What life is REALLY like as a real Emily in Paris

The beauty of love that lasts is that even after you get into a stable, predictable relationship, the one you love can always surprise you with a new side of themselves.

So it is with my grand amour Paris, who – after decades of refilling wine, force-feeding Camembert and blowing cigarette smoke in my face – is about to show his sporty side.

I grew up in Newcastle – our Riviera is Whitley Bay – and in my teens I was an anxious romantic, desperate for refinement. It is therefore not surprising that I fell hard for France. On my first trip to Paris at the age of 18, I discovered the used book stalls along the Seine.

I was suddenly so smitten with the thought of being an intellectual that I bought Simone de Beauvoir’s Le Deuxième Sexe in French. I still have it and I still haven’t read a page.

Twenty-two years later, I’m okay with not being a deep thinker – but I’m still obsessed with Pazza, as my British friends there call it.

I live in London, but I can work anywhere, so over the past few years I’ve spent a month or two at a time in the French capital and gradually made friends.

I have mastered public transport with my own Navigo pass; I’ve shrugged off tourist status by venturing to the least glamorous corners of the city and even dated a few locals.

It’s embarrassing, my eagerness to be accepted by Paris – especially since the people there consider us amused at best. However, this aloof self-confidence is part of what I love about Parisians.

But just as I’m getting comfortable in the city, I’m about to see another side of it. The 2024 Olympic Games will be held in Paris in a year’s time.

France has a long history with the games, having held them five times between 1900 and 1992 – but I still can’t quite understand the game.

To me, the chicness of Paris comes from its refusal to put in much visible effort: it considers itself out of competition. You eat a sandwich at your desk, instead of taking a sandwich

lunch break? Well, your French friend is sitting in a café picking an omelette and watching the world go by. The Parisian image of la belle vie is about fun and style – not about setting goals and personal bests.

Unlike the UK, France is still a place where you get weird looks for wearing gym clothes outside a gym.

Of course, the French love sport and take it extremely seriously. When I watched the Tour de France start from the Place de la Concorde last year, I noticed that everyone around me was shouting in a rather aggressive, motivating tone.

‘Come on, come on, come on!’ they cried – ‘Go, go, go!’ – like they’re team coaches instead of happy fans.

Enthusiasm is often regarded as a cringe in Paris, the domain of Americans and Britons. A friend’s French husband, for example,

is a great cook, but when I once declared that his food was ‘Delicieux!’ he looked appalled. “Non,” he corrected me. ‘Bon’ is sufficient.

Tasty is only for something exceptional.’ Will a bronze medal be considered exceptional enough for a cry? Or are congratulations reserved for gold?

As preparations for the Jeux Olympiques heat up, my friends tell me that the French train in their favorite sport: complaining. ‘Everyone is talking about the tickets being extremely expensive,’ says Rosie, 39, who is from Yorkshire but has moved

to Paris 16 years ago. Early excitement about the games cooled considerably, adds a French friend, Rodolphe, 44, when ticket prices were revealed.

In fact, this has convinced many to skip the city altogether during the event: “Parisians don’t place much importance on the Olympics, other than putting their apartments on Airbnb,” he says.

Even the French athletes grumble. Jimmy Gressier, a middle- and long-distance runner, is among those who objected to the cost, as competitive athletes are only offered two free tickets per event.

Prices start at €24, but they sold out quickly; tickets for the athletics final go up to € 980. ‘How can we charge such high prices for our sport?’ said Gressier on Instagram.

However, in the committee’s defense, each ticket sale includes an optional donation of €2, which is used to organize entry for people in low-income households; this will be the largest plan of its kind to date.

I suspect that despite all the roaring now, the mood will change when the day comes. The French will eventually fall in love with the Olympics thing, in the same way Londoners did in 2012 – after months of worrying about subway delays and bad weather.

Preparations are said to be well underway, and there will be a huge amount for Parisians to be proud of – not least the fact that this should be the first-ever carbon-neutral games, with no single-use plastics on site.

As you would expect, there are big plans for the catering too. The commission has promised that no food served by air will have been imported, as 80 percent of the produce comes from France.

All beer, wine and cider will be French, bien sûr. It is hoped that it will be served with a contemptuous shrug, for the ultimate in authenticity.

The 2024 Olympics will also be a stunning spectacle, as befits a uniquely beautiful city. For example, the beautiful glass domes of the Grand Palais will house fencing and taekwondo and the equestrian events will take place in the gardens of Versailles.

The triathlons start and end at the Pont Alexandre III, the graceful bridge that connects the Champs Elysées and the Eiffel Tower; athletes will be guarded there by bronze cherubs and winged horses.

The city has been working to clear the Seine for the water events. The idea is of course that citizens can also swim in the river (see page 40) – and what could be more French, with more joie de vivre, than on a summer’s day (topless sunbathing optional)?

Of course, I can’t write about the French without broaching their obsession with sex – and they’re always ready to share something to talk about.

Last November, the Paris 2024 Committee unveiled the two mascots that will symbolize the Olympic and Paralympic Games: a pair of red Phrygian caps, intended to represent freedom and the French Republic.

Instead, chuckling commenters say, the cartoons look like clitoris. The fact that this is the first thing that comes to mind reflects another point of national pride for the French: they really know their anatomy.

I am not organized or wealthy enough to buy tickets to any of the events. Still, I think I’ll go there to soak up the atmosphere.

An expensive Airbnb is worth sitting outside a café, enjoying a leisurely glass of wine and watching my beloved Parisians’ heads explode as they try to find more to complain about.