I so wanted to hate this stay. In the weeks leading up to my arrival in Paris, I kept hearing that this city was nothing more than a pit, teeming with nimble pickpockets, hidden among mountains of rubbish. I was even warned against tap water. French fichus.
Because to be British in the spiritual sense of the term – that is, beyond the slime of one “Keep calm and carry on” and cushions embroidered with the Union Jack – it means above all: to hate the French. And how can you not hate them? The non-drinking waiters, the bidets, the frogs and snails, the willful incompetence to run their side of the tunnel, the peck on both cheeks, their obsession with cheese, the terrifying corruption of farm subsidies. The French aren’t just weird, they’re rude. My stay in France was to obey only one rule: not to value anything. There is no question of letting them win.
know how to live
And yet I have to admit one thing: it didn’t take me long to understand that not everything in French was perfect disgusting*. As I went out to restaurants and strolled along the boulevards, I began to think to myself that maybe the French weren’t such bad fools. And even though it pains me to say it
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“The Spectator” is an institution in the British press. Founded in 1828, it is the reference newspaper for conservative intellectuals and leaders, but also for Eurosceptics: The spectator supported the exit from the European Union during the referendum in 2016. He is known for his analyzes and his sharp tone and since 1989 has belonged to the same group as Daily Telegraph.