The Freedom to Fail

You know, despite being in a good place, I'm still trying to figure out what it is I want to do with my life. And right now I'm just utterly disgusted, in way I never thought I could be, of the regular day job grind. Not only because I don't see the point, and because I'm probably too clever for my own good and therefore question everything, but because I'm very, very tired. Dog tired. Have been for the past two years, really. Taking the steps to heal, first off because at the core of my chronic illness is work in its worst possible iteration, with the harassment and the oppressive work environment and the oblivious colleagues. But also taking the steps to talk and cry and breathe, finding support and accepting that I need it, now more than ever.

I am a writer. I've always been a writer ever since I was seven years old. I've always nurtured worlds, deemed at best as imaginary, and at worst as proper nonsense; and I have denied myself the right to be for fifteen years, in the name of studies and work and money. Something that is necessary, really, don't get me wrong, but something that I cannot find sufficient solace in.

I fired myself from my previous job, because I hated it with all my guts and because I saw more of colleagues, and a company, I had no stake or interest in, than the people I loved most. And because I denied myself, I have denied those people, I have denied Nicolas what he deserves most, which is true happiness and peace of mind.

I am a writer. And I have had the most beautifully quirky gift of all: the freedom to fail.

The text I'm about to show you today was translated from French, and was initially published on Le Salaire de la Peur, a blog that tackles the sheer, horrifying aspects of the working world, by D.. I thank her today for putting into words what my mind has been struggling to compute.

The Freedom to Fail

Ever since I was a child, I knew what I wanted to do of my life and I did everything to succeed. I went to uni, graduated with two Master’s Degrees and completed internships in prestigious companies. My parents ensured my financial security, so I could accept many, way too many unpaid internships, and more importantly focus on my studies without having to struggle to put bread on the table. By all means, I was a privileged student, compared to others. And because of that, everyone expected the very best of me. That I graduate, that I finish among the top students. I couldn’t do a literary baccalaureat because in my country town that was for losers, so I decided upon doing a scientific baccalaureat instead.

And then, graduation. I’d like to do research, but that’s not what’s expected of me, and after seven years at uni, everyone expects something else. That I start earning a living. So I get out there, and start looking. The first three months, I work as a daily contractor for three different companies, and I always have to be ready in case they call. Then I find another job, an open-ended contract, paid 1500 euros per month after tax. (That’s 1944 dollars or 1265 pounds sterling per month.) The rate of work seems dreadful, but it’s a small, burgeoning company with good career opportunities. I accept and move house. I work from 8:30 AM to 8 PM every single day, no lunch break, but that’s okay, I already knew that. I get to take a look at my contract before signing, and there it is, 1500 euros before tax. I try to discuss this, but end up into a fight with the boss. After half an hour, he tells me “Either you sign or you leave.” I look at him and grab my stuff. I’m leaving. He catches up, changes the contract with a sickly-sweet smile: “We misunderstood each other”, he says. Okay. I stay. And I sign.

Things go downhill from here. The hours are hellish, the pace is killing me and I start resenting this job I studied so long for. The colleagues are oblivious, they don’t understand my objections. They have even more work than I have, because I refuse to be knocked into shape, because I actually question the boss’s managerial style. I have a life, a boyfriend whom I want to spend time with. I don’t want to spend my whole weekends sleeping. I cry every other day. My colleagues tell me I should be thankful, because without him, we wouldn’t have a job. Bullshit. I break down. I resign after three months, though I feel it has been three years. Fortunately, I have the support of my family. I start breathing again. I have failed. I take the whole weight of this failure upon me, stuck between my parents’ expectations and my own. I find my way back home, full of doubt and questioning about my future and having to confront the opinion of others.

But after a while, I realise something. I have indeed failed, but I have seen with my own eyes the class warfare, when an employee is being forced to sign a part-time contract when actually working full-time and being threatened with redundancy if he refuses. I have seen what it was to try and fire a man on paternity leave because he refused to sign a one-month trial period extension as a predated open-ended contract. And I find myself in the middle of nowhere, utterly alone, without my friends and without any career prospects. Finally, some breathing space. I start writing again, as I did when I was little. It’s been two months now. I rediscover the pleasure of telling a story, of seeing it develop and flourish in my mind, of giving myself the means to tell it. For a while. Because, despite of all of this, there is the stigma of unemployment. Being unemployed and doing only artistic and literary things is a nightmare. When I’m being asked what I do for a living, I don’t dare tell them I actually “write a novel”. It seems so pretentious. What are you, a gypsy? The new Victor Hugo? I just can’t tell them. So I say that I don’t do anything, and people regard me with scorn and suspicion. But I’m not “doing nothing”. I think. I read novels and sociological studies. I have stepped outside of the working world and I question it. I reject it, I bypass it, I wonder why, and how we got to this, in this otherworldly situation where working is more important than knowing plant names. So, yes, I have failed. But by doing so, I have left the study-work-earn imperative. I’m going to start working again, but this time as a waitress, as I had three years ago. To live. Live! Put money aside and travel abroad. Or put money aside and then stop working again, to keep on writing. Because I do not belong to the status quo and because I don’t want to lose my newfound freedom again.

D.

Restaurant: La Petite Bretagne

Oh. Yeah. About the sporadic blogging, you cannot begin to fathom how truly, truly sorry I am. April has been utterly crazy: I've spent a whole week in France to rekindle with the things I missed most, namely decent sweet white wine (why the British call it dessert wine is beyond me), steak tartare and cheap public transportation. I reconnected with family members, among which Nicolas' older half-brother David, his wife Sandrine and their 18-year-old daughter, my niece by marriage romantic long-term relationship, Morgane. (I've got an 18-year-old niece. Bloody hell.) Saw my mom as well, and went to a wonderful Neapolitan restaurant in the heart of Bordeaux wine country, as well as Gauthier and Céline, who are both due to come and visit at the end of the month. 

Then, I went full-throttle on my novel project and freelance translation business all the while still scouring around for a day job that wouldn't suck the joy out of me in less than six seconds. I've been to countless interviews, answered countless phone calls and had endless conversations about my professional background and expectations with recruiters, most of which confirmed their illiteracy and the handful that weren't, were actually genuinely decent and interesting people. Go figure. 

For a couple of months now, we have been organising Saturday lunches with half a dozen members from the expat French community in London, called the "Faisons Ripaille, Compagnons" (medieval-ish French for a lavish feast of venison, sweetmeats and more generally speaking red meat drowned in wine and butter sauce, for I all know). The gang counts no less than nine food and wine connoisseurs: undercover stand-up comedian hilarious Stéphane, student Chloé (and at only 19 of age, the youngest of us, though she displays a maturity that I wish I had at frigging 19!), Norman (not Breton) Benjamin, half-Japanese half-French (how cool is that, seriously?) blogger Florence (Kapoune whom I first met at Raoul's, remember?) and her boyfriend, life coach Séverine, newcomer Isa and obviously Nicolas and me. So in March, this monthly lunch took place in an authentically Breton restaurant in the heart of Hammersmith: La Petite Bretagne, which was recommended to us by Florence herself.

Now Breton gastronomy is quite specific in that its main staple is actually a buckwheat crepe, or galette de sarrasin, stuffed with thirty-five thousand a lot of yummy ingredients such as ham, cheese, egg, spinach, mushroom, tomato, crème fraîche, goat cheese, smoked salmon and the whatnot. With it, one usually has a refreshing glass of cidre (cider), either doux (sweet cider, up to 3% in strength) or brut (strong dry cider of 4,5% and above), and obviously a classic full-fledged crêpe, with the traditional caramel au beurre salé (salted butter caramel) stuffing for dessert, or even better, a kouign-amman! Kouign-amman is a traditional Breton crusty cake and consists in a layering of bread dough, sugar and butter slowly baked until caramelised, and it is delicious.

About the restaurant in itself, I simply loved the place as it was quaint and light, even in the drab mid-March weather conditions which featured (surprise, surprise), rain, cold, rain, and then more cold and rain. The service is obviously as French as can be and very efficient. Oh, and the prices. Between 6 and 8 frigging pounds sterling for a huge galette full of Breton fatty dairy stuff. What more can you wish for?

Cider!

Egg in a galette: bliss.

Egg and tomato in a galette: more bliss.

Crêpe with strawberries. And whipped cream. Nom.

A baby kouign-amman! Yay!

La Petite Bretagne
5-7 Beadon Road
London W6 OEA
020 8127 5530
Website

On The Edge

Ever since I left my native country, I've felt that fleeting sense of detachment, of disdain, about what is happening in France right now. MPs squabbling over the "natural order of things", denying homosexuals the right to marry or to adopt because of their inherent sexuality, the same way those MPs' fathers and grandfathers, throughout French modern history, denied Italian immigrants the right to belong, black people the right to be, women the right to choose, because it's not in the bloody "natural order of things". Well, for one, so is polyurethane or the internet. But, hey, what do I know, I'm just a woman, right?

Meanwhile, two days ago, New Zealand amended their 1955 Marriage Act and allowed same-sex couples to marry, being the thirteenth country in the world to do so. Someone among the spectators started singing "Pokarekare Ana", a famous maori love song, and the whole assembly joined in, Members of Parliament included.

"I give a promise to those people who are opposed to this bill right now... the sun will still rise tomorrow, your teenage daughter will still argue back with you as if she knows everything, your mortgage will not grow, you will not have skin disease or rashes or toads in your bed. So don’t make this into a big deal, this is fantastic for the people if affects but for most of us life will go on."

- Maurice Williamson, New Zealand Customs Minister

Now, that, people, is democracy. The beauty and the sweetness and the normalcy of it all.

Next month, I'll turn twenty-five, but somehow my brain has been stuck at nineteen for the past half decade. And for one and a half of those five and a half years, I was plagued with chronic illness, assaulted by pains, whether they be real or imaginary, and all too aware of my own mortality. And somehow, although I thought I didn't know what I wanted out of life, although I thought I was still figuring that one out, deep down, I just want to be happy. Not extravagantly happy, I don't want too much hassle anyway, but relishing in the calmness, the quietness of a good, simple, weird life.

And also getting reacquainted with a femininity and a feminism, that I thought I had lost but were always within me. Fighting the everyday sexism that has become so much more pervasive than it used to, in the sense that whatever socially induced respect men had for women is all but gone. The street harassment, the rape culture, the boys-don't-cry imperative, even the concept of gender in itself, I choose not to accept those as being a part, a "natural order of things" within womanhood, because somehow womanhood comes in so many forms that I don't know what being a woman is.

Some women are born without a uterus, or are biologically born male, or do not wish to have children,  or do, or don't wear dresses or wear make-up, or do, or wish to lead and to be entirely and utterly incompetent the way men often are in a managerial position, or don't, or wouldn't consider abortion as a contraceptive method, or do, or whatever. The main thing is that we are all entitled to fucking respect, and woe betide the sleazy imbeciles who believe it's okay to grope/slap/pinch my ass or my breasts, or call me a whore, or tell me that I'm a good-for-nothing bitch who had rather stayed in the bloody kitchen, or consider rape as a rightful punishment for being a lesbian, a feminist, minding your own damn business, walking in the street, hell, being a woman. 

I'm profoundly feminist. I always have been. Arguing as early as a small child about the inadequacies of having to switch from your birth name to your husband's name upon marriage, or the fact that only boys should be allowed to play video games, or the submissive female-oriented domesticity that I loathed, all of this seemed unfair to my six-year-old mind, with good reason.

Maybe I can't do everything I wish I had, maybe I'm not doing what I expected to do, maybe I'm not in the place I wish I was, but the place I'm in is awesome, and unexpected, and beautiful and I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

A colleague of Nicolas (hi, Zoran!) had this rather unusual, sweet commentary about my many qualities: "She loves to cook, she plays video games, you have found the perfect woman." I loved it, not only because it's nice receiving a compliment from someone you've actually barely met, but because it was fundamentally unbiased and ungendered, and quite literally summed up the wrongness of gender as a social construct altogether.

Nicolas answered, enthusiastically, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "Yes, I know!" and my smile meant that I too, because he cooks and plays video games, had found the perfect man.

Raging in Edinburgh: Part Two

The second part of the trip was heavily influenced by the local weather, which was, unsurprisingly, very unpredictable. We had originally planned to visit the National Museum of Scotland with Pedro and Jamie who had travelled up to Scotland for the weekend, but sadly there was a power outage in the heart of Old Town, so we decided to climb up Arthur's Seat in Holyrood Park instead. To our dismay however, (and more specifically Nicolas' dismay, since he was raised on the foothills of the Pyrenées, a true outdoorsman at heart), the frosty wind and the pouring rain made that, quite literally, impossible. So on our way back to the city centre, we decided to visit the Scottish Parliament, Pàrlamaid na h-Alba, which we came across by happenstance.

Scotland merged with England under the Acts of Union in 1707, it was another 290 years before a Parliament was to be convened by the Scotland Act 1998. Although not an independent state per se, Scotland has the power to decide over matters that the Parliament of the United Kingdom has relinquished to the Scottish Parliament. 

The Parliament officially moved to a impressive, albeit labyrinthical parliamentary complex made of glass, concrete, wood and metal, on the outskirts of Holyrood Park. The overall structure is rather aerial and resolutely modernist, bathed in natural light, which made it an interesting and easy setting to take pictures. It was designed by a Catalan architect, Enric Miralles, who died four years before completion in 2000. The building houses no less than 129 Members of the Scottish Parliament and over 1000 staff, as well as a small souvenir shop and cafeteria. 

English and Gaelic are both central to the building's history and function.

Most nations of the world sent gifts to the Scottish Parliament, including, obviously, autonomous entities within sovereign states. Here, a lovely ceramic tile from Turkey. 

The modern approach of the building stands in stark contrast to the Houses of Parliament in London.

The cold, the rain (as well as the potent cultural significance of our visit) made us very hungry, so we headed back to Princes Street and came across a quaint city centre cafe called Pep and Fodder for a breakfast/lunch crossover. (And according to Nicolas, our barista was a Simon Pegg lookalike.) They serve hot chocolates with a heart-shaped cloud of milk and quite possibly the most delicious chocolate brownie I've had in quite a while, as well as freshly-made, toasted sandwiches. 

Hot chocolate (the heart-shaped cloud of milk!)

Nice, fulfilling sandwiche, with what I guess must be salad, brie and onions.

I definitely recommend the chocolate brownie, for it is literally perfect.

Nothing like a lovely yogurt and honey porridge, eh?

We then left our friends to their own devices (i.e. taking a tour of Edinburgh Castle) and headed back with Paul to the flat, jumped in the car, and drove half an hour in the Lothian countryside to Loch Leven (Loch Lìobhann), a quiet, almost otherworldly freshwater lake featuring the eponymous castle where Mary, Queen of Scots was imprisoned in 1567. The chilly weather, combined with the heavy, greyish clouds and the breathtaking landscape, makes for rather interesting, if not a little clumsy, pictures. I felt nestled in the heart of Norway somewhere, as I've never actually seen for myself the wonders of the hilly, frosty landscapes of Scotland.

For dinner, I settled for a nice, Scottish restaurant at the foot of Calton Hill in central Edinburgh, on the East End of Princes Street: Howies. Their Waterloo Place iteration (as there are two restaurants in Edinburgh and one in Aberdeen) is conveniently located a short walk away from several Edinburgh landmarks such as the Balmoral Hotel, and of course Waverley Station. And it is, to date, one of the best culinary experiences I've ever had. Obviously, I'm rather biased in that sense in that I'm French, first off, and also one heck of a culinary snob, but still–wow! The service was pristine, the food amazing, the wine selection thorough and very satisfying, and the historical setting, if anything, simply wonderful. A definite must-eat!

Chilean CyT Cabernet Sauvignon, fruity and straightforward

Chilean 2009 Late Harvest Sauvignon Blanc, D.O. Maule Valley,
strangely refreshing and yet beautifully suave.

Slow Braised Lamb Shank with truffle oil infused creamed potatoes, honey
roasted carrots and apple, cauliflower puree with thyme sauce 

Roasted Scottish Salmon Fillet with new potatoes, fine green beans, rustic salsa Verdi

Free Range Scottish Chicken Breast - apricot stuffing, orange marmelade glaze, crushed potatoes, pak choi

Butternut Squash filled with a Tajine of Giant Couscous, coriander cream and vegetable crisps

Affagato - two scoops of Mackie's ice cream drowned in a shot of Illy espresso

The next morning, we met Pedro and Jamie for a Sunday brunch at Les Délices de Mademoiselle, a French tea room just on the corner of Grove Street where our flat was located. I highly recommend going there, if only for the very traditional, almost rustic atmosphere, and the fantastically cheesy, overflowing with Béchamel Croque-Monsieur. An exquisite experience.

Hot chocolate with chocolate sauce drizzle. Note the polka dot tablecloth.

Quiche

Croque-Monsieur - a French toasted sandwich with ham, cheese and Béchamel sauce

Goat cheese, honey and walnut savoury cake

Pear and chocolate tart

Macarons. What else?

Sultana scone with crème fraîche and apricot and strawberry jam

We quickly checked on Twitter whether the National Museum of Scotland had finally resolved its power outage issues and headed to the Old Town to take a peek at the Vikings! exhibition, a collection on loan from the Stockholm Swedish History Museum. Sadly, I wasn't allowed to take any pictures, but the Viking civilisation has been propelled to the top two of the most civilised people of all time according to me, next to Islamic Golden Age. (But more on that later, as I'm planning on going to the Institut du Monde Arabe in Paris later this month.)

Sadly, I fell very ill on that same day, probably one of the worst bouts of flu (and adjoining panic attack...) I've ever had in my life, of which I'm still recovering almost a week after the first outbreak, so I spent most of my last day at the flat, resting, and enjoying Paul's amazing cooking skills in the form of a lovely parsnip tikka masala soup.

So, all in all, Edinburgh is amazing. Full of the history and the culture and the landscapes I had so dreamt of seeing one day. The Scottish are way friendlier than your average born and bred Londoner, and they have that profound sense of pride and identity that I whole-heartedly believe in myself. I felt quite at home in Scotland, as if the five-old-year me that never really left, but had just gotten reacquainted to the beauty of it all. I loved, loved, loved it.

I was also immensely grateful of sharing that experience with much beloved friends: Nicolas, as always, my constant, soothing companion, but also Paul, with his dry wit and mistakenly soft-spoken, mellow demeanour (and he always looks fabulous on pictures), Bangli and Hualin for their affectionate curiosity of all things Western, Jamie for his love of haggis, wine and intellectually stimulating conversation and Pedro, intensely and exuberantly Portuguese. Thank you.

Raging in Edinburgh: Part One

Last time I had been to Scotland, according to my mother, I was five and my only memories of it was that it was dark at 3 PM and a somewhat unpredictable weather. 

Needless to say, I had to go back, if only to bring back some fonder memories of the place. So I spent five days in Edinburgh last week and it was awesome.

There was a slight catch though. As we planned the trip quite early on, the most convenient solution for us was to actually drive there. Paul, who's a man of little words and dry wit (albeit under a glaze of apparent mellow soft spokenness), and our closest English friend here in the UK, must've thought we had gone bonkers. But after all, Edinburgh is a mere seven-hour drive from our home in Hertfordshire and Nicolas and I are both veteran countrywide crossers (him as a driver and me as a passenger), having been from the South of France to Belgium, there and back again, in one go, more times than we can count. 

So off we went with our two Chinese friends, Bangli and Hualin, to meet Paul halfway between Hertfordshire and Scotland. He wasn't quite comfortable driving for seven hours straight, so we met in a small village called Spennymoor in County Durham, where he drove to the previous day to avoid too much hassle. 

Nicolas' like, the most badass driver I know. The guy is badass in a Vauxhall Corsa. That's how badass he is.

We ate at The Green Tree, a traditional gastropub dating back to 1727, complete with a quaint fireplace and quite possibly the most amazing cottage pie I've ever had in my life. And amazing fries. 

1727. Seventeen bloody twenty-seven. 

I love those windows.

Fireplace and a pint. What more does one need?

Cottage pie with peas and fries. (Oh, the fries. Perfect. And I don't usually eat fries.)

There's apparently one road to go to Scotland, the scenic M1, complete with teeny tiny dual carriageways and tractors periodically putting the traffic to a halting stop. On a highway. In a civilised country. 

'Lo and behold: a tractor on a dual carriageway highway. Yup, we're in England.

Upon crossing the Scottish border, though, the road becomes pretty scenic...

... and already weather becomes a major concern. Oh well. It's Scotland after all, right? 

Seven plus hours later, we finally discover the medieval landscape of Edinburgh and already the very imposing landmark that is Holyrood Park, basically a massive rocky hill a mere twenty-minute walk from the city centre. We booked a modern two-bedroom flat, complete with fully-equipped kitchen and awesome spa-like shower at StayCity Edinburgh West End, a brisk fifteen-minute walk from Princes Street, Edinburgh Castle and the National Gallery, ending up paying less than £105 per person for a four-night stay and two parking spaces. We were serviced by a nice receptionist called Jamie for the whole duration of our stay.

One of the two bedrooms. Very comfy mattress and plenty of cupboard space.

Bangli and Hualin chilling on the huge sofa, and a sleek, modern dining room space.

A fully-equipped (and functional!) kitchen, with a washer-dryer, a dishwashing machine, a stove, a hob, an oven, a toaster, a kettle, dishes, cutlery and basic kitchenware. (Missing though, as the patissière/diehard foodie I am, a strainer and a spatula.)

The dining room space, overlooking Grove Street in West End Edinburgh. 

The International Space Station bathroom Oh look, square toilets!

After a genuine platter of spaghetti alla carbonara and a good night's sleep, we headed for Edinburgh Castle in the morning. This imposing, martial fortress made of grey stone and built atop the volcanic rock formation Castle Rock, dominates the skyline of the city. It has been inhabited since the 9th century BC although the castle in itself dates back, at the earliest, to the 12th century AD.

A view on Holyrood Park from the Esplanade of Edinburgh Castle

A place of historical significance and a royal residence until the 16th century, Edinburgh Castle has been involved with major conflicts such as the Wars of Scottish Independance, the Civil War and the Jacobite Rising and houses Scotland's Crown Jewels, also known as The Honours of Scotland, as well as the Scottish National War Memorial and the National War Museum of Scotland. 

Half Moon Battery and Palace Block as seen from the Edinburgh Castle Esplanade

The Red Coat Café in Edinburgh Castle 

Mons Meg, a medieval bombard commissioned in 1449 

Stained glass window representation of St Columba in St Margaret's Chapel, the oldest building in Edinburgh

The One O'Clock Gun

We had a tiny lunch break/afternoon tea at The Redcoat Café located in the heart of the castle, a healthy snack bar and restaurant with floor-to-ceiling bay windows and fantastic views on the whole city. I also ate a scone with strawberry jam and clotted cream for the first time in over 17 years, with an adjoining cranberry and mango tea. 

They have a large selection of homemade pastries and cakes.

A dainty-looking macchiato

Scottish shortbread. There's sugar, butter and sugar in it. Oh, and butter. Tasted fantastic.

Now that is one very colourful tea.

Buttery, flaky awesomeness with a twist of fruit and cream. Heaven.

Paul, looking fabulous as usual

Visiting the castle took us approximately four hours, £14,50 and a scone, after which we headed towards the Scots Monument and, a bit further down Princes Street, the Nelson Monument perched atop Calton Hill. Yet again, a fantastic 360° view of the Edinburgh skyline.

From left to right, as seen from a street descending from Edinburgh Castle: the Scots Monument, the Balmoral Hotel Clock Tower and the Nelson Monument.

A view of Holyrood Park

The next stop was the Scottish National Gallery as we returned to the city centre through Princes Street Gardens.

We came across this little fellow in Princes Street Gardens. Not as daring as a Hyde Park squirrel, but still pretty undaunted by humans. 

The National Gallery was, at least on a cultural level, very surprising, as it houses a collection of fine Renaissance and Baroque paintings by Titian, Van Dyck, Botticelli, El Greco, Rembrandt, Raphael, Vermeer, Dürer and Velasquez; up until the 19th-20th century with Ingres, Monet, Degas and Cézanne, even some lesser-known works by Van Gogh and Da Vinci! All in all, a pretty impressive and thorough gallery, and a much-welcome break from the windy exteriors.

We ended the day back at the flat with a delightfully spicy and savoury Chinese dinner cooked by Bangli and Hualin, including a pork meatball and mushroom soup; a potato, pork and coriander stew and a tomato and egg stir-fry, complete with soft and delicately moist rice and chilli sauce.

Super moist and wonderfully tasty pork meatballs in a mushroom and spring onion infused soup

Tomato and egg stir-fry

Potatoes, meat and coriander in a savoury sauce. What's not to love?

See you next time for Raging in Edinburgh: Part Two!