Day in My Life as a Marketing Student in Paris, France 🇫🇷

Asking PARISIANS What They Hate the Most About FRANCE 🇫🇷

Sunday morning

another yayo just for fun :)

i know tumblr is where the niche nerds live, but is it "i have an essay in my soul about The Rite of Spring, probably the most famous ballet of the Ballets Russes, which are their own can of worms honestly but Sergei Diaghilev is my problematic fav and this ballet makes me feel viscerally emotional" where the niche nerds live?

I love the madness of seeing wet paint create magic before my eyes. Great vibrant vibe with the red!

Io mi tengo Parigi 🤍

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I have two type of friends.

Those that I have been expat.

And those that haven’t.

How do I recognize them?

Message on my phone

The first category will message me on WhatsApp, WeChat (if still in China), Facebook messanger, Instagram DM or any voice-over-IP app, but never ever on phone message because they know that they are not sure where in the world you might be and how much it could cost you to receive a SMS or god forbid a MMS.

The second category… I’m trying to educate them because I always think it’s a serious (business?) matter when I see the little red dot next to the SMS message.

new French speaking vlog live on my channel now 🌷

new vlog on my Youtube channel xx

Paris is but a dream.

It’s been 8 years since I was wandering through the streets of Paris, wide-eyed, awestruck that I’d made it. I sat up along the wall of Pont Neuf, my feet resting on the stone seat below as I traced the declaration of love that had been etched into it. It was yet another point in time that I caught myself saying, just remember this moment, because one day, this will feel like a dream.

Mornings in Paris were whimsical, although I have to admit, I experienced way fewer of them than I should’ve. It’s a real diabolical challenge getting me out of bed at the best of times, and that was true even in the most gorgeous city in the world. I could, however, occasionally be coaxed out of bed in the early hours of the morning by the very thing that was causing my downfall (aka undiagnosed coeliac disease): two freshly made pain au chocolat from the local bakery. I’d slip on my jeans and some ballet flats in between yawns, and as I made my way out of my apartment resisting the serious urge to go back to bed... it would take just one look down the street to know that this was not a moment to be missed. The sun would peak over the city in splashes of gold, the leaves in the grand parks gently whispering as they awaited the day’s visitors. If that wasn’t enough, then all it should take was a whiff from the local bakery. Nothing, and I mean nothing beats freshly made Parisian pastries (I’ve already cleaned my teeth for the evening, but I can seriously feel my mouth watering at the thought). The city was a stage that I had for myself, and it was in these glorious, wonder-filled moments that I told myself that I should do this every day. Of course, I didn’t (mornings were a diabolical challenge, remember?). I remember shifting the Stabilise gravel in the Tuileries with my feet early one morning and it being the only sound against the trickles of the fountain, broken up by bites of flaky pastry. The sunshine tried its best to gently lift up my heavy, sleepy eyes. I was tired. But I had that same voice in my head. Take it all in, because one day, this will feel like a dream.

So, was it? Because I sort of, in a way, feel like it never happened. Mornings now, well... they look a little bit less glamorous. I’ve swapped out jeans with ballet flats, a Louis Vuitton handbag, and strolls down cobblestoned streets with flecks of pastry around my mouth from those decadent chocolate croissants for a 5:30am alarm, medical scrubs, hastily made coffee, and gluten-free cereal and yoghurt thrown into a red Tupperware container. I love and loathe red traffic lights on my commute into the hospital. Love because I have a few moments to woof down a few scoops of my cereal (if I waited for a break, it would either turn soggy, or I wouldn’t get to eat it at all). Loathe because I’m often running late. The buildings have a grungy feel to them, a character of sorts, but couldn’t be further from Haussmann’s uniformed visions. I miss getting lost in the architecture and history on the way to my destination. Miss wondering what happened here.

No more boulevards, daily specials scribbled on chalkboards, charming mouldings on the ceiling, or chandeliers in waiting rooms. No more stopping to take photos to remind myself of this moment later, in case I forgot. Life at the moment is instead played out in front of a series of rotating walls—those of the emergency department, my office at home, or the university library. In two and a half years, I will (terrifyingly) officially be a doctor.  I furiously scribble down every offhand comment casually made by the registrar or consultant that bridges a gap in my knowledge (of which there are many). Often it’s in totally illegible handwriting that not even I can read (and I wrote the note!) so not only am I contributing to the stereotype, I’m also not even doing something useful with it. I only apply makeup to my eyes now, because my days are spent in N95 masks, although, this has its perks. Admittedly, only needing to do makeup for the top part of my face has saved me a lot of time, and money that would’ve been otherwise spent at MECCA (the Australian equivalent of Sephora, aka my happy place). I couldn’t stay in Paris being an au pair forever, but life now couldn’t feel further from what it used to be.

I won’t lie... my life in Paris feels like it was a dream. All those years ago, I was, let’s face it, totally clueless about what I wanted to do in life. I’d bled my bank account dry (but in Paris! How artsy!), was soul-crushingly heartbroken over the guy who I thought was going to be the great love of my life (but in Paris! How twisted and romantic!), and was living in a shoebox apartment sleeping on a foldout bed (but who cares, it’s in Paris!). No matter what was thrown my way, it didn’t matter because, it could always be justified by but I’m living in Paris! I adored the family I was an au pair for, had wonderful friends that I could count on at any time of day or night, and it was all set in the backdrop of dreams. Now, I’m a broke full-time med student still bruised from a recent devastating breakup. But none of it is in Paris. Same sh**, different city, hey? At least the bed situation has improved (I’m writing this nestled under my blankets). I guess this time I have the extra wildcard of an ongoing pandemic. No wonder Paris feels like it was a dream. It was gloriously, wildly carefree.

I love medicine, and I love how enriching it is and how there is always more to learn, and how I’m doing something to give back to my community. I know I’ll feel fulfilled, no matter the city or the stage. But some days as I’m driving into the hospital, I find myself wondering what’ll happen if I just turn right instead of left, and follow the exit signs towards the airport. I’d jump on a plane or into a time machine and go back to my old life in Paris... maybe it was all just a dream.

Btw do you guys know that i fact check even for my shitposts

Our Life in Paris: 5 Years Abroad

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Molotow acrylic on canson black A3 getting ready for my next local exhibition.

Modern AU rich kid Enjolras who grows up moving around all over the world for his dad's job and ends up at a Lycée Français somewhere and is convinced he is being taught peak authentic French culture until he goes back to live in France and realises that no, they are very different, and gets a sort of pseudo-culture shock

The Postman's Palace

The Postman's Palace is a true story about a rural French postman who created a masterpiece of naive art, made from found stones and objects, to honor his love for his ailing daughter.

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