Despite what Netflix’s latest show ‘Emily in Paris’ (EIP) may lead you to believe, working in Paris is a lot less glamorous than one might expect. Let’s rewind to 2018.
There I was, a naive, excitable university student on her year abroad, ready to take on the enchanting City of Lights. I may not have had Lily Collins’ très à la mode wardrobe at my disposal but I certainly had her gusto. With this unstoppable feeling fuelling me towards the southern end of Paris, I soon found myself pulling up to my accommodation for the next 6 months. Upon entering the house, I immediately felt like I'd been transported right back to my first year university days in halls. Students from all over the world were sprawled across sofas and chatting away in each other’s rooms. I knew at once I was going to feel right at home.
Something I feel was majorly and perhaps intentionally left out of ‘EIP’ was the infamous Paris Metro. What greeted me on my first commute to work was a cesspool of sweaty commuter bodies stuffed into each carriage like sardines. While some might be disgusted by the idea of getting up close and personal with someone’s armpit, I was oddly thrilled by the whole experience. I felt like a proper Parisian, taking everybody’s incessant groaning and body odour in my stride. Soon enough I arrived at my stop in the heart of the 10th arrondissement where I exploded out of the train like a bat out of (literal) hell, simultaneously relieved yet intoxicated by the experience.
By sheer dumb luck, I managed to land the first internship I applied for in Paris in a sector of work I knew I'd get to fully stretch my creative muscles; copywriting and journalism. Now, this wasn’t a regular job. This was a cool job.
The office itself provided a stark contrast to the murky depths of the metro, being laden with sunlight and to my surprise, a menagerie of animals. I’m talking dogs, cats, and even a cockatoo named Hector! Once again, I seemed to have landed on my feet. I met the rest of the interns and my new co-workers who were all an absolute delight! In fact, the only co-worker who I seemed to disagree with was Hector who took it upon himself to take permanent residence on my head using my laptop as his personal toilet. A character-building experience I told myself.
Weeks went by and a routine was soon developed. Wine Wednesdays at Les Fontaines soon became a staple part of our week, along with the inevitable hangover on Thursdays (but we won’t talk about that). Friday nights were for relaxing by the Seine with the cheapest bottle of wine we could find and the weekend was spent recovering and exploring the incredible sights the city had to offer, of which there was never a shortage. A few favourites of mine for those wishing to go to Paris included the Canal St Martin, the Tuileries Garden, and anywhere in Le Marais.
Despite often being referred to as the City of Love, my romantic encounters in Paris were underwhelming and short-lived. However, definitely something for the year abroad bucket list. The same cannot be said for EIP who seemed to meet a different man every day of the week who inevitably became besotted with her. Fair play to the girl is all I can say. As much as I would love to divulge these amorous rendezvous’ with you, I will have to remain tight-lipped or as I prefer to think, mysterious...just in case my mother decides to read this.
To finish off, a little cautionary tale if you will. Regardless of what I have told you about so far, it wasn’t all macaroons and rainbows. At the risk of sounding dramatic, I was in fact mugged...twice! One time while on the metro which was completely out of my control and once whilst drunkenly gobbling down chicken nuggets in the McDonalds on Rue de Rivoli. I blame wine Wednesdays. Thankfully all that was taken was my phone and what little remained of my dignity. A word to the wise...keep your nuggets close and your phones closer!
Comments