Paris, oh Paris

So just as I was feeling all smug and superior about how rubbish Paris is and how bad the men are, she goes and throws a real punch into the back of the net.

So Paris, a city that doesn't know it's a city, that doesn't know what it is. Filled with leery men and people hawking up spit and pissing in the street and women made of ice and class divides that England couldn't rival even in it's hey day. And prostitutes old enough for Wayne Rooney, and small, ratty looking dogs and buildings that all look exactly the same. Not my favourite place. Four days is all anyone should ever commit of their lives to this place.

But, you know that Paris of romance novels and all those stories about how French men are romantic and sensitive? Well I hadn't seen a single example that made me have a flicker of hope this information was based on anything other than a very active imagination. And then my Nana died yesterday and I was faced with the prospect of missing her funeral. I cried on the metro. I had got the news at school and had to keep going without being able to react to the news and then from school I was going to dinner and was holding in my emotions when a phone call came to say we couldn't afford my ticket to Ireland for the funeral on Tuesday. I couldn't hold in my tears, I felt so very far from everyone. The man sat next to me said something but giving him the usual treatment I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing else. I didn't even look at him. With the standard French man, giving eye contact is tantamount to asking him to rape you. I dried my tears, swallowed back my emotions and got off the train at the stop I needed. He had got off before me at the same stop. He stopped on the platform and said 'I heard you crying and I don't know what it was about but I would like you to have these, I just want to do something'. And he gave me a beautiful bunch of pale pink roses. I burst into tears and thanked him and he said he didn't want anything just to help. I told him what had happened, he told me his Nan was 90 and he would go home thankful to still have her and make sure he lavished some attention on her. I kissed him on both cheeks and we walked our separate ways. I cannot imagine that ever happening in London. For one, no man in London carries bunches of beautiful roses. Well, very few. But I see men in Paris with flowers quite regularly so I guess they do that part of romance well.

I feel bad for whoever was meant to receive those flowers though...

Paris 1, London 0.

And, thanks to a great person I am getting a plane to Ireland tomorrow so will make the funeral. Happy ending all round...except for the part where my Nana died that is.