Fake It Til You Make It

I have terrible distance vision. Both literally and figuratively speaking. I always want things to happen now. Today. Not next month or next year. And I have trouble seeing that a little bit each day adds up to a whole lot.

Which is a bit of a problem for someone trying to write a novel.

In the beginning, I would set aside whole Saturdays every once in awhile, work nonstop from dawn to dusk and then get frustrated that the novel didn’t seem any closer to being finished.

We’re often told to fake it til you make it. If you want to be a fit person, then turn up to the gym every day, until you are one. And, if you want to be a writer, then sit down in that chair, and turn up to that blank page every day.

It wasn’t until I started taking my laptop with me on the train to and from work every day that I started to see progress. Real progress.

But I couldn’t see that day to day. Thanks to my crappy distance vision. All I could see was how much I hadn’t yet done, how many weeks of editing lay ahead. But I just kept picking up that laptop, opening it up to a new page.

Within the space of two weeks I had advanced 10,000 words. And in the space of three months I had a novel.

And in hindsight (which is always 20/20) that was no time at all.

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Glasses image courtesy of Bart Heird on Flickr.
Vision quote image courtesy of Brett Jordan on Flickr.
Maldives image courtesy of Sarah_Ackerman on Flickr.
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This will be the last post you see from me for awhile, as I am off on our long awaited trip to France for the Wedding 2.0 followed by our honeymoon in Italy and the Maldives. Jealousy-inducing photos to come in August. À bientôt 🙂

Books About Paris

It is fair to say that books about Paris are in no short supply. As someone who is writing a book about Paris, I am painfully aware of the fierce competition. Books about Paris fill my shelves, and I can’t resist ducking into Dymocks to see if there are any new ones on the shelves. But, there are some that keep me coming back.

*Paris Tango by Carla Coulson

Carla manages in one frame to capture the nuances of French life, in a way that armed with a thousand words I could only dream of. I love everything about her book. The weight of it, the texture of the cover, the old-school red placemarker. Of course, her words are magnificent too, once you manage to tear your eyes from her lovingly captured photographs. Her blog, which I stumbled across only recently, is also a delight.

*A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway

Indeed, Mr Hemingway requires no introduction. I only picked up a copy of A Moveable Feast this year. I think I put it off for so long because I was intimidated, and perhaps also because it is home to one of the most over quoted lines ever used to describe Paris. The reality, however, is that A Moveable Feast reads as if you have plopped down next to Hemingway in a Latin Quarter bar and he’s telling you about his perfectly ordinary day. It is a slender and light as Carla’s book is solid, and is intensely captivating in its brevity.

*Almost French by Sarah Turnbull

Almost French is everything I hope my novel will be. I would love nothing more than to have my as yet unnamed (suggestions welcome!) book sit side by side with Ms Turnbull’s. That possibility equally excites and terrifies me.

What are your favourite books about Paris?

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Paris books img courtesy of Roman Lashkin on Flickr.
A Moveable Feast img courtesy of life serial on Flickr.
Almost French with cat img courtesy of [o] suze q … [packing for firenze] on Flickr.

Things That Make Me Happy

Inspired by a post on the talented Carla Coulson’s blog, I decided to make a list of things that make me happy. Feel free to post yours in the comments below….

Bubble baths

Brightly painted toenails

Towels fresh from the dryer

Royal Mojitos

Weekends away

Peter Alexander pyjamas

Working on my novel

Fresh food markets

Summertime picnics

Reading in bed on rainy days

Drinking fancy tea

Snow falling on cobblestones

Mastering a difficult yoga pose (read, all of them)

Macarons

Falling asleep on the couch

Going for long walks through new neighbourhoods

Inspiring talks with people who believe in me

Puppies & Monkeys

Cooking, eating and hanging out with my husband

What makes you happy?

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Bath img courtesy of aka Laverne on Flickr.
Toenail img courtesy of haunted by Leonard Cohen on Flickr.
Fresh towels img courtesy of cattoo on Flickr.
Mojito img courtesy of TheCulinaryGeek on Flickr.
Pyjama img courtesy of sillypucci on Flickr.
Writing img courtesy of joelgoodman on Flickr.
Market img courtesy of Kevin Oke Photography on Flickr.
Reading book in bed img courtesy of Reena Mahtani on Flickr.
Teacup img courtesy of MyLifeThroughPhotography on Flickr.
Snow img courtesy of Tavallai on Flickr.
Yoga img courtesy of AmandaD_TX on Flickr.
Walk img courtesy of gari.baldi on Flickr.
Inspire img courtesy of Mark Brannan on Flickr.
Puppy & Monkey img courtesy of elaine… on Flickr.

Dancing in the Dark

I am quite self conscious. I am easily embarrassed, and I hate feeling out of place. I like to know all the details before I head into a new situation, and fear of embarrassment can see me opt out of activities I’d actually probably enjoy.

Sometimes on the train home from work, I’ll miss my stop because I am wedged into the corner seat with three other people sprawled across the aisle, and in order to get out at my stop I’d have to make a bit of a fuss and ask them to move. So I stay quiet, and hope their stop comes soon.

But recently, I’ve tried to push myself out of my cosy, insulated, predictable comfort zone. I signed up for a yoga course at work, even though it meant a change in my well-established routine and involved some awkwardness with a bunch of people I didn’t know.

And last Wednesday night I went with two friends to No Lights No Lycra in Brunswick. I had read about this activity in an issue of Women’s Fitness and thought it sounded like fun for someone like me. The principle is simple, the event takes place in a hall, they turn off all the lights and play daggy music, and everyone dances however they want, because noone else can see you.

We turned up, a few minutes late to find the event already in full swing. Weaving our way through the shadowy figures, we found a spot towards the back of the hall. I spent the first five minutes feeling supremely uncomfortable. It was a cold, drizzly night and all I could think about was how much I would rather be at home, warm in my pyjamas in front of the TV. It really wasn’t that dark and I wasn’t digging the first few songs. Nevertheless, we’d come all this way, so I was determine to at least give it a red hot go.

We spread out a little, giving each other space to do our own thing, and I found I could let go a bit more if I closed my eyes. Soon, some old school r’n’b was playing and I had forgotten all about my embarrassment as I got on down to Mary Mary. I opened my eyes to check where my friends were, just in time to see my usually reserved pal stride dramatically into the middle of the crowded dance floor, throwing back over her shoulder ‘Ladies, I’m going in!’ Emboldened by her bravery, and perhaps the blueberry amaretto sours we’d quickly downed pre-class for courage, I turned it up a notch and lost myself in the music. By the time a Britney Spears song came on, I was in the zone. Limbs flailing this way and that, hair in my face, jumping in the air – I was having a ball.

The night before at yoga, I had struggled against the meditation at the end of the class. I didn’t want to listen to the instructor’s voice as she told me to imagine my left kneecap relaxing. And when she handed each of us a flat stone to gaze at, I almost snorted with derision. But, in the middle of my third consecutive twirl, hands drawing wide circles above my head while I kicked my right leg into the air, I realised I had finally managed to live just in the moment, lost in the song.

Who would have thought that in the midst of all that noise and movement, I’d find peace.

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Quote image courtesy of Rob Meredith on Flickr.
Yoga image courtesy of GO INTERACTIVE WELLNESS on Flickr.
Shadow dance image courtesy of sean.casaidhe on Flickr.
Peace image courtesy of MojoBaer on Flickr.

Gaufres de Chez Meert

As the cold weather begins to envelop Melbourne this week, I’ve been thinking about Lille. For me, visiting Max’s hometown means a great many things. It means cold weather, sometimes snow. It means comfort food and hot drinks and long, indulgent meals en famille. It also means eating the gaufres de Chez Meert.

It’s no secret that I have a bit of a sweet tooth. From delicate macarons to thick slices of brioche studded with sugar crystals and spread with nutella, visiting Lille is a little bit like a trip to your grandparents house, where all the things that are off limits in normal life are allowed.

When max first told me about the waffles on offer at Chez Meert, I was unenthusiastic. As a child in Australia, waffles came frozen in boxes, and on rare occasions we were allowed to pop one in the toaster and eat it drenched in maple syrup with a scoop of Peter’s vanilla ice cream. Delicious, yes, but not in comparison to all the other finely crafted sweet treats France has to offer. I had also tasted a waffle in Belgium a few months earlier, and whilst I enjoyed the nutella-smeared, whipped cream-adorned concoction, I wouldn’t have returned in a hurry. Max simply shook his head at my reticence and said ‘Tu verra’.

And see, I did.

These ‘waffles’ could not be further from those of my childhood, or the one I’d eaten in Brussels. These were long, delicate, pliable tongue-shaped wafers, sandwiched together by an intoxicating vanilla bean paste. They were as moist as other waffles are dry, and require no accompaniments whatsoever, except perhaps a strong espresso to cut through the sweetness.

In the interest of research, I tasted not only their classic flavour, but their speculoos one too. And though we all know how much I love speculoos, I think the classic just wins out in the flavour race.

Getting to eat a gaufres from Chez Meert has long been a treat exclusively reserved for trips to Lille, and the only way to enjoy them back home in Paris’ 9^th arrondissement was to buy up big on our last day in Lille and practise extreme self-control on the car ride home.  But, with the 2012 opening of a Meert café in Paris, this is no longer the case.

So be sure to check them out next time you are in Paris, or Lille. You’ll never think of waffles the same way again.

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Chez Meert image courtesy of fred_v on Flickr.
Waffle image courtexy of bionicgrrrl on Flickr.

French-Australian Wedding Part One

As many of you know, I recently married my French fiancé Max. Putting together a wedding with two sets of cultural norms to consider was a little bit of a challenge at times, but mostly it was a whole lot of fun.

As we are having a second wedding in France in July, the February event had more of an Australian flavour, but with some nice French touches. We were married at Leaves & Fishes in the Hunter Valley, in their function space ‘Feast’, which we picked for its distinctly European feel.

I walked in to the song ‘Intermission’ by French-Canadian singer Coeur de Pirate, and we signed our registry to the hauntingly beautiful strains of Aboriginal artist Geoffrey Gurrumul Yunupingu, who Max and once I saw perform live in Paris. My mum did a reading in English, and Max’s godmother, in French. The entire ceremony was conducted in both languages, and afterwards, we toasted with a French-style Australian-made sparkling wine.

Our wedding cake was a delicious fusion of the two cultures, square chocolate and vanilla cupcakes decorated with an assortment of iconic images from the two countries. The lovely ladies at Kiss Me Cakes in Sydney did an incredible job, and in the days that followed we were glad that we had over catered! We also had lolly jars filled with sweets from our childhoods, Caramello Koalas and Carambars (yum!).

The following day we held a brunch at my aunt and uncle’s property, with sausages on the barbeque and a game of backyard cricket on one side; and delicious croissants and an intense match of pétanque on the other…

The perfect weekend!

Les Intouchables

Usually when someone tells me I MUST do something, it really puts me off. I’m not sure if that means I have inherently wilful nature, or what, but there is no surer way to make sure I don’t do something. I am even less motivated if the thing in question has taken the world by storm (i.e. Twilight, 50 Shades, cake pops…)

But, as I’ve admitted before, sometimes when I give in, the results are truly amazing (like when I finally decided to give Il Solito Posto a go). And so, a month ago I finally gave in and watched Les Intouchables. Everyone from my old friends in Paris, to members of Max’s extended family, to English speakers who had seen it at the film festival had raved about it, practically non-stop for a year. But for some strange reason I just didn’t want to. I guess I didn’t imagine that any film could be THAT good, and that I’d inevitably be disappointed. I know, I know, it’s not like every movie I watch is of impeccable standard or anything (I have seen both the Sex and the City movies more than once), but on this topic I would not budge.

I made excuses not to watch it. We were actually in France when it was released at the cinema, but I wanted to wait and watch it with French subtitles. Then, when Max brought the DVD back with him after his latest Paris trip, I let it languish in the cupboards. And when Max dragged it out to watch one lazy Sunday afternoon, I settled in for a snooze on the couch.

Now, it isn’t often that I’ll admit to being astoundingly mistaken, but this was one such occasion. I am about to become one of those people I hate, who tells everyone they MUST watch this film. For this, I apologise, but really, you must.

It is the spectacular opposite of politically correct, simultaneously bound by and gloriously free from stereotypes. It is a no holds barred, deliciously vibrant examination of how rich life can be, irrespective of circumstance.

I know that you aren’t convinced, because I wasn’t either. But go on, even if it’s just so you can come back on here and say ‘You were wrong, I hated it!’ – just watch it.

Go on.

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Puppy snooze image courtesy of Josh Koonce on Flickr.

Paris Weather Envy

It has been snowing a lot in France this year. Even Paris has received a generous dusting – just last week we were all in awe of the ‘skiing in Montmartre’ video. The only problem was, I was watching it from my Melbourne apartment, where I had the air conditioning on full blast and had employed the usual of a small fan in an attempt to cool us down.

Because I have the Météo Paris app on my smartphone, I can’t help but sneak a look at the forecast from time to time. And, when staring down the barrel of the eighth day in a row of 30 degree plus temperatures – minus 2 seemed almost… refreshing.

It’s absolutely a case of wanting what you don’t have, perhaps sprinkled with a touch of rose-coloured glass wearing. See, I appear to recall only the good about snow in Paris. I remember the first time I saw snow fall in Paris. It was 2am, and something had woken me. I moved silently to my small window and watched as it fell softly, yet determinedly into the still courtyard below.

I remember the warmth and conviviality of the cafes we’d duck into, where we’d eat warming bowls of onion soup and drink jugs of chocolat chaud to revive us.

I remember the fireplace at Max’s parents house in Lille, and the big fluffy slippers Max gave me for Christmas.

What I choose to forget is the pain of a metro strike on a snow day, where the buses don’t run and the crowds are suffocating. I forget the inconvenience of having to shower at night, instead of in the morning to ensure my hair was bone dry before leaving the house to avoid an instant cold migraine. I have pushed aside the unattractive image of me, bundled up in a billion layers under my bulky winter coat, tramping inelegantly through the slippery cobblestone streets in my gumboots…

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Snow in Montmartre image courtesy of Nicolas DS on Flickr.
Hot chocolate image courtesy of johnbailey63 on Flickr.

Paris for Tea Lovers

I love tea. And not just a little bit. This is a full blown infatuation.

I love all kinds of tea. Black tea, flavoured tea, herbal tea. Tea with milk, tea without. In a mug, in a cup. In the morning, in the afternoon, before bed.

I love that there is a type of tea for every occasion. Tea for calming you down, tea for waking you up, tea to aid digestion, tea to fight off colds. Tea just because.

I’m not particularly brand loyal, switching from Lipton to Twinings to Bushells without hesitation. Though T2 teas are my favourite for loose leaf varieties, as much due to the tea itself as to the funky black and orange store décor.

I’m used to being out of place – living in Melbourne and NOT drinking coffee puts me firmly in a minority group.

And, as a tea-lover living in France, I expected a similar response. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that quali-tea was as ubiquitous in the cafes and bistros as espresso. Boutique Mariage Frères became my paradise of sorts, and every time I return to France or someone visits Australia I request a box of Lipton white tea with rose, available in French supermarkets everywhere, but strangely not in Australia.

But my all time favourite French tea experience would have to be that offered by La Mosquée de Paris. The blue and white mosaic tiled courtyard is the perfect setting for a pot of teeth-achingly sweet mint tea, Moroccan style. There’s nowhere I’d rather be on a grey, drizzly and humid October afternoon, than it that courtyard, glass of steaming tea in hand, watching the rain drip around me and breathing in the sweet fumes of shisha that abound.

What is your favourite tea experience?

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Tea lover image courtesy of JacciR on Flickr.
Mariage Frères image courtesy of StaneStane on Flickr.
Mosquée de Paris tea image courtesy of P Donovan on Flickr.

Eating Our Way Through February

February has been a busy month.

On the 9^th we attended the wedding of good friends in Sydney, where we ate, drank and danced the night away. On the 12^th we celebrated my 24^th birthday with cocktails, sangria and tapas. On the 14^th we enjoyed a lovely home cooked meal (even though Max doesn’t believe in Valentines Day) of French champagne and duck confit. On the 16^th we parted ways for our respective hens and bucks weekends (both of which involved a great deal of eating and drinking), and on the 23^rd, we will be married in a restaurant.

We celebrate the only way we know how – with good food and good wine.

All of this celebrating is well and good, but eating pork belly twice in one week, churros and cupcakes in the same night, and countless glasses of champagne do not a skinny bride make.

Now, truth be told, I am not really concerned with losing x amount of kilos before the big day. I bought a dress that fitted me at my usual, average size. It is a dress that will forgive a kilo or two either side. It is a dress that understands that my love of good food will always trump my desire to look like Miranda Kerr in a bikini.

Many of my already-married friends keep assuring me that with all the last minute stress in the lead up, I’ll drop a few kilos without even noticing.

To this statement I take great exception. I am just not someone who gets busy and forgets to eat. In fact, I don’t think I have ever, in the history of my existence, forgotten to eat. I may have missed a meal somewhere along the line, but I can assure you it wasn’t because it slipped my mind.

I get stressed, and busy, and head directly for the Nutella jar, spoon in hand. Or I decide that a packet of neon orange Twisties from the work vending machine are a good choice. Stress does not make me lose weight. And that’s okay.

I fully intend to eat a decent breakfast, morning tea and lunch prior to our afternoon wedding. And at said wedding, I will be sure to enjoy every last bite of canapés, entrée, main, dessert and cake.

It is my ‘big’ day after all!

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Champagne image courtesy of chrischapman on Flickr.
Cupcake image courtesy of shimelle on Flickr.
Nutella jar courtesy of p3nnylan3 on Flickr.