I’m Scottish and I live in Paris with my cat. We came here because of this and that and Colette, the French writer, who had lots of cats and an affair with her 17-year-old stepson when she was 47. That’s a funny thing to do. Paris seems to encourage people to do unexpected things. A Houdini-type jailbird who tried to extort money from the Marquise de Pompadour. An empoisonneuse, a lady poisoner who wrote her poison recipes on the backs of ordinary ones for things like soup or calf’s liver paté. A revolution thrown together by some twenty-somethings, that changed the history of France forever. A police bodyguard brigade who forgot to take their weapons when accompanying their president to a environmental summit in a country where they might just have come in handy…and so on and so on.
When you’re strange, it’s comforting to be surrounded by the shades of those who are infinitely odder. So this blog is about being strange in a strange place, and the strange things that that entails. In Paris, I am not only strange (étrange), being medically bats, but also, as I am a foreigner, I am always a stranger (étrangère), no matter how long I live here. So I am a strange stranger in a strange place. I feel right at home.