Deciding to crosspost my Substack on here and on WordPress.
I was made redundant so I ran away to Paris for 36 hours.
Just before my 29th birthday, I found out I was being made redundant from my job of nearly three years. In some ways I was shocked, in others not - but this Substack isn’t about that. I feel no ill will towards my former place of employment, truly, and I’m so grateful for everything I learned in my time there. This Substack is also not me giving lessons in what to do when you’re made redundant; I am probably the last person you should ever take advice from, considering I am an all round mess.
I suppose this is a rambling of sorts on rejection, and taking control, and trying to find happiness in the midst of chaos. Like that age-old saying: you can’t go under or over it, you can only go through it.
Rejection and readjustment is something that I think everyone in my generation has had to face; it’s as natural as breathing. I don’t know anyone who has had their life go exactly as they thought it would as a child. Especially growing up in the mish-mash of recession and COVID-19 muddled waters, everyone knows that getting anything (a job, a relationship, a good hairdresser) requires digging your nails into whatever you can and not letting go. And even then, you can’t control external forces. Just as easily as you can find that relief of security, you can also find yourself back in the flood.
There were two small parts of my redundancy that were meant to make me feel better, which were 1. being told it had nothing to do with my performance, and 2. knowing that it happens to most people my age at some point. Still, it hurt. Of course it does! Our jobs are often the thing that defines our worth in this society, to the point we have our own social media platform for it where you’re likely to find your high school classmates trawling on Invisible Mode to anxiously see if you’re doing better than them.
My mind was all over the place. The day I found out it was happening, I cried over Chinese food and watched the then-latest episode of Love Story with my mother (great therapy).
And then I booked a flight to Paris.
This was irresponsible, yes, because I didn’t have a lot of money saved anyway, and obviously I would not have anything new coming in within the next month when I officially finished up. It was also incredibly privileged. Stupid, too, I’d say. And for transparency, I was already going to London to visit my friend who had moved there - so it was just a case of adjusting my flight home to another destination, instead.
I did feel stupid as I got off the plane - extremely hungover on about three hours of sleep thanks to those Little….Door bars in London and their cocktails - and manoeuvred myself onto the RER-B train. I had always been that girl who was obsessed with Paris, but what if our relationship had changed in the nearly seven years since I’d last been there? What if they had suddenly knocked down the Eiffel Tower and made everyone walk on the sides of the buildings like in Inception? I berated myself for that entire 40 minute train journey, watching the French suburbs fly past me, and then some more on the switch to the Metro.
The first time I’d been to Paris, it was for my 16th birthday; I had braces, I was a little chubby, I wasn’t even a seedling of the person I am now. The second time was for my 21st; I was a student, high from studying abroad. The third time, I was 22; I thought I knew everything there was to know about life at that point. Now, I was at the other end of my twenties, realising I had known absolutely nothing and still don’t. If I had felt like a lion attacking life back then, I now felt like a baby deer shyly trying to stand.
Yet as I walked up the steps of the metro station to find the Notre-Dame Cathedral, coated in golden sunshine, it felt like everything was clicking into place. Like she was standing there, waving to me, saying We’ve missed you. I could almost imagine Quasimodo peeking out from behind the pillars, doing a little dance and calling out to the Phantom underneath the Palais Garnier and Amelie over in Montmartre. She’s back!
My hotel was wonderful, a father-daughter ran place nestled right next to one of those cafés that I always felt too intimidated to sit outside at. It might seem silly, but these places taunt me every time I go to a mainland European city; it’s one of the few times I feel intensely British (which is rare as a Scottish person). Or maybe it’s just my mind which has overthought things since I was in utero, probably, but the thought of just pulling up a chair and sitting on display to everyone by myself is overwhelming. I can fly to countries on my own, I can present at big conferences, but things like sitting at a café alone or phoning for an appointment feel like climbing Mount Everest. As if they could sense my inability to seem that cool radiating off me, and I’d be laughed away: One does not simply just ‘take a seat.’
I spotted it when I checked in. I walked by it again and again in between my wandering and buying a crepe from the lovely man around the corner. I eyed it out of my window as I sat at my desk and wrote in my journal, feeling very much like Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina. As if it was taunting me, seeing the people chatting away and watching the sky darken; it not only reminded me I wasn’t cool enough to sit there, it also reminded me I was there alone. I told myself I’d sit there once before I left. Just to prove it to myself. I would conquer this café. Sometimes you tell yourself things and even as the thought is said, you know you’re lying to yourself.
I had one full day there, basically. Therefore, I intended to do whatever I wanted for that full day.
I first went to Montmartre, determined to see the Amelie cafe. As a white brunette girl who has cut her own fringe in the past, I had to pay respect to my culture. Then to the Moulin Rouge, watching the outside in the grey morning skies and thinking about the millions of feet that must have danced on that stage.
From there, the Sacré-Cœur. One of my favourite spots. I observed the flurry of people running up and down the steps, all with their own little lives. Do you ever sit at a tourist spot you’ve been to before, or live near to, and wonder how many people have waited their whole lives to get there?
I facetimed my mother back home and felt a wave of homesickness hit me. I think it’s always in conjunction with great highs, right? You feel so happy to be out and exploring, but you feel that tug towards home. You have that moment of what the hell am I doing here?, like a self-consciousness. As if you’ve decided to enter clown school. No offense to any aspiring clowns reading this.
To circumvent that feeling, I decided to sit and sketch out the place. I’d just bought new sketchpaper in London, and really wanted to embrace imperfections. I’m the worst for not wanting to do something unless it’s capital P, ‘Perfect,’ on the first go. That often leads me to being stuck and doing nothing at all. Another example of that is this Substack; I’ve had so many drafts but never thought anything I could write was good enough, so I never did. This sketchbook was my attempt at being decidedly imperfect. And it worked! I sat and roughly drew out the Sacré-Cœur, forcing myself to keep going and not redo it even when it came out wonky.
Afterwards, I wandered the streets. I won’t bore you with a play-by-play of everything I bought, but I did come across some wonderful things that made the day feel extremely kismet.
The Wall of Love, where I saw an older gentleman playing the violin to amuse some children nearby. I grew up playing Scottish trad music on the violin, mainly for my late grandfather, so this immediately stopped me in my tracks and made me smile.
A little shop on a side street dedicated to angels, of all different sizes and colours and functions. Lamps, decorations, jewellery, anything you could imagine. I walked around in the dim lighting, feeling like they were all watching me with great interest. It was ran by the sweetest woman, who immediately made me feel at ease. I had grown up fascinated by angels and even had my own angel altar. Even now, I love having one with me.
The mandatory old-fashioned photobooth, with the picture I now feel obligated to post on every social media platform. A record of my last days of being 28 years old.
A vintage shop where I found postcards dating back to around 1902. I love collecting these because it feels nice to acknowledge the people who wrote on them, and who they were writing to. As if they’re not lost to time.
Back in the 5th arrondissement, an antique shop where I found a replica of a 1800s compass, alongside painted clam shells with attached legs, bottles of water from the Seine, and a book entitled The Secret Lives of Mermaids in the Seine: Seducing Frenchmen and Stringing along fishermen.
Lanes of old-school cinemas showing everything from a range of Hollywood Blondes - Monroe, Novak, even Rita Hayworth when she went blonde for Orson Welles - and another showing One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Another had showings of The Virgin Suicides, Mulholland Drive, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me and more.
A bookstore where the saleswoman was decidedly unimpressed by my bad French, but happily let me peruse during her lunch break. This led to me finding a €20 old edition of a Jean Cocteau novel - only one of my favourite filmmakers and artists of all time.
I ended the night by trying (and failing) to go to the famous Caveau de la Huchette, the underground jazz bar currently viral on social media. I psyched myself up for hours to go; similar to the café thing, going into a bar alone is very daunting to me. Anyway, I got there, only to find out that the line not only spanned up the street, but across the street and along!
All due respect to those people, but I was not going to spend my night queueing up just to go into a crowded bar where I could probably guess a lot of people would be glued to their phones to get a good TikTok instead of dancing. Or at least, this is what I told myself.
I made my way back, wondering what I’d do with my night. I saw that café, the same one I had told myself I’d go to once before I left. There was a part of me that was putting it off to the morning before I’d leave for my flight home. Yet deep down, I knew I would’ve used my needing to get to the airport as an excuse to not go. I’d have dilly-dallyed around my hotel room and thought Oh, well, when I’d left myself no time. I’d have went home without going, and put it down to the fact that I just wasn’t cool enough to sit somewhere like that. Next time, I’d say to myself, knowing I’d just do the same exact same thing if there was a next time.
But why not now?
I made my way over. It was quiet, but not deserted. I sat down. I spoke to the waiter, who very kindly recommended me a glass of wine that he thought I’d like as the one I ordered wasn’t available. I drank that glass and watched the people go by.
I thought about my day. How lucky was I to, at (nearly) 29 years old, be able to do this? Sometimes it can be easy to focus so much on what you think you’re lacking in or what you want, rather than what is already in your hands. The freedom to sit by a cafe, drinking a delicious red wine, and breathe in the warm air of a lovely March night (with no rain!). The ability to walk around and choose what you want to do with your time at that moment. Getting to wear clothes you chose. Having a warm bed to sleep in. Getting to watch Forrest Gump dubbed in French on your little television.
The next morning, I walked to the cherry blossoms in the Jardin du Palais-Royal. Cherry blossoms are another thing I’ve always loved, another thing that felt like they were crafted to be here at this exact moment for me when I needed them. On the way there, I blasted Government Hooker by Lady Gaga as I walked over the bridges with the sun shining down on me. It made the water sparkle as Gaga sang about her lover. I wondered if anyone walking by could make out what I was listening to.
I sat in the park, sneaking glances at the middle-aged businessman sitting on the bench next to me, wondering if he was stressed about something. The couple giggling by the corner, if they were on their first trip together or if they were years into their relationship and still as in love as ever. The dog padding by with its tongue wagging, if they knew this route by heart. I sketched the statue before me, wondering about the people who had made it.
On the way back, I spotted a man setting up his saxophone on the banks of the Seine. As my time in Paris was ending, his day was just beginning. I turned off my headphones and listened to him start setting up wandering over to me.
It’s now been nearly two months since that trip. I turned 29 soon after, celebrating by wearing the tiniest shorts known to man. I cut off a long-time friendship. I went to numerous interviews and got rejected from those interviews. I’ve contemplated every kind of career option from crocheting dolls to becoming a nun. I’ve went over every single action I took in every aspect of my life to see if I could’ve changed the redundancy somehow. I’ve had about ten solid panic attacks about the fact that I have no idea what my future is going to look like; I’ve had even more moments of euphoria that I have no idea what my future is going to look like. I’ve resolved myself to finally finish my first novel considering I have all this free time and it’s been my dream to be an author since I was five years old. I’ve felt incredibly young and old at the same time.
I have absolutely no clue what I’ll be doing in a week, month, or this time next year.
There is something incredibly thrilling and incredibly terrifying about this fact. A part of me craves stability, yet the other part wants to reach out my fingertips and not feel walls pushing me in. I watch other people in my life continue pedalling, but I feel like my bike has broken down on the side of the road and I’m waiting for a new tyre.
Would I recommend for everyone to book a 36-hour trip to Paris after being told they’re being made redundant? No, because it’s not for everyone. And again, I’m not someone to take advice from.
I would say that in the midst of rejection or confusion, it’s important to give yourself those little moments that feed your soul. I don’t believe that we should starve ourselves of happiness in times of uncertainty. If anything, we should be giving ourselves more of it when we can. The only person that can really make you happy is yourself. Jobs, people, items - they can all come and go. More than that, they don’t you the way you know yourself.
That doesn’t necessarily mean dropping money on things - God knows that’s a privilege! But I think it can manifest itself in small ways, whether it’s wearing that piece of clothing you always keep for a better day, or striking up conversation with the stranger in the queue with you, or sitting at the café you think is too cool for you. Because you belong there.
