I still remember the awful feeling I had the day the Leaving Cert results came out. I spent it hoping that none of my friends would call to the door. My marks were dismal except for the C in honours English and the B in French.
I had lost interest in school as the Leaving Cert approached. I grew up in Portmarnock, in north Co Dublin, and would often skip double chemistry to go to the beach for an hour or two or take the 32a bus into town. Other days I might risk being seen and walk along the coast road to Malahide.
On the way home I would stop to admire Ireland’s Eye in the distance and dream of sunnier climes. Italy was my new obsession, having watched A Room with a View. All that passionate kissing amid Italian fields
On the way home I would stop to admire Ireland’s Eye in the distance and dream of sunnier climes. Italy was my new obsession, having watched A Room with a View. All that passionate kissing amid Italian fields.
I spent the next 10 uneventful years doing secretarial work in Dublin. I hoped that one of the jobs would lead to a promotion. Surely, with my flair and imagination, people could see that I was capable of much more than typing and shorthand.
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The promotion never came, and my desire to leave Ireland grew stronger as each year passed. I managed to get accepted as a mature student for a degree in English and Italian at University College Cork. I threw myself into academic life and was thrilled to discover I would be spending my Erasmus year in Venice.
With The Wings of the Dove under my arm I went in search of Henry James. It took forever to locate the English department of Ca’ Foscari University of Venice, but I finally did. It was down a little side street, and the only way to reach the entrance was by traversing the canal in a gondola.
When the results of my final exams came out, I was delighted. I had not expected a 2.1, and I organised a big meet-up in Temple Bar, Dublin. I might have got a little carried away with the celebrations, because I found myself dancing alone in Fitzsimons’ disco bar in the small hours of the morning.
It was the night I met my French husband. It was l’amour, and things on the romantic front replaced the serious business of getting my life back on the rails. On the eve of the new millennium, after four months of a long-distance relationship, I decided to move to Paris.
Behind every Paris street sign was a story, so I decided to turn my newly acquired research skills into a way to earn money
Each day I took the metro across town to work as an English teacher. While I was admiring the stylish wardrobes of my fellow passengers, I realised that I did not understand a word people were saying. I signed up for French classes, and two nights a week I would try to clip my Italian-sounding vowels, purse my lips and do my best to adopt the language of Flaubert.
Living at the foot of Montmartre, I soon realised my calling. I loved research, and after a day of teaching at the Wall Street Institute I would tap out articles on my ever-growing culture blog. I was chuffed at the comments I received, and each month my number of followers grew.
Behind every street sign was a story, so I decided to turn my newly acquired research skills into a way to earn money. I began Lingo Immersions and my Famous Artists of Montmartre tour to get over my fear of public speaking. Word spread among the Irish community in Paris, and the tour gave me a nice supplementary income.
As it was for so many tour guides, the Covid pandemic was bad for business. Zoom English lessons replaced my tours, but all was not lost, as I decided to research and plan a second tour. The Writers and Legends of the Left Bank tour had been fermenting in my head for quite some time. It is a tour focusing on the lost generation of American writers who came to Paris after the first World War.
I have been living in this wonderful city for more than 20 years. As I write this I am sitting on my balcony, in Pigalle, and instead of Ireland’s Eye in the distance I can see the Eiffel Tower
While piecing together the route for this tour I accidentally stumbled on the hotel where Oscar Wilde spent his last days. I continued walking in the direction of the Luxembourg Gardens and came across the home of Eileen Gray. Gray, the feted Irish architect and furniture designer, was also very good friends with Oscar Wilde’s niece Dolly. I didn’t dismiss these coincidences lightly. The universe was giving me a sign in neon lights. My Left Bank legends tour shows the village-like atmosphere of Paris in the 1920s.
I have been living in this wonderful city for more than 20 years, and my daughters, Clara and Juliette, are now 21 and 19. As I write this I am sitting on my balcony, in Pigalle, and instead of Ireland’s Eye in the distance I can see the Eiffel Tower. The two landscapes could not be more different.
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