For the last eight months I’ve followed pretty much the same routine: I wake up, walk to my local Japanese boulangerie to pick out a pineapple bun (yes, it is possible to get sick of croissants), make myself an espresso and drink it in my small chambre de bonne while listening to a podcast.
Today I went for my first run in a long time and got distracted listening to an interview with Arundhati Roy. I ended up jogging along the Seine from the 1st to the 7th arrondissement. Before I knew it, I was standing under the Eiffel Tower. “The Pandemic is A Portal”, Roy says. “Yeah, right”, I think.
For the first couple of months this was idyllic. I revelled in the solitude, the Parisian lifestyle and the sense my day-to-day life was far more significant and romantic than it’s ever been. The work I did for the francophone part of my year abroad was largely remote, but I was still given the opportunity to venture out into the city and have experiences ‘in real life’.
I never thought I would feel contempt for this city, but the quais are flooded, the sky is grey, I can feel a blister coming on and I know I have to run all the way back home. All I can think about is how I am supposed to be on a beach sunbathing with a caipirinha in one hand and a pastel in the other.
I was supposed to go to Brazil at the start of 2021, but with the ongoing health crisis, travel bans and various problems with my paperwork, this was, inevitably, delayed. So, I started working for an NGO, Gastromotiva, remotely, with the hope I would be able to join them in Rio de Janeiro at the end of February.
Gastromotiva gives culinary and entrepreneurship courses to people in need with the aim to promote social mobility. It also works as a food bank and used to host monthly banquets for the homeless. The team is friendly, the work is fulfilling, and I cannot wait to get my hands dirty (colocar a mão na massa).
My mother is Brazilian and, while I feel a deep connection to the country, I’ve always lived elsewhere and haven’t been back in more than five years. My year abroad was an opportunity to connect with a part of my heritage. Perhaps that’s why it’s been so difficult to accept the delay.
I finally arrive home and take a quick shower. I wasn’t able to keep up the running. My legs gave out and I walked the last couple of kilometres, periodically jogging awkwardly to stay warm. The best part of my work is the slow mornings because of the time difference; I only start at midday.
I log into our Teams meeting and feel depressed when I see my co-workers are getting more and more bronzeados while I look – as my mother recently put it – appallingly translucent. It snowed in Paris the other day and when I mention this to my colleagues, they seem incredibly excited. This makes me feel ashamed of my envy.
They make a joke about a mutual friend who worked with them for a couple years, a girl from Luxembourg who speaks with a perfect carioca accent despite undeniably being a gringa. I jokingly ask them if I look Brazilian. They get a bit awkward and say I kind of sound like I’m from São Paulo. I quickly change the topic.
Enduring lockdown in a foreign country is tough, especially when you live by yourself and the confinement is as strict as it is in Paris. Being alone for too long makes your thoughts bounce around your head, you get stuck in loops, everything is repeated twice – you make conversation when there is none. I think I’ve forgotten how to talk to people. When I watch ‘The Circle France’ or ‘The Circle Brazil’ I find myself yelling at the people on the show.
Things have felt liminal. I say bonjour as I walk into the supermarket and bom-dia when I open my laptop. Sometimes I go to the Japanese restaurant next door owned by a family from Taiwan. I order takeout and try to speak to their seven-year-old boy in Mandarin. I’m a bit rusty and he laughs at my accent. I try to explain I grew up in China and he tells me I’m lying; I don’t look Chinese. We end up speaking in French and I think it’s probably for the best. I don’t think the oral examiners would be too happy if I drop a nǐ ne? into our conversation.
We pause for a ‘lunch-break’ at 5pm. I realize I’ve been uncharacteristically gloomy recently and pinch myself for romanticising a pretentious 20th-century incarnation of mal du siècle. Whenever I feel disillusioned by the city – when I’m told I smile too much or when my pronunciation is rudely corrected by a stranger – I cross the Seine and go to the 6th arrondissement. I like looking at the bookshops and art galleries in the area. They are one of the few things that are still open. I put my shoes on and cross the Seine. I have an hour and a half for lunch, but I think I can get away with two hours if I work late.
At the top of the hill, near the Panthéon, there’s a small Portuguese and Brazilian bookstore. I’ve been reviewing lusophone books and novels for a publication focused on South American culture, ‘Sounds and Colours’, and sometimes come to the store to look at books to write about. The selection isn’t amazing, but I enjoy speaking to the shopkeeper in Portuguese.
This time we talk about Avenue de Camoëns in the 16th arrondissement, named after the famous Portuguese writer, Luís de Camões. It’s possibly the smallest avenue in Paris and has a rose marble bust of Camões at the bottom of a quintessentially Parisian staircase.
When I get back home, just in time for the 6pm curfew, my feet are red and raw. I try to stretch but I know no matter what I do I will wake up too stiff to move. I always seem to take things too far. I get into bed and check my emails. I have a message from the Brazilian Embassy. It seems I will be able to renew my Brazilian passport in time for my arrival in Rio, solving the aforementioned issues with my paperwork. I have a sudden rush of happiness – I’m going to Brazil – but then notice the sun setting outside my window.