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… that there is nothing to be afraid of anymore. I mean that in a blanket sense, of course – I’m not saying that if a man with a gun walked into my bedroom right now I’d be dong my best ‘bored teenager’ expression but, let’s face it: if I can be stranded in Paris aged 17 without freaking out, I’m on the right track.
I should explain: I’m writing from England. One ridiculously expensive Eurostar, a seven hour car journey and I’m right where a 90 minute flight would’ve taken me. Bloody volcano. That said, I adored Paris: quirky side streets, beautiful buildings and a few lovely nights with some excellent people have led me to believe that it is in fact my mothership. My beautiful, French-speaking, complicated mothership. My GCSE-level, horrendously flawed French was somehow enough to get by: how I managed to order takeaway snails in a fancy restaurant at 10pm, I will never know. Where there’s a craving, there’s a way.
I’m having a bit of an intellectual day, for a Saturday: I just finished watching the debate from Thursday, and was pleasantly surprised by Nick Clegg. I particularly liked his tie. Not that I can vote this year, with my ridiculous June birthday, but I’ll be stalking the election regardless. However, my day of thinking doesn’t stop there: a few years of of confusion coupled with several magazine articles and topical Googles later, and I’ve determined that I’m a moderate lipstick feminist. I’ve always found it difficult to balance my innate need for independence with my overwhelming urge to buy shoes, and it’s comforting to know I’m not alone. Standing alone in the Gare du Nord, shielding my phone from public view with my ridiculously poofy hair, I was approached by a big scary black man under the assumption that I was a prostitute. A male friend of mine has suggested this to be a compliment: I would disagree. It seems unreasonable to me that a knee-length black skirt, flat shoes and a leather jacket could be interpreted as suggestive, and that a girl such as myself would be treated in such a degrading manner. I bake cupcakes. I inhale literature. I treat Harry Potter with more deference than the Bible. In an almost contradictory manner, I’m fairly religious. I’m pretty handy with an xbox controller. I certainly do not have sex with strangers for money.
I’m coming to the conclusion that my glasses make it easier to be invisible. I’m willing to bet that I would not have been mistaken for a prostitute had I been wearing my specs, which would suggest that they somehow define my personality. With them, I’m a nerdy girl standing in a station. Without them, I’m a harlot. Although I know I look better without the frames, it’s generally a question of confidence: do I feel brave enough to be seen today? It’s difficult finding a balance between feeling pretty and objectified, independent and aggressive, but I think I’m starting to find it. The kid is growing up. And, in my somewhat enlightened state, here are my essential tips for surviving being stranded abroad:
- Don’t panic. Not to sound like the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, but staying calm is more than necessary. Or, in my case, shotgunning a bar of chocolate and suggesting we go to a bar. Not that obesity or casual alcoholism are solutions to anything (much), but you see my point.
- Phone your Mum. I am aware this won’t apply to everyone, but my parents, like me, are problem solvers. We thrive in chaos. Plus, they have a lot more money in their bank accounts than I do.
- Ignore stressheads. They’ll just get you worried, which doesn’t help anything, and then you’ll eat so much more chocolate and get fat and then what? You’ll be stuck abroad with clothes that don’t fit. And who wants that?
I’m the girl who loses pens in her hair, sets fire to jacket potatoes and got mistaken for a prostitute in the Gare du Nord. If I can get home, I am in no way worried about anyone else.
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