If you are a follower of my blog, you know that I’m a bit of Lucy. I just finished reading a cute and funny memoir that I think you’ll enjoy. Did I mention that she’s a bit of a Lucy too?
Drinking too much bubbly. Meeting sappy Frenchmen who have girlfriends or are creeps or both. Encountering problème after problème with French bureaucracy. When newly-single party girl Vicki moved to Paris, she was hoping to taste wine, stuff her face with croissants, and maybe fall in love.
In her first book, this long-time blogger and semi-professional drinker recounts the ups and downs of her life in Paris. Full of sass, shamefully honest admissions, and situations that seem too absurd to be true, Vicki makes you feel as if you’re stumbling along the cobblestones with her.
Will she find love? Will she learn to consume reasonable amounts of alcohol? Will the French administration ever cut her a break?
- File Size: 1679 KB
- Print Length: 239 pages
Vicki Lesage is an IT Director by day, writer by night. And a full-time nerd. She loves fondue, wine, math, and zombies. She lives in Paris with her French husband and rambunctious son.
There are a tremendous amount of self-published memoirs on the market today and I’ll be the first to tell you that many shouldn’t be there – not that everyone doesn’t have a story to tell, but that not all stories should be published and let loose on the world. I have had the opportunity to muddle through many of them and CONFESSIONS OF A PARIS PARTY GIRL by Vicki Lesage is not one of those.
Vicki headed off to Paris, almost as a default destination, to have an adventure and hopefully meet the love of her life. What she found was not quite the fairytale she had expected. It exceeded her expectations, but not before making her second guess herself a few times as she learned to navigate a strange country and finally find her place in it.
CONFESSIONS OF A PARIS PARTY GIRL is her story and is told in a candid and humorous voice, and it was a delight to read. I laughed throughout the book as she finally found the apartment she sublet and through her journey of finding friends and handling the “loving” Frenchmen along the way. She takes us along for the ride as she satisfies her appetite with wonderfully decadent French croissants and the rowdy bars where she enjoys a karaoke existence. Vicki gives us a first hand accounting of what it is like to be an American in Paris.
Few memoirs have held my attention the way this book did. The book was not only well-written, it was intelligently written, and of course, the character well-developed! Confessions is not just another memoir, it is a truly entertaining read. I am giving CONFESSIONS OF A PARIS PARTY GIRL five stars and I would definitely recommend it.
PURCHASE ON AMAZON
EXCERPT FROM CONFESSIONS OF A PARIS PARTY GIRL:
Parisian bakeries are world-famous for being awesome. French women are world-famous for being skinny. The two must have never met because I don’t see how these women stay so svelte when there are thousands of calories staring them in the face.
And boulangeries are more prolific in Paris than Starbucks are in the United States. On a stroll to the post office (they have an absurd amount of those, too) it’s not uncommon to pass three or four bakeries. How on earth can you resist?
With time I’ve mellowed and am usually able to escape with just one carb-laden item. But in the beginning, I had to peel my face away from the glass as the boulangère called, “Client suivant!” Next!
“Une baguette, s’il vous plaît.” A baguette was mandatory so that I could make a sandwich or spread some cheese on it or carry it around town to look like a local. To go with it I could order a croissant or a pain au chocolat (which is like a croissant but with chocolate running through it) or a suisse au chocolat (which is like a pain au chocolat with some creamy, wonderful, artery-clogging substance running through it). It was the toughest choice of my day.
The baker interrupted my thoughts. “Avec ceci?” To my not-yet-fluent ears, it sounded like “Avec soucis?” “With worries?” I guess it’s a weird take on the Australian “No worries” phrase. Glad that the baker had no worries about my baguette, I ordered a croissant, too. The baker gave me an odd look but that was nothing new – it happened nearly every time I spoke French. I paid and went on my way. Not the smoothest of transactions, but I had warm, buttery, gluten-y products in my hands. All was good.
Later that night, I stopped in at Ammo’s bar. Sipping the froth off the top of my beer, I asked, “So what’s with the bakers here saying ‘avec soucis’? Is it some Australian thing?”
By the blank stare on her face, I knew I had said something stupid. “Avec SOO-see, you’re saying? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
That was maybe one “ha” too many. I got it. I must have been wrong about something. But what?
“They’re saying ‘avec SUH-see’, you know, like ‘Anything else with that?’”
Oh. Ohhhhh. Ohhhhhhhhhhhh. Now it made sense. And now I realized just how dumb I had looked. Not only did I brush off their “Anything else?” question, but I’d replied by ordering something else. Why haven’t these people kicked me out of their country yet?
The best I could do is learn from it and do better next time. I’d have to get used to embarrassing myself until I mastered the language.
Ready for another drink, I asked Anne Marie for a pint of lager. “Avec SOO-see?” she replied.
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