I wanted to hate it. In the weeks leading up to my trip to Paris, I was told incessantly about how much of a dump it was, about how I’d be faced with overflowing bins and skilled pickpockets. I was even warned against drinking the tap water.
According to some, to be properly British means hating the French. And there’s plenty to take against: rude waiters, deliberate incompetence in maintaining their side of the Channel crossing, awkward double-cheek kissing, obsessiveness about cheese, astounding corruption in farming subsidies. My trip to France had one rule: do not enjoy it. Do not let them win.
But I have a confession to make. It wasn’t long before I realised that perhaps not all elements of the French character are détestable. With every meal out, with every stroll down a boulevard, I slowly began to realise that maybe they aren’t so bad after all. As much as it pains me to say it, Parisians do life better.
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