Emily in Paris/ Katie in Paris

Netflix’s latest big opinion-piece-inducing series, Emily In Paris, tells the story of an American girl (Lily Collins) coming to the Paris branch of her marketing firm to give ‘the American perspective’. The sumptuous fashion and beautiful shots of Paris don’t completely erase the annoyances- the unlikeable main character who insists everyone around her speaks English, the unrealistically clean Parisian pavements, the shameless stereotyping of the French as rude, adulterous and late. Despite my objections, I’ve kept watching, fuelled by nostalgia and guilt.

I, too, have been a basic bitch living in Paris.

After a rough final year at school, moving to Paris to be an au pair for a few months was an adventure. I still think about those months as a kind of healing, like the city was giving me the gifts of time alone and croissants and art to build me up again. I’m proud of how much I grew up in those three months: I worked for a family I care about deeply, learnt to cook for five fussy children, become a Métro pro and navigated the strange social etiquette of being the foreign nanny in old-money Paris circles (the British tennis club, the Normandy home of the extended family, the maths tutor’s). I learnt how to be by myself for the first time; when the children were at school and I had tidied the house, I was free to wander around the city. I sat in cafes by myself, I went to galleries. I lingered outside shows during Paris fashion week by myself, turned up at an au pair party by myself.

Emily In Paris reminds me of some of these experiences- she is as wide-eyed and gushing about being alone in Paris as I was. The show also reinforced mine (and everyone else’s) enduring fascination with les Parisiens- or at least, the idea that we have of them. Of course, not every Parisian exudes confidence, or always wears haute couture, but it is easy to see those who do, and put them and their sexy French accents on a pedestal of Cool. Despite her excellent wardrobe, Emily cannot be une Parisienne. To be honest, she doesn’t try particularly hard- not bothering to speak French and trying to impose her American ways- but even when I tried, I never got close. When I lived there, I desperately wanted to belong. It can be hard being an outsider anywhere, but Paris can be cold and aloof. I know this is irrational- I come from Yorkshire, of course I'm not remotely Parisian, and there are obviously bigger identity struggles than those of a Brit abroad- but it still got me down. Paris just doesn’t seem to care.

For those with limited French, the pitfalls are inevitable (although Emily will not be making French people any more sympathetic to the cause of the English-speakers of Paris, quite rightly). I made so many embarrassing mistakes. One that still haunts me was being sent to the speciality cheese shop on the Rue des Martyrs to ask for the family’s usual order. I stammered through the sentences I had prepared, to the blank face and frustration of the elderly owner, who told me we could not understand each other (I didn’t need to be told). Afterwards, leaving without any cheese, I had a weep on a park bench, frustrated at my total inadequacy. Looking back, I’m ashamed not to have made more effort to improve, but when working for an English-speaking family (and having the aforementioned Quality Alone Time), it was an avoidable problem, so I avoided it.

Towards the end of my time in Paris, I started to get beyond my rosy, picture-perfect Paris. I went to more unusual neighbourhoods, hung out at a café which would definitely be too ugly for the location scouts of Emily In Paris, started to notice Parisians who were more edgy than chic, more young London than traditional Paris. My love affair with the city continues, and I hope to live there for longer in the future. I was sad to leave- especially because it meant saying goodbye to the family. Whenever I go back, I still put Paris and its inhabitants on a pedestal, I still want to be them. But, like Emily, I’m just not that compatible with the Paris I have in my head.

Paris is not like this show- as anyone who has spent time there can attest. Paris has far more than pretty streets and rude residents. Paris has undeniable magic, and maybe part of that is the sense that you’ll never quite be Parisian enough. Paris is a lovable, frosty old lady.

KV