I really, really wish I knew more French. I think I’ve written about this before: the fact that I don’t know any language other than english feels hugely embarrassing to me, like a mark of extreme ignorance. I suppose you could just pin it down to the fact that special schools have other priorities- why bother teaching kids a language they’re never going to actually use? Here in Paris though, as I roll around this magnificently beautiful city, I find myself wishing I could understand what the people around me are saying or what the street signs mean.

I realise that I might have seemed a bit negative in my last few entries: too eager to criticise, as though I didn’t really want to be here. Let me assure you, noting can be further from reality. While I may have seemed somewhat eager to point out the problems or drawbacks we have come across, this was simply a case of my instincts as a blogger coming to the fore. The fact is I like that Paris: it is an exceedingly beautiful city, far more aesthetically charming than London. It’s narrow, picturesque streets draw you in, so that, in spite of its woefully inaccessible metro system and thousands of cafes with steps into them, it’s impossible not to fall under its spell. 

The longer I am here, the more immersed I feel, the more intrigued I am by the city and it’s fascinating history. I  love the little book shops, the streets named after writers, the thousands upon thousands of sculptures and statues; I feel so beguiled that John and I are already starting to plan our next trip here. The very streets and buildings captivate me like nowhere else. That is why I feel so sad about my lack of French, as it will always be a barrier between myself and truly getting to know Paris.