paris storm

There is nothing like an extended holiday to feed a blogger’s mind. To read about India in the French and English papers is simply fascinating – did you know that Sonia Gandhi spoke flawless hindi and that Mayawati was a goddess to the people of India?


The length of the skirts on display at Topshop leaves me in a haze of wonder (how, when, where?) but my doubts are quickly overcome by practical considerations: Do I really have nothing clean except this tunic? Oh well, I guess it sort of looks like a dress. With opaque tights. After a few cocktails.

I find myself not arguing with people for days on. That’s because here machines do everything for you. You can’t buy tube tickets at the counter anymore.

It’s at the machine.

You want to go to the movie? To buy a train ticket?


No need to threaten, bribe or faint. But in a strange sick way, I miss my daily drama.

Cock a doodle do

February 23, 2009


Are we all embarrassed to bump into fellow countrymen abroad? Or is it just the French… touch?

I run into a lot of French tourists at the pool where I go on Sundays. Here they are, oblivious to the fact that there are other people around, oblivious to the fact that this property, unlike the farm shack where they grew up bathing with roosters, is not their ancestral home and that paying for their room doesn’t entitle them to organize an underwater farting contest.

In French slang, we call them Jackys.

Here is one, complaining about the sashaying peacocks:

Ro vindiou, que j’lentend encore une fois l’ot la, et j’lui tord le cou!

Approx. translation: “Dude, if I hear this damn thing one more time I’ll break his neck”

Here is another one, parading in his blue briefs and protruding belly, trying in vain to get the disgusted waiter’s attention:

Ben vla c’est quelle tete qu’y fait le Jeannot, la, avec son turban d’mariole?

“What’s with the face, man, don’t he look funny with his clown turban?”

The women are more discreet. They sip their lemonade with a stricken face, convinced that death by bowel failure lies at every Indian street corner.

Comparing the prices of the polyester shawls they have been sold as pashminas, they wonder if the machine woven “kashmiri” carpets they’ve had shipped to the rooster farm will reach home safely.

But at 500 euros the “personal shipping insurance” the wicked Kashmiris sell, it should, Germaine, it should.

Last days

January 9, 2009



Oh, here I am, finally starting to miss Jaipur, its spicy, greasy food, its misty mornings and dirty streets. And my friends round the corner.

London was short, cold and cool. I had an enchanted day with my gorgeous friend Tara who took me to the hippest places and fed me the finest food. We even went to Fairyland, but I’ll tell you all about it later: I’ll need a couple of hours!

Now it’s back in Paris, running against the packing clock: I am flying back to India on Sunday morning…

Cheese. Bread. Saucisson. Foie gras. 

Have I forgotten something?

Mini Me

December 20, 2008

As usual, when I am in Paris, I strip.`

I wear minis. Mini-shorts, mini-dresses, mini-skirts. Summer or winter, I couldn’t care less.

What do I care if it is -2°C outside? I am wearing tights, I am FINE.

I guess it would be alright if, following every relatively tasteful girl’s mantra, I shoed it down : if you wear something really short and unless you were born in Kiev, you wear flats. So that when guys check you out, they think “Who is that girl?” and not “How much is that girl?”. Anyway. I try, I really do try to stick by the rule of good taste, but it IS difficult. I love heels, and I can’t wear them in Jaipur. The moment I land in Paris I am a good 10 cm higher. I suffer like hell, but I am so happy. So happy that I don’t care if my sisters don’t want to be seen with me.

J’ai deux amours…

November 4, 2008

A French girl in India develops a knack for killing mosquitoes and a weird tendancy to get moist eyes when she thinks about cheese and baguette.

France, which she always took for granted, becomes a kind of unreal fantasy land where women show their legs and lovers their love.

But a French girl in India also becomes addicted to mutter paneersuji ka halwa and Kingfisher beer. She starts raising an eyebrow at raised hemlines and her spoken english, already verrrry frrrrench, takes a serious indian kick.

Welcome into the adventures of Jasmine the French girl and her friends the Indian elephants.