The Ugly Truth

We live in a world driven by love. Our society is fixated upon a quest to find love and to preserve that love. Of course ‘love’ is such an all-encompassing term, we very often cannot differentiate between the different nuances of love. Filial love, platonic love, romantic love, sexual love. Can we have it all?
An entire industry is founded upon this search to find love, in the form of online dating agencies. Single people across nations seeking that coveted phenomenon we call love.

Incidentally, for cynics like myself, love has become a cliché. Something to turn one’s nose up at. Something I don’t want, and have never wanted. I am, of course, referring to ‘romantic love’. Relationships. Everywhere one turns, we see bad films and clumsily written literature dedicated to this industry of love. But, are we losing sight of reality? In our daily lives, is love so simple? Do we always end up with ‘the one’? We do not. In our lives, romantic love can very often be source of pain and confusion. Something we don’t want. It changes our opinions of ourselves. If unrequited, we wonder what we did wrong, not the other way around. Failure in love is seen as pitiful and slightly embarrassing. We don’t like to admit to ourselves, let alone others, that we were unsuccessful. That our love was not returned.

Bridget Jones had the right idea when referring to ‘smug married types’. They seem to drift through life, content in their safe and stable relationships, smug and in awe of unmarried women. A single woman – heaven forbid!



Safety and stability. Do we want this? Or are we searching for something more exceptional?

In our quest for something out of the ordinary, pain may be inevitable, tears a certainty. But it is guaranteed to blow your mind.

Frenemies...

Two days ago, during a typical blah afternoon, I found myself listening to a recent podcast of ‘This American Life’. The theme: Frenemies.

A ‘frenemy friendship’ is hard to define. This may be due to the fact that so many (if not all) human relationships are so very different and completely incomparable. Yet, I find myself wondering if I, myself, have frenemies. In my own experience, frenemies come in all shapes and sizes. They are….that girl you drunkenly met once who is always oh-so-EXCITED to see you, the girl who loves to tell you all the details when she sleeps with the boy you like (and she knows it), and that boy who keeps you at his beck and call, who’s all talk, and not very much action.

Recently, in a moment of self-reflection, I pondered the fact that I seem to fall out with a great deal of people. We’re not talking about a simple difference of opinion, or an argument over the most mundane points of everyday life. It’s the moment when you realise that someone who was once a great friend to you is no longer a part of your life. In my case, these situations sprang from situations which grew progressively worse over a long period of time. Irreparable disputes over matters of morality. This type of moral disagreement is really an insurmountable object in terms of reconciliation. After a great deal of thought, I began to wonder if the problem was, in fact, myself. Perhaps it was. Although, I like to think otherwise (as anyone else would).

I’ve been told that as you grow older, you begin to lose friends. Not in the sense that people no longer like you, but instead a kind of amicable ‘drift’ where on separates the wheat from the chaff. Perhaps we grow less tolerant, less eager to please and less in need of others to please us. Whatever the case, one can easily distinguish between those who matter to you, and those who, frankly, do not.
Brutal as it may sound, this is the unfortunate reality of friendships. Even as young as we are now, I see myself deciding to take a step back from certain people. People I once enjoyed the company of, albeit in short doses.

These past few years, I feel my attitudes on friendships have transformed. At the age of 18 or 19, I was eager to make peace as soon as possible to avoid an awkward situation. Perhaps there was more at stake – no one wants to live in a place filled with an ambiance of animosity. However, this past year, I’ve found myself cutting ties with certain people who played a negative role in my life. Again, this is a difficult thing to do, and certainly doesn’t stem from any malice. In my metaphorical bowl of fruit, if an orange turns sour I throw it out. I do the same with people – although not quite so violently of course.

Likewise, I have thought carefully about the men in my life. Yes, it’s nice when he tells you he really wants to see you again. But when the endless promises don’t match up to reality, you know you have to call it a day. (I could be clever here and come up with another term like ‘Menemies’…but I won’t)

Frenemies are the kind of people we can all do with out. I feel like I’ve carried out an act of Feng Shui on my social life and it’s a pretty triumphant feeling. Even if the rest of my life is a mess…..

All Is Not Forgotten...

Forgive me for this somewhat late addition to the blog. I should have posted this in time for Remembrance Day, so it may appear rather out of place amongst all this festive cheer. Nonetheless, I feel this may be of some interest you those of you who are yet to see any photos of the more cultural aspects on offer in and around the town of Verdun.

I shall begin….
Geographically, Verdun is nestled comfortably within the Meuse ‘département’ in the region of Lorraine. Gastronomically, this region boasts some of France’s finest cuisine, including, of course; the infamous Quiche Lorraine, madeleines de Commercy, Munster cheese, bergamot sweets from Nancy, macaroons, to name but a few examples. In fact, Verdun has earned the title of ‘sugared almond capital of the world’. I really could go on all day about the obesity-inducing cuisine that seems to be just about everywhere I turn…tempting me, calling me.

Yet, Verdun is not only known for its almonds. The Meuse region suffered greatly during the Great War of 1914 – 1918. In fact, the word ‘suffered’ doesn’t really do justice to the sheer impact of the Battles upon the people, the buildings, and the landscape of Meuse. The Battle of Verdun lasted 300 days – from the 21st February until the end of December 1916. The sheer enormity of casualties is appalling - during those 300 days, 162,062 French soldiers and 143,000 German soldiers were killed. Verdun seems to be a national symbol of not only the Great War, but the valour and honour of those who fought for their country.

Culturally, I find it so fascinating that France has made such an effort to preserve its memories of both the 1st and the 2nd World War.
The imprint of the Battle of Verdun seems to be omnipresent in and around the town. The landscape remains in the exact same state it was left after the Battle. In fact, an article I read quite recently descibes the terrain of the battlefields as akin to ‘a cheesegrater’, pockmarked, bearing a slight resemblence to Tellytubby land (I kid you not), as a result of a perpetual fire of shells, bombs and grenades.

It may be sombre, and perhaps a little morbid, but I truly admire France’s efforts to preserve the physical reminders of War, as it proves that the courage and self-sacrifice of so many young men has not been forgotten 91 years on. Verdun stands up tall in its defiance against the brushing-under-the-carpet of the First World War.

Douaumant (sp?) Cemetary is positioned directly opposite the Battlefields, and is perched high upon the hills on the outskirts of Verdun, with spectacular views of the surrounding countryside. Here, the amount of casualties ceases to exist as a number, devoid of any meaning. You can see, simply by opening one’s eyes, the full extent of the battle’s consequences, the penalty paid for bravery and patriotism. This quiet, peaceful place, which once saw hundreds and thousands of young men go to their deaths, aims to provide a kind of catharsis to the grand nemesis which occurred. A calm end to such a catastrophic War.

In her post-WW1 novel ‘Mrs Dalloway’, Virginia Woolf states “Such things happen to everyone. Everyone has friends who were killed in the War”.
This doesn’t mean to say that the personal tragedies as a result of the Great War are any less significant simply because they were experienced on a universal scale within Europe. But rather that because so many brothers, fathers, husbands, lovers, cousins, uncles, and grandfathers were killed, countless lives were touched by tragedy. France’s cemetaries, battle fields and monuments are a mark of respect to those who lost loved ones and to the mass grieving that occurred here.

TRAINS, planes and automobiles....

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step”
Confucious

When you’re dragging two ridiculous suitcases and a beackbreakingly heavy rucksack down the steps of the Gare de l’est in Paris you realise that living abroad is not quite the easy ride you thought it would be. Two months ago, I recall the hideous experience of travelling across Paris cumbersome with the luggage from hell. Not only did I think seriously about throwing the lot of it into the Seine, or even selling it for a bit of extra cash (times were hard)…but as I looked down at my red, sore and blistered hands, I realised that the reality of travel is painful! I also wondered why the ‘clever’ architects who design train and metro stations never thought of us poor travellers and our luggage! Why must we travel down one flight of steps just so we can walk several metres before climbing yet another dreaded staircase? In my recent experience of this process, I find that the latter is most difficult…the dragging of a suitcase up each step with all one’s might. Of course, when travelling without luggage one forgets just how hideous the entire experience is. I vowed never to repeat that ordeal again.
Yet, somehow precisely one month later, I found myself subjecting myself to the same torture. In fact, this time may have been worse. I had spent a week at our house in the Limousin with my parents, and was en route back to Verdun, Lorraine. I’d caught the train early in the morning from La Souterraine to Paris Austerlitz. However, my TGV (the fastest train in the world I think?) wasn’t until the evening. In short, I had a day to kill in Paris. Perfect! Well, so I thought until I decided to explore the innerworkings of Paris’ metro system. Don’t ask me why! In hindsight I should have just got a taxi. But, I felt a tremendous sense of achievement once I reached my destination, after eight staircases and much sqeezing through crowds. The moral of this story is…always travel light – your body will thank you for it.

French public transport seems to be extremely efficient. Too efficient. In fact it is a little out of place amongst the chaotic disorganisation that is France. That fateful first train journey through France demonstrates the pedantry of the public transport system here (or perhaps my terrible eyesight). Each SNCF train ticket explicitly states ‘Billet à composter avant l’accès au train’. This means that it is imperative that one stamps their ticket before embarking the train. How I neglected to do this, I do not know. But, as the ticketmaster approached, a wave of panic came over me. I prayed he wouldn’t notice. But, he looked up, confused, and said that my ticket was invalid. I feigned ignorance, with a little distress thrown in for good measure, oh and a token ‘je suis anglaise’, which usually does the trick. Thankfully, I just got a stern warning not a fine! And since then, I’ve always ensured that each ticket is ‘composté’.