I am gutted. I wanted to hate France for the simple reason that it is so easy to love. The French cuisine, the French language, the French capital, the French people, the French wine – everything I know about France is indisputable drop-dead gorgeous. I wanted to hate France, I did. But here I am. In France. Lovin’ it…
But I mean, how couldn’t I? Right now, I am sitting in a shady corner on a bench next to an ancient well in this absolutely gorgeous, tiny village; everything is bathed in this weird yellowish color; the autumn sun is shining through the branches of an olive tree and even I must look beautiful – a tourist on a bike just stopped to take a picture of me sitting here writing in my notebook, a content smile on my face. I love France, I do. And I am gutted.
I am gutted because I skipped almost the whole country, flying directly to the very bottom of it, eye-to-eye with the Pyrenees (I thought, I would hate them, too. But here I am – lovin’ them!) I am gutted because after six years of French lessons in High School I don’t remember anything (“When will I ever need French again?…”). But now I find myself melting like butter as the “boulanger” talks to me from behind his counter and I just wish I could communicate with the French people, who don’t seem to be arrogant at all, but actually friendly and sweet and beautiful. I am gutted because over years and years I have been forming an opinion about France based on the ridiculous desire to be “anti”.
France, to me, was like the most beautiful girl in school, whom all the boys fall in love with. This arrogant beauty every other girl wants to be and to whom everybody looks up to in awe. Liking this girl is impossible – she just seems too perfect. But I just can’t help but giving in to her now. And I tell you, once you give that girl a chance, once you actually get to know her, you understand that she is just a normal girl wanting to be loved.
I wanted to hate France, I did. But here I am. In France. Lovin’ it.