In the beginning...

Today marks the day that I left Canada 12 years ago. I can't believe I've been gone this long - where did all these years go? At times it feels as if that day was yesterday, but sometimes I am well aware of how much time has gone by. If I think back to the first few years after I left certain moments are foggy - I try to reach out to grasp certain memories and they just slip out of my fingers. Sometimes I feel that I remember the part of my life before I left Canada more vividly than my life just after moving abroad. There are some things, however, that I'll never forget.

I don't really celebrate my France anniversary. My transition to France was easier than what I experienced during my first two years abroad. At the time I moved to France permanently in September 2009, my French was pretty decent, I was moving to be with my now-husband, I knew the city (Bordeaux) that I was moving to having already lived here during my studies and I had the experience of living and moving to a few European countries under my belt.

My parents raised me to live in our Italian-Canadian community in Ottawa. I was supposed to marry an Italian-Canadian electrician, have a bunch of children, work in an government office as a secretary and live within a 10km radius of them. They taught me a lot about manners, generosity and hard work, but they did not teach me about the world. 

The Den Nation that left Canada in 2002 was a very different person to the one that arrived in France in 2009. I was young and naive, I wasn't in a stable relationship, I didn't have a degree and I didn't have any world and life experience. It was my first time on my own, working a full-time job, living completely independent of my parents.

I can now say that I learned more in my first two years abroad than in any other year afterwards. I basically spent the first few years of my life abroad just floating along. I wouldn't change anything, though, even though there were some moments that have marked my life forever.

It was my first day at work at a new job in Belfast, Northern Ireland. I worked as an audio typist way back then. I remember having a difficult time trying to understand everyone's accent. I would listen to those tapes over and over again, trying to grasp the words that I was hearing. It was around 2 PM on that day and I was typing away. All of a sudden, an alarm went off over the loudspeaker. Everyone got up without saying anything and shuffled into the hallway. "No, you are not allowed to take the lift, you must take the stairs," said my colleagues. "What's going on?" I asked. "Bomb scare," they said, without even a hint of fear in their voices. 

An anonymous caller had called into the police station to report a bomb that had been left in the open car park of the building next to ours. This was what normally happened, at least back then this was what happened. An anonymous caller would call in to report a bomb and the police would go in and blow up the bomb with their robots. At this point, 4 years after the peace agreement was concluded, terrorists usually planted their bombs with the intention of not killing anyone; they just wanted everyone to know that they were still there and that the fight was not over. Most of the calls coming in to report a bomb, however, were prank calls. In these cases, the police still had to respond and evacuate everyone from the neighbouring areas.

Only this time there actually was a bomb outside. The police blew it up as I was going down the stairs. I make it sound like it was a catastrophe, but thankfully the bomb was very small and the police knew what they were doing - the Northern Ireland police force is one of the most experienced police forces in the world when it comes to terrorism. They knew exactly what they were doing. 

Honestly, it wasn't the bomb that shocked me the most, it was the recording in the stairwell and everyone's reaction. People were laughing and joking like it was nothing, even after the bomb had been exploded by the police force. And then there was that recording. The entire time I was going down those stairs, I kept hearing a recording of a voice telling everyone that there was a bomb scare and that they had to evacuate the building using the stairwell. This is what really shocked me - there was actually a recording for bomb scares instead of a live voice! And that voice, it sounded like the man was smiling as he was making the recording, and I fully expected him to exclaim, "Have a nice day!" at any moment. 

I realised at that moment how blasé the local population had become about bomb warnings. I felt very sad for them. And I realised that things must have been very, very bad for them to react like this. It was at that moment that I started to lose some of my naivety and realised how messed up the world was sometimes. 

I was 19 years old.

A few weeks later I was shopping with my ex-boyfriend's mother. I saw some toy water guns on the supermarket shelves. I instantly thought back to my childhood in Canada: running in the park on hot summer days squirting each other with those plastic water guns. Hiding behind some bushes and then jumping out when your friend was close and squirting them in the face. "Gotcha!" Those were the days before internet...

This is the conversation I had with the mother: 

Me: Did your boys play with toy guns? (thinking that I would get an affirmative reply)

Mother: Oh, no, never. I never let my children play with any toy guns. Never. It was strictly forbidden. 

Me, dumbfounded: Why not? 

Mother: A soldier could have easily mistaken them for an aggressor and shot them. Sometimes when we ate dinner I would see the soldiers standing outside our kitchen window staring at us eating and pointing guns at us. There's no way I would let my children play with any toy guns.

What are you supposed to say in response to that?

At just past the two year mark I almost went back to Canada. I was living in London at that point and had just went though a breakup. That was the only time I ever seriously considered going back, for good. It was May and I was half-heartedly looking for a job, having just arrived in London. I spent a few weeks going over it, back and forth, again and again - Should I stay or should I go? I even looked at flights and one day I found a one way ticket direct to Ottawa for around 250 pounds. My hand hovered over the mouse, ready to hit the Purchase button. I pulled my hand away. I put it back on the mouse. My hand quivered. I thought:  

Just stay the summer and then see. Have some fun, this is London, for goodness sake! Find a temp job, meet some people and have some picnics. Come on, just pull your hand away. Enjoy summer in London and then reevaluate the situation.

I pulled my hand away and walked out of that internet café to greet a glorious London summer. I didn't leave at the end of that summer and here I am 12 years later, married to a great man, travelling and living the life that I dreamed of having when I was a teenager. Yes, I really am lucky - I am (almost) living the dream that I had for myself back when I arrived in 2002.

I am so thankful that I never hit Purchase and pulled my hand away.

Here's to the next couple of years!

When just speaking Italian is not enough

I originally wanted to talk about Easter in Italy, but this story has been on my mind for the past few hours.

I spent the summer of 2006 in my father's town in Sicily. It was a great summer: the beach was great, I hung out with Italians practicing my Italian all day, Italy won the World Cup, I ate some great food, etc., etc. One thing from that summer, more sinister than I could even imagine, will always live on in my mind.

The thing you should understand about this town is that there are some people that don't know how to speak Italian. No, that wasn't a typo, there are people here that really don't know how to speak Italian. This is one of those places in Italy where the local dialect is alive and well. Of course all of the young people can speak Italian, but there are a lot of older people that never learned to speak Italian. Back when they were young Italian children weren't required to finish primary school and they spoke in dialect at home. One of my mother's aunts never even finished the 2nd grade. They understand Italian, though, from watching TV, but they just can't speak it because everyone else around them speaks dialect so there was never any reason to learn how to speak Italian. Speaking in dialect, however, is not only limited to elderly people. My cousins are both university graduates, under 40 years old and they speak in dialect all the time.

So if you are a foreigner learning Italian and you go to one of these places it is a bit disappointing when you realise that you still have difficulties communicating even though your Italian is pretty good. I accept this difficulty as a challenge and usually just let everyone go on in Sicilian even though I can only understand half of what is being said. You feel proud when you realise that you have understood them and can respond. I just try to tell myself that the local dialect is part of their heritage and it would be awful if I made them speak in Italian (and besides, like I said, some of them don't know how to speak Italian).

One evening at the dinner table my cousin and her husband, who are both teachers, were talking about a student. This student's father came from Sicily, but the mother was from Bergamo up north near Milan (I didn't know this then, all I knew was that she was from the north). Even though all the conversation was in dialect, I understood that something terrible had happened to them. One day the student's brother was playing outside with another little boy (they were around 4 years old). They wandered off onto the neighbour's property where there was a well. The brother climbed onto the well and fell in. When the mother realised what was happening she jumped into the well to save her son. Unfortunately, she was too late to save him and she almost drowned herself. The paramedics had to resuscitate her when they arrived on the scene of the accident.

This is not the end of their horror. The family tried to prosecute the neighbour as not covering your well or filling it up is illegal. They were unable to do so, however. Why? The neighbour was one the leaders of the mafia. There was nothing they could do - he was completely protected and the family, unfortunately, was not.

This is the deepest, darkest side of Italy. (No, I am not saying that the mafia is in every nook and cranny of Sicily - there is so much more to Sicily than the mafia and I hate that everyone automatically thinks of the mafia when they think of Sicily because of all the American mafia movies.)

Lemon, olive and cactus trees framing such a beautiful setting. Author of photo: Den Nation.

A few days later my cousin and her husband talk about going to meet up with a student and her mother for ice cream after dinner. As usual, the conversation was in dialect and I completely missed that we would be meeting up with the same family that had lost their son in the well accident.

So there I am sitting in front of the mother, this person who had suffered so much in her lifetime, and I started to ask her questions about where she came from. It isn't too often that you come across someone from the north living in the south. I felt that she was almost as much a foreigner down there as I was. So I went on and on, asking her about her experiences in the south. I had no idea that this was the mother that had lost her son in the accident. I felt my cousin pressing hard on my foot and couldn't understand what the problem was. I went on, "So why do you say that you wish you had never moved down here?" My cousin started to hit me under the table. Ok, maybe I was getting a bit too personal, but the mother seemed so willing to talk to me that I thought that my questions weren't that invasive. I quickly rephrased my question, "I mean you must miss your family up there so much, that must be what you mean." I stopped asking her questions and encouraged her to ask me about Canada, which she was more than happy to do.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" my cousin said when we got in the car. "What, what did I say?" I responded. "You know that she lost her son in the well accident, why were you asking her all those insensitive questions?" Oh, no. I know it wasn't my fault and it wasn't my cousin's fault, but I still felt guilty. My cousin had forgotten that I did not completely understand everything when they spoke in dialect (she doesn't even realise she is speaking in dialect when she does) as I was usually able to put two and two together and I didn't want to bother my family at the dinner table by asking them to interpret what they had said into Italian.

This really reminded me that speaking Italian well is not always enough. In some communities, the local dialect is engrained into the local culture. You cannot really live and be integrated into these communities unless you can understand the local dialect. I met some foreigners down south who could speak the local dialect better than they could speak Italian.

I'll never forget the woman who lost her son in the well accident. Things have slowly been changing in Sicily, but I wonder if they have changed enough? The accident happened around 20 years ago. Does the neighbour have as much authority today as he had back then? I like to think that this is not the case, but things can't change that quickly. I hope the well can be closed one day.

The French brunch, or rather, the provincial brunch

Over the past few years I've noticed that France has been embracing the idea of having brunch at the weekends. Well, they think they are.

One thing I should make clear from the get-go is that province is not Paris. In Paris brunch is everywhere and French people there seem to at least have some idea of what brunch is about (hint, this is what this post is about). One thing that bothers me about Paris, though, is that brunch can be really expensive there. It bothers me that brunch is something trendy there and the prices match this idea. I know that the quality of the brunches is probably better here, but I feel that it's almost as if Paris were trying to recreate a 'perfect' brunch. The brunches I know (Canada, UK, Denmark, Germany, etc.) don't care about appearance and are not trying to live up to an image. From my memory, the most expensive brunch platter at my favourite brunch restaurant in Ottawa costs 12 or 13 dollars plus tax. I've seen some brunches in Paris for 30 euros!

To give you an idea of what I consider brunch and what I eat when I have brunch in my home:
-eggs
-crispy bacon
-baked beans (since living in the UK I am hooked on baked beans)
-I would love to have British-style sausages as well, but the only place in France that seems to have these sausages is Marks and Spencer in Paris so no sausages for me here in Bordeaux - any ideas, anybody?
-a fresh baguette
-viennoiseries (croissant, pain au chocolat, pain aux raisins, brioche)
-a plate of freshly-cut fruit (if it's not cut people won't eat it - my platter of fruit always disappears if it is cut)
-pancakes served with my stash of Canadian maple syrup
-tea of coffee (no red wine)

Here is my experience with what French people (well, my experiences are based on what I have seen in Bordeaux) call "the brunch".

A few years ago our friends invited us over for brunch in Bordeaux on a Sunday morning. We were told to come over for 11AM so I thought nothing was amiss. For me, 11AM is a normal time to eat brunch on Sunday.

My husband is French, but before meeting me he had never had a brunch before. His idea of what a brunch was about was developed in Canada, where I showed him what we had for brunch.

We asked our hosts what we should bring and they told us that we didn't need to bring anything. We said we would bring over fresh bread and croissants, thinking that they would take care of the savoury part of the brunch since that part of a brunch needs to be cooked (eggs, bacon, etc.). Our hosts response when we told them that we would bring croissants and bread: long pause and then, "Well, if you want to." I thought that was kind of strange of them to say that, but I was just so excited to be having brunch that I brushed it off.

We arrived at their place and were met by our friend at the door who told us that her boyfriend was in the shower. I thought, "OK, he must be finishing up, he'll come in a minute." We came in and sat down at the table and I thought it was strange that nothing was ready - the table wasn't set at all. We laid the croissants and bread down on the table and chatted for about 20 minutes until her boyfriend finally emerged. We kept on chatting (it was 11.35 at this point) and I started to feel really hungry. I wondered when they were going to pull the eggs and bacon out and start to cook them. Ten minutes later I asked them if I could make some eggs with bacon for everyone. Their response, "Well, sure, I can cook that for you." For me, not for them.

So my husband and I had ham (they didn't have any bacon) and eggs while our hosts watched us eat. I ate a croissant after I had finished my eggs with ham all the while my hosts were watching us eat. I just kept thinking, "What is going on, why aren't they eating?"

By the time I finished, it was just past midday. I had eaten enough. And this is when I heard a bell ringing and our hosts announced...

"OK, yes, the brunch is ready!"

I thought, "What the hell is going on?" I had just eaten the brunch!

That's when I saw our hosts get up and take a dish of roasted duck, potatoes and vegetables out of the oven (a tea towel hanging in front of the oven had masked the light of the oven so I had no idea something was baking in there). My mouth just hung open while they bought the huge steaming dish over and put it on the table. "Here's the brunch!", they announced with excitement. "What the...," was all I was thinking.

"So I was thinking that we would pair this up with this wine from the Languedoc region," said our hosts. The alcohol content in that bottle was nearly 15%!

It was then that I discovered the truth. Our hosts thought that a brunch was a normal lunch meal that people ate a bit earlier than usual on the weekends. In Bordeaux lunch is served at 1PM on Sunday or later (in the north of France people tend to eat earlier). Of course there is not that much difference between eating at 12.15 like what we were doing and 1PM. Our hosts, however, figured that since brunch didn't involve an apéro that 12.15 was a real brunch time (this is true as if we had had an apéro starting at 12.30 we wouldn't have been eating the meal before 1.30).

After that, I swore I had learnt my lesson. But guess what? I fell into the trap again...

A few months after that first brunch I was invited to another one by my neighbour. This brunch was to be held in a hall as it was a club that was holding the event. So there were at least 50 people there.

Just like with the first brunch, we asked our neighbour what we should bring. We offered to bring bread and croissants and our neighbour said, "Oh yes, nobody else has offered to bring that." That was my first warning. At this time, I has this feeling where this was heading, but I still believed that maybe my first experience was a one-off, that only our first hosts didn't really know what a brunch was.

We brought our German friends, who were visiting for a few days, to the brunch with us. When we got to the hall at 11AM, we were in for a shock: they were firing up the grills to cook meat and everyone had brought a dish to share (salads, rice, potatoes, vegetables - all the normal lunch sides). It was a barbeque! We put the viennoiseries on the table and people made remarks like, "Oh, that's interesting, they brought viennoiseries to the brunch!" I had been tricked again. The entire time we were there we kept hearing people say, "What a great brunch this is!" Our German friends were in just as much shock as we were.

Now I know the truth about brunch in Bordeaux and why people kept saying how wonderful they thought my brunches were when I invited them over. It's because they believed that an early lunch was a brunch. They don't understand that brunch involves light cooking and that dishes are not elaborate like the duck I ate with our friends. Do younger French people in Bordeaux have a better grasp of the concept of brunch? Our friends and most of the people at the club brunch have never lived in northern Europe so they haven't been exposed to the 'real brunch'. I still wonder, though, where these Bordelais get their ideas as to what constitutes a brunch? Any ideas?

What this blog is about/not about

I have finally gotten around to writing a little blurb for new readers about what this blog is about/not about. Feel free to read for yourselves in the tab above.

Why I don't want to live in Paris (and bonus: why I am jealous of people living in Paris)

Paris... ah... Paris... everyone wants to live there, right? 

I fear the day my husband comes home and announces that he has a wonderful opportunity to work and live in Paris. Because I know that I could not say no as a position in Paris would be the cream of the crop for him. Thankfully, we think it will never happen because competition in his field is fierce in Paris.

So why don't I want to live there? 

After my London days, I knew that I was not made for big city living. London is great to visit, but to be honest, I didn't really like my time there. I didn't hate it, but I certainly didn't love it. After London I moved to Wales (a planned move) and I really enjoyed living there. Yes, I realise what I just said - I left a buzzing international centre to go and live in a small rainy city (no, it doesn't rain that much in London, it's just grey all the time), a city which other than a few foreigners passing through for a few months, had a very limited international scene and a city which had a high population of working-class families. Only 3 hours by train from London, yet a world apart. A world which I loved. 

The beach in my Welsh 'ugly, lovely town' as it is known to the locals. I used to come down here in between classes at uni just to breathe in the ocean air. Author of photo: Den Nation. 

The distances are too far apart for me in Paris. I need a less stressful place, preferably one where I can cycle everywhere. I would hate to be chained to the Paris metro and RER, a source of daily stress for some people living in Paris. Another thing that bothers me about the distances is that people are so sick of being suck in transport during the day and often live so far out of the centre that planning an evening out with friends is very difficult. I have friends (mutual friends) that see other less now that they are living in Paris than they did when they lived in separate cities in Province. I like how I can just call up people in Bordeaux and invite them over for the same day or invite them out for that evening and they'll come. 

A café at Gare de Lyon. Author of photo: Den Nation.

No, I don't really have a problem with Parisians. After all, Bordeaux is not known as being the most friendly city in France and I don't blame Parisians for being a bit unfriendly sometimes - I think I would be if I had worked hard all day slaving in an office and had to fight with other commuters for 2-3 hours trying to get home to my family. 

And then there are the house prices. There is no way we could ever afford to buy a place there. Owning our own place is important to us and even though my husband is highly educated and has a "job for life", he could never by an apartment in Paris (unless it was a shoebox). And it's not just housing prices which are higher, eating out and buying food at the supermarket costs more too. The difference in price between living here in Bordeaux and in Paris would not be covered with the 100 euros more a month my husband would receive for moving to Paris.

A statue of Josephine Bonaparte in Rueil-Malmaison, just outside of Paris.
Author of photo: Den Nation.

Not to mention the fact that I don't feel safe there. Pickpocketing is getting to be a real problem there as is aggression in the RER. I know that I could be attacked in Bordeaux or anywhere else for that matter and there is such a thing as common sense and intuition, but I feel that some parts of Paris are really dangerous and my chances of being a victim of aggression are higher in Paris. My husband's colleague, who used to work in Paris, had to walk through a 'danger zone' every day to get to work from the RER station. He would arrive with nothing on him but an old mobile phone in his pocket, his Navigo card and 20 euros in his pocket. What were the 20 euros for? In case he got mugged. I asked him why he bothered carrying any money at all and his answer? "If I didn't have some money on me, they surely would have beaten me up." 

And there's something about living in a tourist city that just doesn't fit my personality. Bordeaux has a lot of wine tourists, but people choose to come here - they come for a reason. A lot of tourists in Paris only go to Paris just because it's Paris. It's not a real reason for not wanting to live in Paris, but I can't explain it, living in a touristy place would bother me. 

Rueil-Malmaison. Author of photo: Den Nation.

Ok, so I've given some pretty convincing answers. But... there is another side to this... 

Things I wish I could bring to Province

1. The transport system. Yes, I know I complained about this, but this is, hands down, the number one thing I would import here. Bordeaux's trams are really elegant, clean and safe, but they are some of the slowest snails on earth. Problem with the tram? Well, it's not uncommon to see huge groups of people walking all together from the centre of the city to the university (a 30-minute walk for the science building, more for the others). If there is a problem with the tram, you are stuck. There is no option to walk to the next stop and wait for the next tram. You're only option is to get out and walk or try to find a bus to take. 

2. I don't really like Roissy, Paris's airport. The airport facilities are great, but half the times when I have a flight arriving there the plane goes around the airport for half an hour 'looking for a place to park because someone's in my spot'. Anyways, despite my complaining, I really wish I could have access to the wide variety of flights that living in Paris could offer me. I hate always having to pass through Paris because there are limited direct flights from Bordeaux. Not to mention the fact that getting to Bordeaux's airport with public transport is another snail ride. At least it only costs 1.40 euros (less if you buy a 10-trip card). 

3. A wide variety of Asian and other world cuisine restaurants. And at decent prices too. Sometimes I look at the prices of take-away menus that we receive and it shocks me so much. We try and wait for trip to Paris to take advantage of all the yummy food on offer there. Yes, there is something that is cheaper in Paris (other than flights). Slim pickings here in Bordeaux. 

4. Lower unemployment rate. I don't think I need to say more about this. 

5. Expat groups. Well, it's no surprise that there are not so many long-term expats here in Bordeaux. They are here... somewhere. 

6. I'm not really crazy about museums and culture so I'll won't really talk about that except to say that don't come here specifically for museums unless you want to go to wine museums. 

So I like to visit Paris, but I also like to leave Paris. I guess you could say that I like it in small doses. My visits there have greatly diminished over the past few years, but I am excited to be going back there next month for a visit. Bring on the Asian food!

My voting hall of shame

Voting is a topic often discussed by expats. Should residents (non-citizens) be able to vote in elections taking place in the countries they reside in? Should citizens living abroad be allowed to vote 'back home'? Should people who gain citzenship via Jus Sanguinis have the right to vote? There are no easy answers to these questions. 

The last time I voted was in the year 2000 back when I was still living in Canada. I had just turned 18 and was led into the voting booth by my father to vote in the general election. I had no idea what I was doing and didn't really have an solid understanding of Canadian politics. That was the first and last time I ever voted. 

I no longer have any voting rights in Canada. It is somewhat surprising that Canadians living abroad lose their right to vote after only 5 years out of Canada. So I lost my right to vote years ago. 

Montreal during winter. Author of photo: Den Nation.

In my case, I agree that I shouldn't have the right the vote. I am totally cut off from Canadian politics and I am barely further than where I was at 18 and voting for the first time. I have no idea what is going on there. Back in 2009 I noticed some of my Canadian friends were talking about a certain Stephen Harper on Facebook. This is shocking - I had no idea he was the prime minister of Canada and I had no idea that the Conservatives had taken the power from the Liberals. I started to think about it and I realised that it had been years that I had had no idea who the prime minister of my own country was. I couldn't believe it. 

Expats like me shouldn't be allowed to vote in elections 'back home'. I do think that maybe 5 years is too short a period, but in my case, it was all it took for my home country to fade to the background. On the other hand, there are many expats who are completely up-to-date with what is happening back in their 'home country'. I think they should be allowed to vote. The problem is, how can a country weed out the 'bad voters' like me from the 'good voters', the ones that should be voting because they are really involved with the situation 'back home' and/or probably will move back one day.

I could have voted in Canada's 2004 and 2006 elections. I didn't. I could have voted in countless local elections in the various European countries I've lived in. I haven't. I could have voted in the UK general election back in 2005 (all Commonwealth citizens legally residing in the UK have this right). I didn't. I could have voted in the Italian general elections. (Note: I actually tried to vote in the last one with the sole purpose of getting rid of Berlusconi but was unable to because the election took place right at the time I moved to Denmark.) I haven't. I could have voted in EU elections. I haven't. When my friend proposed going to the town hall to register for the next EU elections and local elections, I just waved her off. 

The Italian Alps. Author of photo: Den Nation.

A few weeks ago, I passed in front of the town hall and I thought, "Enough is enough, people have died for the right to vote and you just throw every chance you have to vote out the window." This is so true, why don't I care? I should. So I got my papers in order and went to the town hall and registered myself to vote.

My mantra has always been that if someone is not informed, than they should not be voting. People like me who have no idea really should not be voting. These are just excuses in my case, though. I have everything at my disposal to make an informed decision. I am a highly educated person who can easily access information over the internet, call embassies, talk to other people to learn more (including my friends and family back in Italy and Canada), read books, take an interest in politics, etc. After all, politics has an effect my everyday life. I should be interested. It doesn't take much work to change my status from 'not informed at all' to 'somewhat informed'.

So in a bid to get more informed, yesterday I went and looked on Wikipedia to learn more about the last elections I missed in Canada. And that's when I learned about the existance of Paul Martin, Canada's prime minister between 2004-2006. All this time, I thought that Stephen Harper had succeeded Jean Chrétien. What Canadian doesn't know this? I started watching interviews with Canadian prime ministers on YouTube. This is when I learned that Brian Mulroney (prime minister in the 80s and 90s) was actually québecquois. Say what? I had always thought that he epitomised anglophone Canadians. I never would have associated him with a québecquois (no negative undertones here). I was surprised to learn this. Actually, in this interview he says that most anglophone Canadians think he is anglophone and most French-Canadians think he is francophone. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=29qpZ7G4Yfo (at the 3:39 mark for those who are interested). I was so surprised when I saw this video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A0YBdaCIQZo and heard him speak French. And I had no idea that he was a personal friend and political colleague of Lucien Bouchard. It's funny how in French his voice sounds deeper than his English voice. Now that I've watched the English video a second time, I'm starting to think that he sounds more like a native French speaker than a native English speaker, but it's really hard to say.  

Anyway, now it's high time to learn more about EU and Italian politics. I am priviledged to live here thanks to my Italian passport. I feel I should step up to the plate and do something in return. I owe Europe and Italy that much.

Thanks for reading my ramblings!

Happy New Year everyone! (and Blogging about Blogging)

So here I am again finally. Barely 2 hours into 2014 and I am writing here! That's a record considering I have not blogged in a few weeks.

I should be over at my sister-in-law's house celebrating with all the other 'young people'. Instead I am here at my in-laws place writing a blog post while the parents and Mémé get ready for bed. What am doing here and why am I writing?

I suddenly had a longing to write. Pure and simple. Who cares if nobody is reading and if everyone is out celebrating.

I just read Paris at my Feet's latest post: http://parisatmyfeet.blogspot.fr/2013/12/blogging-about-blogging.html

Her post, Blogging about Blogging, is exactly how I feel about blogging. I'm not in this to promote myself and I want this blog to be my place to write whenever I feel like it. Even if that means disappearing for a few weeks and coming back less than two hours into a new year. A few weeks ago a blogger I really liked suddenly stopped blogging, saying that the reason she was quitting blogging was because she felt she wasn't a good writer and that she felt too much pressure to blog. I've got to ask myself, why?

The answer is clear to me. Like Paris at my Feet said, there are more and more lifestyle blogs that read like advertisements and less 'assistants in France + years later' in France blogs. Like Paris at my Feet, I would love to be more personal in my writing, and goodness knows if any of my acquaintances ever found my blog they would know it was me, but for now if I want to keep sharing and keep this a semi-personal blog, I need to be semi-anonymous. I will never become a lifestyle blog. I want to be honest with myself and anybody who comes here wanting to know about life in France (or Paris for that matter).

I hope that other bloggers can find the inspiration to just be whatever they want to be and not follow social media pressure. Please just stop fighting the push towards having a 'perfect' blog and pleasing anyone and everyone that might just pass by your blog. Before I started blogging I thought it would be great to have a blog with many followers. Now I think the opposite. It's better to have a few followers that are true followers.

So to answer Paris at my Feet's question, blogging is definitely not dying but metamorphosing into something else. Yes, there are more and more lifestyle blogs, but there is definitely a group of us 'personal' bloggers that still exists and is strong. I'm glad to be part of that group!

Ok, I'm off to celebrate whatever is left of the night. Happy New Year to all my blogger readers and best of luck in 2014.

Here's a confession for you: I can't wait to dig my hand into those M&M peanuts. Yes, that's just how humanly weak I am. Oh, well!

Foie gras as far as the eye can see! Author of photo: Den Nation.