Deidre Dare

I usually spend June at my flat in Paris, and this year is no exception. The idea is that I can live a hermit-like existence for a month and write, read, study and contemplate life in general, away from the angst and drama of life in Moscow.

What I always forget is that the phrase "J'habite a Moscou" is probably the best phrase in the French language for making new friends.

Though I long for solitude, I've always felt that my attraction to that state is a tad unhealthy and so I try to live by the rule that, whether or not I want to, any invitation received should be accepted. Generally, this is a good rule for people to follow. After all, the party you didn't go to might have been the party where you were going to meet the love of your life or discover an exciting career opportunity you couldn't have imagined.

Therefore, as much as I long to say "Non" when someone invites me out in Paris, I always force myself to say "Oui". (Though, I've noticed this year that "Oui" doesn't come that naturally to me anymore - I find myself saying "Da", much to the consternation of my French tutor and the confusion of Parisian shopkeepers.)

The reclusive part of me, therefore, subversively tries to keep these invitations to a minimum by avoiding telling people I'm back in town and in other, equally sneaky ways.

But that damned "J'habite a Moscou" undermines the careful recluse each and every summer. No sooner is that phrase out of my mouth, then the person I'm parlez-vous-ing with asks if I want to grab a "coupe de champagne" that evening with them.

There is something about the mere fact of living in Russia that impresses people abroad and makes them assume that you, then, must be a fascinating creature indeed. I honestly believe that if I said "I am a pirate," it would be less intriguing to people.

I try to avoid using the magical phrase "J'habite a Moscou" but, unless I'm prepared to be completely rude (which I'm not), I end up having to use it all the time.

For example, at the gym the other day, a man I always think of as "D'Artagnan" due to his long, wavy hair and his whole OTT French "thang", noticed I was back. Obviously overwhelmed with curiosity, he approached me as I strode on the elliptical machine and asked me where had I been the past 11 months?

"Ah, J'habite a Moscou," I said with trepidation. "Je passe Juin en France tous les ans."

"Voulez-vous une coupe de champagne cette soiree?" he predictably asked.

Mercifully, the hermit managed to win out that day and I managed to avoid yet more champagne. But you get the picture.

I think that the reason everyone thinks we Muscovites are so cool is because Moscow is still considered Frontier Country by outsiders. Therefore, they compare the inhabitants to either Cowboys or Indians and, let's face it, Cowboys and Indians have always been pretty cool.

I said "Oui" to a sexy American producer who lives in Hollywood and who was passing through Paris, and he told me that in his opinion, Moscow was the hardest "normal" place to live on the entire planet. He figured that anyone who lives there must not only be a thrill-seeker but also possess superhuman qualities of endurance and courage.

Well, maybe we all do. I can't really tell anymore, since it's simply "home" to me now, angst and drama notwithstanding. The problem with these champagne-filled evenings is that you feel compelled to be really cool and courageous even if, in reality, you're actually feeling intimidated about ordering dinner in your sub-par French. It's a lot of work to be cool and it takes a lot of coupes de champagne to make it seem natural.

The problem with a lot of coupes de champagne is that the next morning you're terribly hung over, can't do anything more productive than watch S&M internet porn, and, Cinderella-like, discover that you've lost one of your charming Jimmy Choo shoes somewhere between the Palais Royal and your flat.

Which is why, when someone asked me this morning for directions in the Luxembourg Gardens, and added: "Your accent is interesting. Where do you live?" I replied in perfect French, "On the high seas off Nigeria. You see, I am a pirate."

xxoo, DD

Deidre Dare's novel "Expat" can be read online at: www.deidredare.com