A Town Like Paris: Falling in Love in the City of Light - Couverture souple

Corbett, Bryce

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 0767928172 ISBN 13 : 9780767928175

Editeur : Broadway Books, 2008

A propos du livre

Extrait :

Chapter 1

Are You Sure You've Got the Right Person?

In January 2000 the world was flush with the excitement of a new millennium, and I was crossing a continent on a day-return train ticket to do an interview for a job I wasn't the least bit interested in.

It was a typically gray European winter's day, the kind that makes you wonder when you last felt properly warm and why you left your sun-drenched homeland in the first place. On the tray table in front of me, a collection of barely opened books told the riveting tale of European economic integration. I knew the tale was riveting because I had fallen asleep over it three times in the last hour. Outside the flat, featureless plains of Picardy flashed by in a dark brown blur. I hunkered down in my seat and wondered who the hell I thought I was kidding and what the hell I was doing here in the first place.

It had all started one dull November afternoon in the newsroom of the twenty-four-hour TV news channel for which I worked in London. As a showbiz producer for Sky News, my job consisted of keeping track of the tedious intricacies of the lives of inherently dull, inexplicably famous people. This particular afternoon saw me flicking listlessly through copies of Hello!, OK!, and other quality celebrity mags under the pretense of doing my job.

Finished with my research, and motivated by the kind of pure boredom that I felt at least seven or eight times an hour in that job, I wandered over to the nearby cluster of desks occupied by the business reporters.

Financial news commanded almost as much importance in the minds of Sky News's editors as entertainment news, occupying the small portion at the end of every news bulletin that was not otherwise dedicated to soccer, royals, or whatever "shock crime wave" they were manufacturing on any given day. As a result, the finance reporters were at least as underutilized as we showbiz reporters, leading to much crossing of the corridor, bored chitchat, and the occasional perusing of one another's magazine collections. While our repository of showbiz and gossip rags were especially prized in the greater newsroom environment--and hence were often stolen--their piles of The Economist and BusinessWeek were usually left unopened.

It was only out of abject desperation, and some perverse idea that its contents might serve to expand my mind, that I picked up a copy of The Economist and started flicking through it. On previous sorties into the dense geopolitical realm of The Economist, my sense of the absurd had been piqued by the jobs section. If you've ever had the pleasure of perusing it, you will know that the job advertisements there are weekly exercises in bureaucratic nonsense. The Economist is where you advertise any job that should otherwise exist only in a comedy sketch or an Evelyn Waugh novel. For instance, it's where the Ugandan Ministry for Roads might post a half-page advertisement for a new Deputy Director of Road Leveling.

The successful applicant will have at least five years road-leveling experience at an international level, must be familiar with the latest global standards for gutters, be good with concrete, be a dab hand at dealing with troublesome secessionist rebel soldiers, and be in possession of a license to operate heavy road-leveling machinery. The Ugandan Ministry of Roads is a nonsmoking workplace and an equal opportunity employer.

It's quite common to find within The Economist's job section ads for project directors for far-flung fieldwork in random West African nations, for which, mysteriously, the speaking of fluent Finnish always seems mandatory. In between guffaws and inner monologues on the shocking waste of taxpayers' money that was routinely channeled into the creation of these absurd jobs, I happened upon one advertisement that caught my eye:

The International Chamber of Commerce (ICC) is seeking a Director of Communications. ICC is the world business organization. The applicant will be responsible for the global communications strategy of the organization. He/she must be familiar with the work of the ICC and have at least five years experience as a PR and communications director of an intergovernmental or nongovernmental organization of similar international stature. He/she must have demonstrated managerial experience and at least ten years experience in an executive role in the private or public sector. The candidate will be experienced in the creation and implementation of effective media and communications strategies. He/she will be fluent in French and English and have excellent writing and organizational skills.

And then, almost apologetically, at the end:

The successful candidate will be required to relocate to Paris and be expected to undertake regular international travel.

I did a quick mental checklist of my work history and concluded I was hopelessly underqualified for the job. I didn't have any of the experience they were looking for, I knew nothing about international organizations, my French was rusty from years of neglect, and I neither knew nor cared what the ICC was, what it did, or who it represented.

What I did know was that I had always dreamed of living and working in Paris, that I was nothing if not creative when it came to CVs, and that one more month spent in London, doing the daily early morning shuffle out to the industrial park in far west London that Sky News called home was surely going to kill me.

I took to my computer and bashed out a letter of application, making a few judicious changes to my patently unsuitable resumeŽ. A spot of finance reporting here, a sustained period of economic analysis there--anything to make my gossip-columnist past and entertainment-producer present seem less obvious to a bunch of suits in Paris.

Three weeks later an in-depth editorial conversation with colleagues about the new Britney Spears single was interrupted by the shrill ring of my telephone. On the other end of the line was an English gentleman, introducing himself as Lionel from the ICC in Paris, asking if I was available for interview.

"It will require you to come to Paris for the day, I am afraid," he explained. "It seems our secretary-general is very interested in your resume, and she would like to meet you."

As I frantically tried to recall the extent to which I had embellished my resume, I found myself agreeing to a rendezvous in Paris in a week's time.

What a hoot! A fully funded day trip to Paris--a chance to escape the office, scarf a few crepes, and sink a carafe of Bordeaux or two in my favorite city in the world. Sure, the hour of the actual interview might prove a little awkward, and the ensuing embarrassment when they discovered that I was a patently underqualified charlatan might be a tad uncomfortable, but for the sake of a free trip to Paris, it was a risk I was willing to take. Besides, it would make for a great story at my next dinner party.

So here I was now, barely an hour out of Paris, cramming for an interview for a job I didn't really want, speed-reading an array of books whose titles I barely understood. I paused to reflect on the improbability of it all.

There was no way in the world a Paris-based international business organization, deeply involved in the cut and thrust of global commerce, was going to employ a former Sydney gossip columnist as its director of communications. Quite apart from the fact that I was spectacularly underqualified and uniquely lacking in relevant work experience, I was twenty-eight years old, single, and possessed of only one purpose in life: to be as drunk as possible for as sustained a period as possible in as many exotic European locations as possible. Surely they would see that and send me packing.

The train made its slow crawl through the outer suburbs of Paris. Graffiti-covered walls, heavy industry warehouses, and nondescript high-rises gradually gave way to lead-roofed apartments, terracotta chimney pots, and glimpses of streets lined with brasseries, boulangeries, and epiceries.

As we glided up alongside the platform at Gare du Nord, I stared up in wonder at the lattice of glass and iron that formed the massive canopy of the station. Businessmen strode purposefully along the platform in finely cut overcoats and artfully tied scarves. Women in heels and woolen twinsets moved gracefully among the throng. It had all the bustle and movement of your average train station, yet there was something otherworldly about it: as if by crossing the English Channel and entering the Paris city limits, I had been transported to an older, more elegant place in time.

I joined the surge of people alighting from the train and making for the taxi stand. Standing patiently in line, I was bewitched by scenes of Paris cafe life across the street. A waiter in black tie and wearing a long apron moved officiously among tables, dispensing espressos and handing out croissants. His patrons sipped on their coffees and lazily perused their newspapers, apparently disinclined to interrupt the gentle pace of their morning reverie with anything as troublesome as work. I reflected upon this sudden change in workaday pace as I clambered into the back of a taxi and instructed my driver in broken French to take me to the Place d'Alma in the eighth arrondissement.

Crossing a wide boulevard, I glanced to my right. The Arc de Triomphe stood proudly at the top of the Champs Elysees. The sun had mustered enough strength to cast the massive monument in a bold yellow light. I was gobsmacked. If Edith Piaf or the French national anthem, "La Marseillaise," had suddenly burst forth from the radio, I wouldn't have been the least bit surprised. To my left, the Champs Elysees, the most famous avenue in the world, unfurled between leafless trees to the Place de la Concorde, ending at the Jardin des Tuileries--and beyond it the Louvre. I was having a pure Paris moment.

The spell was soon broken, however, as we pulled up outside the ICC. Though surrounded on either side by stunning nineteenth-century Haussmannian hotels particuliers, the International Chamber of Commerce was housed inside a squat gray concrete bunker--an architectural carbuncle on the otherwise-picturesque Cours Albert 1er.

From the lobby, I called up to the communications department. As I waited to be met, I ambled nervously about the reception area. Flags of every nation were mounted in the entrance hall. Faded and dusty, they hung limply under wan fluorescent lighting. A collection of ICC publications lined the walls: books with titles I didn't understand, dealing with subjects I neither knew nor very much cared about. I cursed myself for not having better prepared for the interview.

A few minutes later a jovial, late-sixty-something gentleman walked down the stairs and introduced himself as Lionel.

"Welcome, welcome," he said, taking my hand and shaking it rigorously. "It's very good of you to come over. I trust you had a pleasant journey." He was an English gentleman, of the old-school type. After exchanging pleasantries and leaving my coat with the receptionist, we made our way up carpeted stairs to the office of ICC's secretary-general. Lionel gave the door a gentle knock.

"Come in!" barked a voice from the other side.

Pushing open the double doors, Lionel ushered me into the office. A small woman in her early fifties, with short cropped hair and a profusion of gold jewelry, sprang up from behind her desk and charged over to shake my hand.

"How do you do. Maria Cattaui," she offered brusquely, shaking my hand and indicating for Lionel and me to take a seat. I could tell it was not going to be an easy chat about the weather.

Maria had spent the better part of the last twenty years creating and nurturing the development of the hugely successful, high-powered business and political love-in that is the annual World Economic Forum in Davos. Now, sitting across the table from me, she proceeded to hold forth about the ICC, her new pet project--its goals, its objectives, and its need for dedicated, attentive personnel.

I didn't absorb a word. I was too busy being transfixed by the view from her window, taking in as it did a majestic sweep of the Seine and a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower. With an idiot's grimace pasted to my face and the presence of mind to occasionally nod in answer to her questions, I sat and stared at the Bateaux Mouches plying their way up the river. I imagined the route they were about to undertake, past the Louvre, under the Pont Neuf, and around the flying buttresses of Notre Dame. Paris, the old harlot, was already casting her spell, seducing me with coy flashes of her well-worn but timeless beauty.

Fortunately for me, Maria's interviews consisted more of oration than actual conversation. They were little more than an opportunity for her to give rein to her fierce intellect and hold forth on whatever topic of macroeconomic importance had taken her fancy that particular day. More often than not, they were also a chance for her to show off the caliber of her considerably bulging black book. After half an hour of listening to her reminisce about the time Yassir Arafat refused to use the same backstage door at the World Economic Forum as Ehud Barak, I stood to leave the room, certain I had done little to convince this woman of my suitability for the job. Not even my considerable charisma, I reasoned, could have shone through in the three words she allowed me between Clinton anecdotes.

But as we walked down the stairs back toward the lobby, Lionel turned to me and chuckled. "Well, it looks like you've got the job then," he said.

I stopped dead in my tracks and looked at him quizzically. "You can't be serious," I replied. "I barely got a word in edgewise. She didn't ask me a single question. All I did was sit there and nod." These were, I would learn later, two qualities that made me eminently qualified for the position.

It was early afternoon as I stepped out onto the street.

"So I'll be in touch to discuss particulars," Lionel chirrupped as he waved me down the street.

"Right," I replied, doing my best to disguise the look of shock. "We'll be in touch." The shock then began to yield to a sense of rising panic. This wasn't part of the plan. It was just meant to be a day-trip jolly to Paris. A brief respite from the monotony of Sky News. A little jaunt to the Continent for a crepe and a carafe, and a random job interview squeezed in between.

With two hours to kill before my return train to London, I decided to walk back toward Gare du Nord, to clear my head and weigh the decision that I suddenly, unexpectedly had before me. The last of autumn's yellow leaves clung to the trees as I wandered past the Grand Palais. To my right, beyond the elegant arc of the Pont Alexandre III and framed by its ornate lamps, sat Les Invalides, its gilt-edged dome glinting in the afternoon sun. I thought of London--of the gray skies, the cold single mattress on the floor that constituted my bedroom in the tiny West London terrace house I shared with five other people--and wondered if my time there was up.

Présentation de l'éditeur :

At the age of twenty-eight, stuck in a dead-end job in London, and on the run from a broken heart, Bryce Corbett takes a job in Paris, home of l’amour and la vie boheme; he is determined to make the city his own—no matter how many bottles of Bordeaux it takes. He rents an apartment in Le Marais, the heart of the city’s gay district, hardly the ideal place for a guy hoping to woo French women. He quickly settles into the French work/life balance with its mandatory lunch hour and six weeks of paid vacation. Fully embracing his newfound culture, Corbett frequents smoky cafes, appears on a television game show, hobnobs with celebrities at Cannes, and attempts to parse the nuances behind French politics and why French women really don’t get fat. When he falls in love with a Parisian showgirl, he realizes that his adopted city has become home.

As lively and winning as Peter Mayle’s A Year in Provence and Sarah Turnbull’s Almost French, A Town Like Paris evokes the beauty, delights, and charms of Paris for an ever-eager audience of armchair travelers.

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Broadway Books
• Date d'édition: 2008
• ISBN 10: 0767928172
• ISBN 13: 9780767928175
• Reliure: Broché
• Nombre de pages: 283