Seventy Fifth Issue 2

Editor’s Note If you are holding this magazine in your hands it is because either yourself or someone else put their faith in us and our dream by donating money to our Kickstarter fund. Thank you so much, and I can only hope that you enjoy reading this, ‘The Love Issue’, as much as we enjoyed compiling it. It’s not easy to write about matters of the heart and so thank you to all the contributors who pried theirs open for your pleasure.

In this issue you will find pieces of work ranging from embarrassing dating stories to poems about missing an ex, an interview with someone whose job is their passion (not an au pair, funnily enough) and a recipe to soothe the soul. Yet in common they all have a quest for love, in its many forms. It is enough to make even a cynic like me feel a little warm inside.

As always a huge thank you to Briana and Carys; your dedication and passion is everything. I hope you’re both proud of the finished product. Special thanks to Niki Zavos Macrae and Grace Winter.

Editor: Evangelina Sargeant Co-Editor/Art Assistant: Carys Fieldson Layout Editor: Briana Stroh If you’d like to get involved please send an email to: editorseventyfith@gmail.com Like us on Facebook: The-Seventy-Fifth Instagram: Seventyfifth_ Twitter: Seventyfifth_

For an ocean will always have waves While sand with no ocean is nothing but a desert.

Extract from ‘The Beach’ by Mollie McConnell

APHRODITE “Most of the women in your life will outlast the men in your life.”

Amy Poehler/Goddess

Quite a few of the articles in this issue focus on romantic love, which is hardly unexpected, but I want to write about a new love in my life; my female friends. Or rather, my relatively recent appreciation of these goddesses. Sometimes I feel astounded by how strong and powerful they are and occasionally I allow myself to believe that perhaps by association I am strong and powerful too.

When I was younger and first entering those complicated, painful, turbulent teenage years, I would tell anyone who would listen that I was not a ‘girl’s girl’; that I preferred the company of boys. It was simpler, I said. Less drama. No bitchiness.

“I just can’t be arsed with girls.” Now I look back and cringe at my naïvity. Sure I still have my male friends, and it turns out they can be bitchy too, but it’s a completely different kind of friendship. When I think about the hours I wasted pretending to be interested in football with my guy mates at the pub when really I should have been focusing on my own interests it makes me so mad at myself. But I wanted to be the ‘Cool Girl’. (Google ‘Cool Girl speech Gone Girl’ - seriously do it!)

I love the filthy conversations I can have with my female friends and that none of us

has to pretend that we don’t have bodily functions. I get so tired of maintaining that façade. Our chat is often crude, but always without judgement. There is a deeper primal understanding between myself and my gyals. And if primal sounds primitive then think again, they’re incredibly complex, these relationships. They require nurturing and that can be incredibly difficult when you live in a different country to the majority of your closest friends. Often when people talk about the difficulties of long distance relationships they forget that it isn’t just their romantic partner who is left behind. Yet even now I know I could call any of them at 2am, crying, sick, lost, naked, broke, drunk, whatever, and they’d be there or they’d stay on the line for as long as I needed them. These are not the shallow, catty friendships parodied in tween flicks; in your 20s you begin to realise who is going to be in your life despite geographical distance.

I’ve made it one of my life goals now to be a girl’s girl. I will do anything in my power to support my female friends, colleagues, fellow womankind, because now I know just how up against it - the patriarchy - we all are. So to all my friends, you make me proud everyday and I love you.

“I love my husband, but there’s nothing like a conversation with a woman who understands you.”

Beyoncé Knowles/Goddess

T

Tinder Tales hey say you have to kiss plenty of frogs before you find your prince or princess but these days technology does a lot of the dismissing for you, and a split-second

swipe either left or right can seal your fate. Here are just a few of the best stories from our readers’ dating adventures in Paris. Just remember: most bad dating experiences can be turned into a funny story to regale your mates with over a bottle of wine.

T

he first time I used Tinder in France this boy I matched with pops up and asks me if I liked sliced bread. I don’t reply, and he continues to ask me over the course of the next few days which bread I prefer. Eventually, while quite drunk, I tell him that of course, baguette is my absolute fave. To which he replies (in French), “Well I’m a baker, would you like to try my hot baguette tonight perhaps with some cheese”, and that was the tragic end to our affair.

Grace

M

y gay friend Kyle and I were meeting his French fling at a bar, but Kyle was in the backseat of a taxi headed home after too many drinks. When a guy approached me speaking French, I thought it was the ‘friend’ we had been waiting for. I bought him drinks and danced with him like a trashy college girl on spring break. We traded the sweaty basement dance floor for an empty street where we talked until morning. Only as the sun began to rise did I realise it was a different guy... and he wasn’t gay. That was two summers ago. I never met Kyle’s love - but I met mine.

Alexandra

T

here was that one time I accepted to go on a date with a handsome guy who began talking to me while waiting for the metro.

Note to all the ladies out there: don’t go out with a guy who starts talking to you on the metro. When we were ordering, he told me he didn’t drink alcohol anymore because about a year ago he got blackout drunk and bit his friend on the face. Combine that with the fact that he was 33 and the situation just got weirder. That evening after I got home, I got a text from him saying “You’re a great girl, but you have a boyfriend and I just don’t think this is going to work out.” I definitely didn’t have a boyfriend. And they say women are the crazy ones.

Emily

Would you like to try my hot baguette tonight?

W

e were on our way to a bar. I noticed some girls on the street corner that were clearly prostitutes and as we walked past them they said hello to my date and knew his name. He tried to tell me they’d slept with his friend and that’s how they knew his name...

Anon

T

here was the time I matched on Tinder with one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen, but apparently without looking closely at his profile. Turns out he was looking to be a submissive to a dominant female.

I didn’t get how serious he was until he posted a Calvin Klein ad with a man at a woman’s high heel-clad foot as a Tinder “moment” with the caption “L’homme à sa juste place”. Oh dear.

I never met him; he ended up telling me he preferred bisexual girls and then unmatched me. Probably for the best, I’m not really into penis leashes.

Emily

HELEN WALKER P-ROSPERITAS.TUMBLR.COM INSTAGRAM: H_WLKR

W

e finish a bottle of cheap pink wine on the hill of Park aux Buttes Chaumont.

We drink from the bottle because we don’t have glasses. Two strangers sharing spit and facts. So why are you on Tinder? For friends, I reply, thinking meekly of free drinks.

Emma

A

rriving to my first meet up with Trevor, I stand nervously above the metro exit - peering enthusiastically at every 20-something male walking towards my direction. After 30 minutes with no contact, just as I am about to re-enter the metro , I receive a call. “I’m sorry I’m late, I’ll be there soon, I’ve been arrested”.

He had driven his moped onto the p av e me ntt and o t bus ted - ba d l uc k , emen an d g go I agree. We set off in the direction of the gallery entrance, but he halts abruptly and gestures back to his parked moped, “I need to fetch something.”

I obligingly follow his direction as he candidly explains that when he was pulled over he had on his person a rather large pocket of weed.

Being the sharp, quick thinker he was, he had dropped the pouch into the leaves in the gutter.

As we enter the security gates at the gallery, I have my bag searched and pass through the metal detectors without fuss. I look back sheepishly as Trevor does the same - it’s ok we’re in.

I

once went on a date with a guy who spent the entire evening describing in minute detail the abattoir he had visited the previous day. Needless to say it was rather awkward when my vegetarianism came up later on.

Jenny

Sorry I’m late, I was arrested.

Carys

Tips: Tell a friend exactly who and where you’re meeting, and send a quick text if you decide to go somewhere else/home with your date.

Arrange to meet somewhere public - never at your/your date’s home.

Have a friend on standby nearby? Or another classic - the codeword? Send your friend a text saying BANANAS and they know to call with an ‘emergency’.

If you feel uncomfortable at any point, make your apologies and leave.

Or don’t apologise and leave! You don’t owe the person anything, and if something doesn’t feel right, get out of there. Don’t hesitate to ask for help if you need it.

Bailey

Encounters of an Unromantic Nature

Blurts

Paris provokes conversations on the subject of love.

Encourages them. A city of disappointingly dispensed romance. A place that thrives and profits on bundled-up notions of romantic love and bloody accordion music.

S

oon after moving to Paris I realised that, actually, perhaps love doesn’t ooze from every raspberry macaroon. Maybe this happened when, just months after my arrival, its famous love lock bridge collapsed. Just gave up. Decided enough metal declarations of desire were enough. It didn’t even surprise me, in fact it seemed a rather fitting welcome.

There’s an unreal sense of romance about this city and it’s a scene in which many play their part. From the newly married couple posing for an overpaid photographer on the Pont des Arts, to the hawkers that roam every evening selling red roses and, in the less tourist-heavy months, inexplicably adding cheap children’s toys to their range. Because if your date isn’t impressed by a plastic guitar, it’s obviously not meant to be.

Parisian bars are strategically packed

with tables so close together you could be persuaded into a mood of romance with the three people closest to you. Whether strangers or not, you and your neighbours will all be seated within an uncomfortable knee-touching, elbow-bashing proximity to one another. But maybe this is romantic. Maybe this isn’t a space saving exercise at all, but rather a city-wide waiters’ movement committed to coupling up the French capital.

Once as I took a walk by the Seine, a man passed and asked if I had dropped a ring he had just ‘found’. I naïvely said no and looked around for its owner yet upon finding no-one, he gave it to me. Oh gosh, I thought, maybe Paris really does spark romance everywhere!

Amid my blushes, my beau then asked for some money. An odd question to ask someone you’ve just fallen in love at first sight with, I thought. I

PHOTO BY KARA KORAB KARAKORABPHOTOGRAPHY.TUMBLR.COM

didn’t have any money with me and when I told him so, he hastily took back his token of love.

I later learnt that this is a popular tourist scam and it slowly dawned on me that the man hadn’t magically fallen either in and out of love with me within that five minute window. Probably did my self-esteem some good to finally find that out.

An accumulation of such odd, clumsy romantic occurrences had rendered me rather unclear on the subject of Parisian passions.

However this week I stumbled upon a thoughtprovoking sight. In the 18th arrondissement there is a permanent installation of a wall on which ‘I love you’ is written in 250 languages.

At first, I struggle to make out the ‘I love you’ or the ‘Je t’aime’ or even the ‘Ich liebe dich’.

They are embedded within a web of symbols I do not recognise; hand gestures, something

ILLUSTRATION BY HELEN WALKER

resembling cave markings and swirly Latinate languages are all represented here. As I sit letting the realisation that I know how to say I love you in just four languages sink in, an Asian lady makes a loveheart with her fingers for a camera. Next, I watch as she puts her forefingers and thumbs together; a sign I have never seen before yet is undeniably another symbol of love. In this northern Parisian park I slowly come to terms with the fact that romantic love means very different things to each of us.

Old visions of romance in the city are likely to disappoint, unless of course you pack your rose-tinted glasses, but romance is to be found here. One must find it in one’s own language.

Jo Bailey godojo.wordpress.com ‘Le mur des je t’aime’ can be found at Metro Abysess (line 12).

S AV E T H E DAT E !

A bad date can feel like a waste of make-up and time, but here’s 10 reasons why Paris has got your back in these situations.

1

6

2

7

3

8

M ore often than not, the date will involve either a glass or bottle of wine. So even if the date blows, at least you have some tasty, fermented French grapes to indulge in.

H ow many people get to say, “This one time, on a date in Paris…”? Not many. So even if the date ends with the guy showing you his armpit sweat stains (from my own personal Parisian dating experience) you can at the very least include the ‘paris date’ line in future tales to make yourself feel better.

G etting the opportunity to practice or hear French being spoken by a native speaker is a treat. It’s as close to free French lessons as one can get. So you might as well get something out of the date, even if it’s just learning the difference between ‘santé’ and ‘cin cin’.

4

Touching the topic of wine for a second time, Frenchie’s typically know their stuff.

Use this as an opportunity to further your knowledge of things that are considered ‘good’ amongst the locals.

W hile you are seizing the day and your opportunities you might as well get the lowdown on some places considered to be ‘off the beaten path’. You are constantly working on not appearing to be a tourist, so have your date show or tell you about some of their favourite places to hang.

You get to be revered and looked at as if you are some exotic creature. Any foreigner can admit to the appeal of dating someone from a far off land that isn’t their own (even if the truth is you are from a commonly known state on the West Coast). They don’t have to know that.

T he awkward walk after the meal/drinks is usually another downer - not in Paris. The streets are always visually pleasing. So even if you are sick of looking at the bore of a date you just had, you can admire the beauty of the cobblestone streets and carved out buildings.

9

5

10

L ong gone are the awkward silences simply due to lack of conversation - you can now blame it on the language barrier instead!

E ven if the date is a fail, you can always count on a little crêpe stand or boulangerie around the corner; to pick up not only your low blood sugar levels, but your mood as well.

I sn’t it obvious? You are in Paris! The next date can only be better, right?

Hannah Howard Blog: hmhoward90.wordpress.com/ Instagram: hannahhoward00

CHIMAERA

T

he night before I got my latest tattoo I freaked out. It wasn’t that I had cold feet, people get married with less consideration than I had taken over this, (Britney circa 2004 - I’m looking at you), the problem was that I hadn’t exactly checked the studio out beforehand. That’s tattoo 101.

Suddenly I couldn’t get images of rusty needles and my Mum saying,” I told you so”, out of my mind. SPOILER ALERT: my tattoo is perfect and the studio was spotlessly clean. But I wouldn’t exactly advise you to go about it the way I did. So don’t find an artist you like

via Instagram, email them, and book a tattoo without visiting the studio first to check that it meets hygiene standards. Or do, because you know, life is an adventure after all. Just don’t blame me when you’re on Skype explaining to your mother how you ended up with a wonky Eiffel Tower tattoo on your wrist.

I went back to Needle Park Tattoo studio last week to get my tattoo touched up (part of the service) and I caught up with the lovely Carole Aussant, aka Chimaera, aged 24, to find out more about her life as a tattoo apprentice in Paris.

E: OUTSIDE OF WORK HOW DO YOU SPEND YOUR TIME? C: Well, I keep drawing, go to see my boyfriend and his band in concert, visit museums, discover new restaurants (I’m a real food lover!), modelling for some photographer friends, having a drink with friends and drawing again!

EVIE: HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOUR TATTOOING STYLE? Chimaera: Well, kind of black and graphic tattoo style. With lots of dotwork and woodcut. I love fine lines and light tattoos.

E: HOW DID YOU GET INTO TATTOOING? DID YOU ALWAYS KNOW YOU WANTED TO BE A TATTOOIST? C: Yes, I fell in love with this mesmerising job when I was 16. And since then I have never wanted to do anything else.

E: WHAT DO YOU WANT TO TATTOO MORE OF? C: Always more insects! I would love to tattoo a whole arm with flowers, insects, small birds...Just so you know! [haha].

E: WHAT INSPIRES YOUR DESIGNS? WHO ARE YOUR FAVOURITE TATTOOISTS AT THE MOMENT? C: Well, it can be anything, but I have a preference for anything that touches nature, and insects in particular. I also like working on the esotericism, the former (old) anatomical illustrations. My favourite tattooist is Gakkinx, he’s absolutely amazing!

I love Kolahari’s work too, and Barke Rousse in the AKA team, Scott Move and Delphine Noiztoy and so many others!

E: YOU ONLY HAVE 24 HOURS LEFT IN PARIS. WHAT DO YOU DO? C: Well, I’ll go crazy! I would like to do everything, go to the museum, walk in the Marais, eat an enormous plate of delicious specialities at Chez Marianne in Saint Paul, and then go and eat some Mochi for the dessert at Allo Sushi and then have a drink at The Stolly’s and finish the day with a concert at La Bellevilloise. I think that can be a good last day in Paris.

E: WHAT’S THE BEST ADVICE YOU’VE EVER BEEN GIVEN? C: I haven’t been given any really good advice to move forward or anything. On the other hand what has allowed me to be where I am today is the support of all the people who surround me. And that is worth more than all the advice in the world!

ALL IMAGES AND DESIGNS BY CAROLE AUSSANT HTTP://CHIMAERAUNIVERSE.TUMBLR.COM/ INSTAGRAM : CHIMAERAUNIVERSE

The best place to get coffee in Paris is... If you want to have a really nice brunch and a good cup of coffee you MUST go to the Holybelly!

When I feel like dancing I go to... The Nouveau Casino near the metro station, Parmentier. They have some good concerts and after that some good DJ sets. And if you’re drunk enough you can go to l’International, and if you want to party all night just go out in Pigalle! But please never at Grands Boulevards, it’s a trap!

The best view in Paris is... Well this is a difficult one, I’ll say Montmartre in summer at night - this is gold.

When I want some peace and tranquility I visit…The Jardin des Plantes or a small gallery of entomology and taxidermy near Fille du Calvaire called Galerie Chardon. The guy is pretty cool and he knows almost everything about insects and especially about beetles!

My favourite museum is… The Musée National d’Histoire Naturelle, this is the one!

Interview by Evangelina Sargeant

PHOTO BY CARYS FIELDSON

Hotel Amour

F

rom the round peak of the Sacre-Coeur descends a sloping maze of rooftops, chimneys, apartment courtyards, fire escapes, bars, sudden views of the Paris skyline, clochards, graffiti, concert posters, beer halls, and small groceries stocked with spices and overpriced liquor. Paris’ best playground is here at the base of Montmartre, the once red-light district turned chic bohemian paradise with no end of luxury bars, boutique hotels, and late-night neo-bistrots.

It’s on plush cushions in the dimly-lit corners of bars like Le Glass and Dirty Dick that Paris’ young and with-it crowd go to sip expensive (and exquisite) cocktails and bashfully lower smokey eyelids at the tattoo-covered bartenders. Although its barefaced New York nickname hasn’t quite caught on, SoPi is an exciting blend of old and new, Josephine Baker meets Emmanuelle Alt. I only come to Pigalle after dark; some nights perched on a barstool, other nights on a steep staircase wedged between two buildings with a coca-cola in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. Listening to incomprehensible French rap songs. Helping neighbours locked out of their apartments because the proprietor’s changed the code.

Busy street noises and aggressive car horns from the Boulevard de Rochechouart below.

The infamous Hotel Amour is two blocks south of the boulevard, just off rue des Martyrs.

I’ve been into the bar for a drink once or twice.

If you don’t mind the odd erotic photograph (extra points in my book) it’s the perfect watering-hole, comprising that nostalgic, fussy,

old-world ambiance that everyone loves about Paris. Retro leather banquette, wood panelling, zinc bar. A little terrace enclosed by palm trees that spills over with the international fashion set in summer months.

Hotel Amour used to be a brothel, camped at the end of the red-light district. The rooms aren’t pay-by-the-hour these days, but the atmosphere radiates sex, love, go ahead — a little light-hearted indulgence.

One night in early winter I take the line 12 up to Pigalle to meet a friend. Fake fur coat and leather boots emerge into the blast of wind that smacks you as you climb the double escalators and staircase up from the metro. I’m early and lean against the railing under the neon lights of Boulevard Clichy, earbuds in my ears although there’s no music playing. There are men walking the streets in heavy coats with heavy eyelids.

Young girls cross the boulevard on high heels; we know better than to smile or meet the eyes of passersby.

It’s a strange time, between day and redhot night, calm for the moment in the former neighborhood of pimps and prostitutes, cabaret dancers, husky-voiced night-club entertainers, the mesdames, and the demi-mondes. The bright neon letters “AMOUR” blink above a hotel down there in the darkness.

I wait, watching men pass and wink or stop to ask for a light or — once — a photo in front of the flashing neon.

Emma Stencil hipparis.com/author/emma-stencil/

Dating

On to the Next One

After

Love

I

’m sat on a bench with this creep.

I know he’s a creep and I know I’m having a miserable evening and there’s probably no way to recover it from here but I’m forcing myself to stay. I nod enthusiastically as he tells me about the four different banks he’s worked for. I’ve already made explicitly clear my lack of shit-giving for banks, which seems to have fallen on deaf ears.

This is my first date after a long-term relationship. I won’t bore you with the details of said relationship but needless to say, I was totally in love. So madly in love that I moved halfway across the world for him. No plans, no money, I was 19. We lived together, forged dreams together, date nights on the beach, ice creams at weekends with our feet in the sand, afternoons spent walking along the waves. Perhaps it’s true that some part of me

fell in love with life as it was then; the beach, the new freedoms, the sleepless balmy nights.

But certainly, I was in love with him (for our story’s sake, let’s call him ‘Chuck’). I made proper adult future plans with him, like actual plans, that grown-ups make.

Fast forward a few months and I’ve moved to Paris and Chuck is back in London, but with planned trips to see each other. Our dreams still flickered - it would still only take the same amount of time between our houses as before (even with the ferry crossing) and we shared the feeling that the move was an adventure for us both…but we broke up soon after I moved.

Goodbye 18 months of relationship, wedding dreams disappeared, baby names to be wasted.

An empty future, cry cry.

And just like that, I became that ‘I gotta get back in the dating game’ kind of girl. Nobody

wants to be that girl, because that girl seems Dating after being in love is a constant somehow desperate, suddenly chastised and internal monologue of ‘Chuck never did that’, ‘out of the loop’. Tinder became my weapon of ‘Chuck was better than you at that’, ‘Chuck knew choice and creepy ‘not as hot as their photo’ my favourite foods and knew what not to order’. guys seemed to be my target. I jumped into its Then questioning why these dumbfucks didn’t black hole, the dark underbelly of the dating know that; obviously, I didn’t want to watch ‘The world, blindly (although I like to think it was Hobbit’ at the cinema, obviously I don’t want to with an open mind and heart) but became talk about all the drugs you do, and obviously quickly disenchanted by just how dull these I don’t want to listen to your shit techno music. guys seem to be. What follows is a long line Look at me being frustrated because ‘new of first encounters, spurred along by countless man’ didn’t even know my mum’s middle name bottles of wine to calm my nerves (and lower or how old my pet dog is. Realising the hard my standards). It wasn’t until my third date that way the awkwardness of beginning every new I realised quite how story with “Me and naïve I was at playing “Dating after being in love is Chuck went to this this game. And that’s crazy party…” and exactly what it was, a a constant internal monlogue learning afterward to game. A game that just replace his name I am doomed to lose, with a friend’s, save of ‘Chuck never did that’, because dating is the uncomfortable entirely unnatural to me. moments.

‘Chuck knew my favourite I hadn’t really I don’t know if I been trying to get to have a point to any favoute foods and knew know these guys at all, of this, or any advice not really. I was in fact to give, because it’s what not to order’.” tirelessly comparing a game I’ve clearly them to Chuck, planning how these new men not mastered yet. But in recent weeks I have could be twisted and molded to resemble met a guy who I have yet to compare to Chuck. something close to what I already knew; trying I’ve found a new attractiveness in his dark to discover one I could work with. Without his scruffy hair and self-confidence, which I’m flaws, obviously, and I certainly wasn’t going to hoping is a sign I’m moving on from the settle for anything less than a 6 pack. messiness of the rebound phase. Being in love Like being in Subway, sticking to the hearty is a state that takes over your life without you Italian bread you know works, choosing tuna needing it, or quite possibly even wanting it. because you’re comfortable with it, avoiding Everyone can tell you that life goes on after a the cheese (because one time cheese gave you break up, but not enough people warn you how a rash) and then covering it with mayo because you’ll struggle to find that next guy or girl. I’ve you don’t actually like any of the ingredients already asked myself, ‘Am I in love with this guy anyway. In this way, I was unknowingly making yet?’, and answered quickly enough, ‘Of course a Subway sandwich but was left wondering not, stop searching for what you used to have. why I wasn’t as happy as when I’d eaten the Be ready to have something new’. best sandwiches for 18 months (probably on Mary Mandefield the beach). marysprojectyear.wordpress.com PHOTO BY LANI DAFTER

the way your late summer eyes smile at me with their tiny golden flecks, I know we could have it. all of it. we could live in that perfect apartment with the view over the park where you’d love to run every day. in our beautiful kitchen, we’d have our friends over for dinner and sauvignon blanc. and we would have more than one spatula, even though you say a second would be superfluous. on some things we’ll never agree. but the way you can barely catch your breath as you tell me no girl has ever made you laugh so hard before tells me we could have everything. with my white dress I’d put my long hair up, because you always liked that best. and we’d travel to all the places we talked about and all the ones we didn’t get around to. and our kids would have names less french than yours but more french than mine. and we’d go see your mother in Vienna more than once a year, and head south to your father’s for every birthday, and then they couldn’t say that you don’t visit often enough. because the way every moment spent with your family brought us closer together and made me miss home more but less makes me sure that we could have this life. not just a happy ending, but a whole happy story. we could have the laughing and the loving, and birthday barbecues and weird presents and family drinking games. and gripping adventures and a growing family and graying hair. there’d be wrinkled corners on pictures and we could be so happy. wrinkled corners on pages and it could be forever. wrinkled corners on late summer eyes. and we could have it all. just please, please, please don’t get on that plane.

niki bosemberg

tothisitcomes.wordpress.com

Montlucon, France, June 2011

I met Jonny in 2010. In the past nearly 5 years we’ve travelled together and apart, lived together for summers and now apart. We live in separate cities following our different creative paths spending time together when we can. I hope our paths will join in the same place again soon. These photographs remind me of our closest times.

Retford, Nottinghamshire, 2012

Lincoln, June 2013

REBECCA KAY HALLI-SUTTON WWW.REBECCAKAY.CO.UK

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Bullshit. I call bullshit on everyone who has predictably recited this miracle-cure to me over the past 4 years.

Absence makes the heart angry, frustrated, impatient and bitter – none of which have ever been conducive to a happy relationship. It should just be understood that when someone resorts to comforting you with this, they have run out of real advice. It’s the pseudo-intellectual cop-out. A polite, falsely comforting cliff-hanger that tries to force a positive conclusion to an undoubtedly justified worry: will our relationship survive longdistance?

As boyfriends go, ‘mine’ is pretty much the shrug-it-off-and-get-on-with-it type, so in the eight days between applying for a job in Paris and uprooting my whole life to move here, he was the one who avidly encouraged me and gave me the confidence to say yes to the replacement gap-year I had never had. Perhaps motivated by his dreams of weekends together drinking wine from a Haussman balcony in addition to his particular love of cheese, he banished any doubts I had and I sat on the Eurostar believing that although the distance would be hard, we would be fine. At times I even teased the idea that we might come out stronger because of it. Bullshit. Et alors, my four justifications.

Now, admittedly, London to Paris is only 344km – a 2h15 Eurostar journey away – but however much they like to advertise returns for

£64, booking 8 months in advance doesn’t really help me when I’m leaving Paris in 6. And no, Facebook isn’t banned in Paris, but you develop your own life here.

It’s not just the physical number of kilometres that determines how separated you feel, it’s the rupture between two different lives that was once one life that you shared together. The bars you used to go to together, the mutual friends you went there with, the favourite new band you discovered in that dodgy venue…But trying to involve him by sharing with him a description of my first jazz night at Sunside/Sunset on Rue des Lombards only emphasised his estrangement from my life here: it doesn’t matter whether I’m in Europe or Asia.

NO IT DOESN’T. This is the advice my darling mother and father gave me after experiencing a long-distance relationship without phones.

Naturally, it enables communication, but what kind of communication are we having?

A forced, organised and often timed attempt at intimacy where the quality of the personal connection you feel is limited to that of your WiFi. My previous relationship also ended up long-distance with us both at different Universities. These daily Skypes were hours of endless pining and ‘I miss yous’, often ending in arguments stemming from the frustration of not being able to be with each other, which you are then unable to naturally resolve. The whole thing just made me feel worse afterwards.

This time round, I face the opposite problem, with one weekly Skype from a boyfriend who admitted his inability to open up to me when I am just pixels on a screen. You catch up about your day, you move position because you lose signal, you complain about how bad the signal is, and then it’s time to go.

If absence becomes the norm, the weekends or hours you do have together take on an unattainable amount of pressure to be perfect. Coupled with the stereotype of Paris’ romance, I became somewhat stressed that we had to have the most romantic, uninhibited, extraordinary time doing equally extraordinary things for his first visit to Paris, or else it would be a disappointment. Looking back on that first weekend, I now realise that when organised fun turns into an obligatory schedule, you hinder the chance of spending a relaxed weekend together as you usually would. Naturally, I wanted to show him everything I love about Paris and my new life here, but trying to cram this in to 3 days meant I was anxious when we spent longer than an hour at home. My love for the city and its galleries, perhaps, in retrospect, made me lose sight of the fact that my boyfriend visited primarily to see me and not exhaust the TimeOut Paris Top 10 attractions.

The one argument we did have meant I spent the following two days overanalysing and scrutinising our relationship, leading to doubts that forced a sense of distance and awkwardness between us. I worried that if we weren’t constantly laughing, giggling or showering each other with compliments, something was wrong. But overthinking that is an instant selfimpediment. The extremes of distance and intense proximity make us expect irrationally

more than what we would from a weekend off work, enjoying each other’s company, relaxing with the rugby and a takeaway.

This is a fine way to alleviate all pressure by reassigning the responsibility to fate, but as someone who neither believes in ‘the one’ nor a higher being, it’s seriously unrealistic to believe you can make less of an effort when going into a long-distance relationship. Relationships need work and it’s only down to the people in the relationship to ensure there is still sufficient effort coming from both sides.

But are we to stop ourselves taking opportunities for fear of a break-up? At the age of 21, of course not. No one wants to aggravate a mid-life crisis with ‘but I should have done something for myself’. Independence is important, any feminist including myself will assure you of that, but I am not afraid to admit that it is a nice feeling to depend on someone sometimes too. I can be independent, driven and confident in myself whilst preferring to be all of those things alongside him. But what of jealousy and bitterness on the side of the one left at home? Even three months into my time in Paris, I am so busy meeting new people, immersing myself in galleries, cafes, bars and theatres that I rarely stop to think how selfless he is to support me throughout this year, despite me choosing to do something for myself over staying close to him.

Absence, if temporary, is survivable. It might even be bearable. Because if a relationship is defined as ‘the state of being connected’, maybe we can endure absence by maintaining the belief that this is just a temporary state and that all these issues will vanish on July 10th this year when the children finish school and I have to leave Paris. Of course, the real run will begin when I decide I want to stay.

Anon

Comfort food,

FRENCH STYLE 6 medium potatoes (sliced fairly thin – peeling and potato type at your discretion) 2 onions 2 cloves crushed garlic 2 handfuls pancetta 1 reblochon cheese olive oil

G

rowing up in Bradford our comfort food was corned beef hash. I can’t claim that it’s a Yorkshire tradition but in the Binns household we ate this stew on a regular basis during the cold and dark winter months. Boarding school dinners didn’t make the grade in comparison and there was no Jamie Oliver campaigning for us back then, we just had to battle with all the starchy food and overcooked vegetables.

At university I managed to do the opposite of most students: I slimmed down and ate pretty healthily (the drinking is another matter but hey, youth). I was also incredibly active, walking from student halls to lectures and fitting in a gym session most days. Then I moved to France where I promptly embarked upon a love affair with cheese and we have been on-off for the past five years.

Hard cheese, soft cheese, creamy cheese, blue cheese, raclette, tartiflette and fondue: a whole universe of fromage opened up to me and I have now swapped the corned beef hash for tartiflette. It’s very easy to make – I can say that with confidence because it’s often JB making it – and is great during the winter if you have last-minute guests or just fancy cheese and potatoes in the same meal.

salt Louise Binns

freshly ground pepper 1 splash of white wine (optional but really it’s mandatory)

lou-in-paris.com

PAINTING BY MARYANA SUKHORUKOVA

1. In a pan, fry the chopped onions in a small amount of olive oil until soft then add the thinly-sliced potatoes.

Constantly mix everything around on a low heat.

2. Add the smoked pancetta to the pan. Continue to stir until the pancetta is cooked.

3. Add the wine and stir everything together so it can soak up the wine. Add salt and pepper.

4. When the potatoes turn golden, take your baking tin and smear garlic all over the base.

5. Add a layer of the potato/onion/pancetta mixture then take half the reblochon cheese (cut through the middle) and place it on top. Add rest of potato mix. Top it off with the other half of the reblochon.

7. Cook in the oven for 25 minutes at gas mark 5 (180°C).

Serve and imagine that you’ve spent a day on the slopes getting a full body workout.

Nostalgia I miss you.

It’s been so long since the first I love yous and so long since the last ones.

I barely remember what it’s like to go to sleep on your pillow and wake up with tangled hair and tangled fingers and tangled legs. I think it was beautiful. And I never want to take it back.

We were so happy once. And then we weren’t. And then we got to be happy without each other. And so many things and so many months and so many people have passed since our love and then sometimes….

Sometimes it happens like this.

The song is playing. I haven’t heard it in ages. And I miss you.

I remember when you recorded a cover that was accidentally so much faster but I loved it all the same. And I miss you.

I remember when every word felt written for us and 3 rounds was the only sound that mattered. And I miss you.

And I’m not sorry that you left and I’m not sorry for all the things and months and people since then, but sometimes I miss you.

I like that we still talk. And I like it when we talk about what we were like back then and what we’re like now. I like that our gap in time zones allows me to call you at 4 am when you’re just hanging out.

I like how much has happened since I loved you and you loved me.

And I never want to take it back.

I just miss you. And sometimes it’s nice.

Niki Bosemberg tothisitcomes.wordpress.com

PHOTO BY KARA KORAB KARAKORABPHOTOGRAPHY.TUMBLR.COM

CARYS FIELDSON PIYPOY.TUMBLR.COM