out into the terrace to view the rest of the exposition ( N.B this clearly very artsy experiment was of course  punctuated by my hysterical shrill laughter and me saying ( “pardon…oops pardon” every time the poor suckers had to lift me. Classy.)

The whole concept was centred on the role of choreography and how each new person who entered the tent played a role in this dance sequence without actually doing anything. All very high brow, all very crudités and posh dips. I bought a pretentious book about it so hopefully by the end of the year I’ll be able to fully explain the theories behind it! (Give me a break it’s French pretentiousness at its best…I need to take it in bite size chunks)

The exposition, however interesting, was overshadowed by something else. I was there surrounded by seemingly interesting people but I had never felt so invisible. I put myself out there, I came by myself (never an easy feat) specifically to avoid being in a closed “foreign group”) with an open mind ready to meet people.

But I basically didn’t talk to anyone. I’ve never silently pleaded someone/anyone to talk to me like I did that night (even the scruffy guy, walking barefoot with  his shirt barely buttoned, I would have gladly talked to) Now  if I was rocking back and forth in the corner mumbling to myself I’d have understood- totally not the chilled come and chat vibe required. But I’d like to think that I’m a fairly sociable person and all I was looking for was for someone to throw me a bone; eye contact, a smile or a nod…something to cling onto…a hook, if you will, so that I could reel myself into the start of a conversation. But I got absolutely nothing.. What else could I do but obviously eat the free food?  At least to give my hands something to do except awkwardly pick my nails.  It was so depressing. I kept waiting for the silver lining (free wine?!) but as I left I realised there really wasn’t one.

But from my awkward point of view came a more difficult observation. Standing there in my isolated corner, stripped of friends to distract me, I saw a terrace full of white faces…with a few exceptions (me and two or so others) so this is where the “culturally superior” come and play?! Pierre Bourdieu would have had a field day! I suddenly felt really uncomfortable about the Metro (French)/Creole divide I’ve always known about but never truly acknowledged here. I just felt disappointed that this kind of event seems unspokenly reserved for the minority and not for everyone to appreciate….  St leu, St gilles and St Pierre are places where there is more of a metro population but not the business hard faced streets of St Denis. But for that night I just felt so out of place…man it knocked me off my feet as I watched these people clink their wine and nibble on their sticks on cheese.  Conversations with my friend Lucy came swarming into my mind as I remembered her talking about her predominately white prestigious tennis club (black waiters work in the on site restaurant I’ve noticed) I see Reunion as this blend of ethnicities I never said or assumed it was perfect, far from it, but this could have easily been rural France.

I was forced to remember that this is in fact a modern day colony. Reunion is an island in the middle of the Indian Ocean on the other side of Africa. But it is technically owned by France.  As the connotations of slavery and “educating” colonies are thankfully no more  I’ve always seen this as neither a positive nor negative but as an event in history too deep rooted  to change especially considering all the positive and unique treasures Reunion holds as a consequence. But this made me feel uncomfortable. Are the elite playing at living on this tropical island while the rest of us watch? They have no profound right except the colonial power of the country that they happen to be born into…and in that case does me living here, as a European citizen, make me just as bad? I hate the underlying rift that can poke its head here. But standing invisible in an all too familiar scene that wouldn’t look too out of place in Europe (so why an African island?) I was forced to wonder why doesn’t this art belong to everyone? Especially on an island famed for its all encompassing acceptance of “métissage” and the beauty that mixed races and cultures can bring.

I left early, pushed out somehow of this “white tent” exhibition. Two minutes away from the gallery I was back into the streets of St Denis, dragging my feet with a slight buzz from the wine I downed when I really realised that wasn’t going to talk to anyone that night and that none one was going to talk to me.  Back into the ethnical melting pot I was temporarily reassured by the fact that racial diversity still does exist here. However I am still left with a sense of unease about what I felt in that gallery as a stranger, foreigner and a minority and what Reunion as a “French” island truly means….

Small talk

In Réunion they have this wicked way of greeting each other. It’s typically done by the “yuffs” but it’s still generally done by friends. Two people touch fists and then hit their palms together…It’s the French prince of Belair with a tropical island backdrop!

But the thing I really like about this is what it means… two people can do this hand gesture and not even have to speak…for example on a crowded bus I see so many people do this gesture and literally stand side by side without saying anything in a seemingly comfortable silence. I like to think that what it means is,

“hello, yes we know each other, you know you’re cool… I know I’m cool …there’s  no need to make a big deal out of it… lets just chill out”

Brilliant!

It makes me think about all the time I waste huffing and puffing over small talk. And all the time and energy I use saying everything and nothing in a language that doesn’t really belong to me. I think I’ve pretty much got it down in english… it goes

“Hey you alright?, oh look at the weather”…*blah blah blah…some amusing tale that entertains and equally gets me out of the conversation* Coolio. DONE

But here? And in French? It’s a totally different kettle of fish.

I’m in a gospel choir…yes that’s right, a black girl in a gospel choir…excuse me while I attempt to shirk from the glow of the obvious cliché. Anyway the point is that I am in the alto secton…within the altos are these really cool girls, you know, who are just funny and generally a good laugh. I see them as the kind of rebels of the choir…always laughing and joking when they shouldn’t be. They are funny…really funny and I just find myself just kind of nodding mutely…as this weird foreigner who can only understand and  not participate

Don’t get me wrong…I’m comfortable in French. I’m reluctant to say fluent although I guess I am (eek!) hm… maybe. I’m probably fluent in a way that means if I don’t know a word I can get around it…but obviously not fluent like an actual French person. To put it another way I’d say on a good day it takes a good whole minute before a frenchie would realise I’m foreign…SCORE! (It is the little victories after all)

But the point is that they don’t teach wit, sass or confidence in French at uni… and if they did I missed the module. So when these girls are bouncing off each other, doing imitations of people i’ve never heard of and messing around with word play all I can do is silently smile while inwardly cursing how irrelevant my 12 years of French education feels

What did all those nights revising verb endings and dreaded relative pronouns mean if all I am reduced to is a silent foreigner rid of any personality?! It’s almost like a second adolescence. Silent and brooding on the outside while screaming on the inside (How very emo of me) I feel so foreign as they do all the things I would be doing with my friends at home. The annoying thing is that in English I think we’d really get on…instead of the tepid acquaintance we have now…I think they’d actually like me…but as it stands I don’t know how to show them…is that really sad?

GAr! (new word)

The Fine Art Of the Bisou

Ok so the politics that go behind the bisou, at least from a foreigner’s point of view, is an awkward mind boggle.

By “bisous” I mean the trademark kisses planted on the cheek. A trait that Europeans, but more specifically,  the French are so well known for.

It is not unusual for a person to walk into a room full of 20 people and give them all bisous one by one…(believe me the noise can be a bit grating at times) Er..what exactly am i supposed to do?  Nine times out a ten I don’t know all these people. Although you are not technically supposed to “faire les bises”‘ for people you don’t know, people sometimes do it do anyway. Unfortunately this means that introductions are an embarrassing combo of half handshakes and cautionary bisou attempts until we muddle through to an appropriate greeting.

Oh cursory head nod how i miss you so! it acknowledges everyone, eliminates small talk with the people you don’t really like/know and then you can get straight to talking with people you actually can into the room to talk to. It is ironically less fake in my view.

For example, take me at work, I mean, as the slight loner that no one knows…how exactly am I going to go around air kissing (preferable in this heat) everyone? And by everyone I mean all these strangers I semi-dislike and or am extremely indifferent about?

In my sad observation I have noticed that there are four types of bisous

- The Absolutely Fabulous-esque air kiss (preferable in this heat) very scweetie dah-ling

-The cheek to cheek “bisou”- this says I don’t really like you, this is just a formalitiy… I’m checking someone else’s outfit at the same time…who’s next?

- The half lip, half smacker variety- Now there is some lip sensation on the cheek here, but not uncomfortably so. The more friendlier/common kind of bisou in my opinion

-The full on lip to both cheeks smacker- Done in my experience by either sweaty slightly pervy men or sweet well meaning old ladies who are probably trying to maintain it’s original significance…you know the good old days when people actually liked each other.

The whole kissing decorum frankly baffles me. I think my relcutances comes partly from British reserve and partly the fact that I am quite shy at heart. Don’t get me wrong there’s nothing wrong with a good old bisou (the 3rd/4th variety) with someone you genuinely like but how am I going to go up to the sour faced vice principal who’s idea of an acknowledgment is to look me up and down while having a conversation with someone else?! Excuse me if I don’t get the overwhelming urge to give her a bisous like we’re long lost lovers! (  she’s blatently a type 2 bisou-er) It can be fake and so awkward.

But you know what, caution to the wind…when in Rome right? I am in the midst of this culture; I should get on board right?

Wrong. This “open-minded” approach has also backfired.

I was in a bar with some friends and was introduced to a large group of people my friends knew who then sat down on the opposite side of the table. I braced myself after having given myself the whole “get in with the culture” prep talk earlier that day and went in for the lunge. It was only as a I was half way through leaning/bisou-ing that I realised how stupid I felt  and how  they hadn’t actually looked like they were going to bisou me in the first place  as we didn’t know each other (but some people still do it anyway! someone tell me how a girl is supposed to know?!) Also they were that little bit too far across the table so I was literally lunging and kissing (type 3 thank you very much) totally unnecessary for strangers I’d never see again…oh the shame!

I left the bar a few hours later and, still wearing the shame of the earlier bisou incident, I held back when being introduced to another group of people who all looked at me shiftily as I didn’t initiate the bises…I literally cannot win!

So what to do? Will I ever get it right? Can I not be selective? I don’t want to appear rude…really I don’t…the problem is just that I am just that little bit too foreign for this.

Right. From now on…bisous are only for my friends…simple.

si seulement….